He admitted to himself that he was a habitual taker of life. Decades of scheduled, orderly death dealing had numbed him to the extent of the life he extinguished. From the maelstrom of destruction, he would force order into what life he allowed to remain in his world. The only way he could continue this routine year after year was due to his infernal machine.
The machine was a masterwork of death. It's ability to maintain evenly measured chaos was unmatched. Constructed to dish out destruction with no regards to what kind of victim found it's way to it's ever hungry maw. The cruel contraption was designed not only to snuff out the life it was fed, but to quickly and neatly break the remains down and deposit them back into the earth where they would never be detected. If, by some miracle, the living were able to survive the machine, they would forever be mangled, twisted, and deformed to such an extent that death would be a welcome release.
Both master, and machine would rest through the white of winter. Waiting for the warm weather to bring out the living in force. It seems almost cruel for them to perform these serial killings when the rest of the world is focused on the rebirth of life after being locked into winter's grey embrace of death, but he was without remorse. On the first warm day of spring, you would see him sharpening the long, bizarre blades that made up the killing force of his cruel vehicle of doom.
When he had first started his career in mass murder, he had tried to be selective. Stopping the machine for the slow, the young, the injured, the very beautiful. Years upon years of using the machine had completely deadened him to the plight of any life that found itself in the path of the deadly mechanism. Every week, like clock work, the machine would start up and be used to to rip the life from any who crossed him. When the machine starts, he would keep his head down and do nothing but focus on the removal of life before him.
You would think that such a heinous act would be carried out in darkest night in some secluded part of the woods, far removed from the eyes and ears of any witness. You would be wrong. These acts have been carried out, in broad day light, blatantly in front of the community at large. Even the infernal machine itself has a design that should draw attention to it. Painted the brightest, bloodiest red and supporting a growling engine that could be heard for blocks, one would think it would be apparent what was occurring right under their noses. When he operated the machine, his neighbors paid no attention to him or the machine, almost as if they were invisible.
Was this some nefarious power that his demonic construct was able to project as it neatly removed the living? Could it be that the neighbors nearby were concerned of the consequences of paying attention to what he and his machine were doing? Perhaps they were afraid they would be asked to assist in this macabre dance of death going on right next door. Could it be that they somehow understood he was performing a community service with this scheduled life removals each week? Truthfully, they secretly wished he would bring his terrible machine to them and release it's horrific powers on their lives.
If he were to ever be confronted about his deathly habits, he would shrug and act as if nothing were wrong. To him, he is performing a normal act by thinning the enormity of life force in this world. To him, he is grabbing life in both hands and taming it, daring any living thing to reject the order he and his torture device offer. The one thing you could not accuse him of, is killing on account of color, creed, sex, or designation. Any species that crossed his path was subject to the terrible blades of indiscriminate death.
Fueling up his machine with oil and gas, he almost has to whip the mechanical murderer into life. The grating growl of the engine drowns out everything. No sounds of the dying, no screams of pain, no crunching or slicing would be heard over the rhythmic blare of the damned construct.
The machine was a masterwork of death. It's ability to maintain evenly measured chaos was unmatched. Constructed to dish out destruction with no regards to what kind of victim found it's way to it's ever hungry maw. The cruel contraption was designed not only to snuff out the life it was fed, but to quickly and neatly break the remains down and deposit them back into the earth where they would never be detected. If, by some miracle, the living were able to survive the machine, they would forever be mangled, twisted, and deformed to such an extent that death would be a welcome release.
Both master, and machine would rest through the white of winter. Waiting for the warm weather to bring out the living in force. It seems almost cruel for them to perform these serial killings when the rest of the world is focused on the rebirth of life after being locked into winter's grey embrace of death, but he was without remorse. On the first warm day of spring, you would see him sharpening the long, bizarre blades that made up the killing force of his cruel vehicle of doom.
When he had first started his career in mass murder, he had tried to be selective. Stopping the machine for the slow, the young, the injured, the very beautiful. Years upon years of using the machine had completely deadened him to the plight of any life that found itself in the path of the deadly mechanism. Every week, like clock work, the machine would start up and be used to to rip the life from any who crossed him. When the machine starts, he would keep his head down and do nothing but focus on the removal of life before him.
You would think that such a heinous act would be carried out in darkest night in some secluded part of the woods, far removed from the eyes and ears of any witness. You would be wrong. These acts have been carried out, in broad day light, blatantly in front of the community at large. Even the infernal machine itself has a design that should draw attention to it. Painted the brightest, bloodiest red and supporting a growling engine that could be heard for blocks, one would think it would be apparent what was occurring right under their noses. When he operated the machine, his neighbors paid no attention to him or the machine, almost as if they were invisible.
Was this some nefarious power that his demonic construct was able to project as it neatly removed the living? Could it be that the neighbors nearby were concerned of the consequences of paying attention to what he and his machine were doing? Perhaps they were afraid they would be asked to assist in this macabre dance of death going on right next door. Could it be that they somehow understood he was performing a community service with this scheduled life removals each week? Truthfully, they secretly wished he would bring his terrible machine to them and release it's horrific powers on their lives.
If he were to ever be confronted about his deathly habits, he would shrug and act as if nothing were wrong. To him, he is performing a normal act by thinning the enormity of life force in this world. To him, he is grabbing life in both hands and taming it, daring any living thing to reject the order he and his torture device offer. The one thing you could not accuse him of, is killing on account of color, creed, sex, or designation. Any species that crossed his path was subject to the terrible blades of indiscriminate death.
Fueling up his machine with oil and gas, he almost has to whip the mechanical murderer into life. The grating growl of the engine drowns out everything. No sounds of the dying, no screams of pain, no crunching or slicing would be heard over the rhythmic blare of the damned construct.
HIS SEASON OF DEATH HAS STARTED AGAIN!
Hey, that just comes with the job of Lawn Enforcement Officer.
ReplyDeleteLOL! That's me!
DeleteYep, tis' the season.
ReplyDeletefor sneezin!
DeleteWow! I did not see that coming - LOL! I guess I'm a mass murderer, too. I ritualistically decapitate my tulips & such when the blooms are gone.
ReplyDeleteYeah I wonder what all kinds of stuff I do snuff out on a regular mow...
DeleteI had you grokked by paragraph two, sly dog, heh heh.
ReplyDeleteThis story reminds me of Ray Bradbury's "The Scythe".
This is why I let my lawn grow all year. That and it looks better for Halloween, heh heh.