Jeff Strand - Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

“Here, here,” said Josie, raising her wine glass.

“The thing is, it’s not the most convenient hobby to enjoy. The dangers are incredible. Even a sniper puts himself at risk, but we want the up close and personal element. We don’t want it over quickly. We want them to know what’s happening, and what’s going to happen. Sometimes we even love to rub the family’s face in it…not literally, though that would be fun, too.”

Just keep smiling, I told myself. You like what he’s saying … you like what he’s saying … you like what he’s saying … at least don’t puke on the lobster …

“Anyway,” Daniel continued, “I am, if you haven’t already guessed, extremely rich. I did not murder my father to get my inheritance, I earned it the good old-fashioned way: lung cancer. So I had this wonderful house built. Like it?”

I nodded. “It’s roomy.”

“That it is. It’s tastefully decorated, except for your room, of course, and quite frankly the type of place you’d feel perfectly comfortable using to entertain royalty. But I assume you noticed the other building?”

“Yeah.”

“That’s are where the fun begins. I have created what I like to call the Psychopath’s Paradise. ‘Psychopath’ may not be the most accurate word, if you really get into the medical definitions, but it works well enough. A place where people like myself, and Josie, and Foster, and Stan, and Mortimer, and Andrew Mayhem the Headhunter can have themselves the most outrageously entertaining kill-fest imaginable, without worrying about all those annoying interruptions like family members walking in, or cops showing up, or having to constantly say ‘Scream and you’re dead! Scream and you’re dead!’ Let me tell you, Andrew, you’re in for a treat.”

Thirty years of pretending to love that disgusting, slimy fudge my Aunt Patty makes every year at Christmas wasn’t nearly enough practice for the feigned delight I had to show at this moment.

“Sounds fuckin’ awesome!” I said, hoping gratuitous profanity would make my joy more believable.

“So, anyway, every year we’re each responsible for bringing three victims, though Josie and I will usually snag some bonus prey. Those like myself, who capture them early, get the extra enjoyment of inflicting mental torture upon their families. Then there are losers like Stan, who wait until the last minute and nearly get themselves shot.”

Stan hadn’t been paying attention. He looked up at the sound of his name, shrugged, and returned to his dinner.

“And you invite a special guest each year?” I asked.

Daniel shook his head. “You’re the first. So we have lots of special surprises for you, my friend. In fact, let’s all finish up our meal so we can move on to the first.”

I had absolutely no interest in finishing my meal. “What are we doing first?”

“What else, new guy? Initiation.”

THIS CONTINUES the sad, sad tale of Roger Tanglen. They still haven’t taken away my tape recorder, not that I offered it to anyone, so I guess I’ll just keep talking until they take it away, or they kill me, or my fellow prisoners tell me to shut the hell up before they beat me senseless.

“Shut the hell up before we beat you senseless!”

That was Rodney, my cellmate. As you can hear, we haven’t completely lost our sense of humor yet. Which is good, I mean, if you quit laughing, you might as well be dead, right? Wow, that sounds profound. Laughter is the best medicine. Clown noses and whoopee cushions will get us out of this, I’m sure of it!

Yes, I’m babbling again. I apologize to whoever ends up transcribing this mess. Should that be whomever? Whatever.

Let me get down to the important stuff. Right now I’m in a room about…oh, a hundred square feet. Eighty, maybe. It’s set up like holding cells at a jail, at least the way they look in the movies, since I’ve never had the pleasure of seeing one in real life. Five cells on each side. There are two doors in the room, one on each end, metal doors with a handle like the kind you see inside of a meat locker, I think. You know, one of those long handles that you pull down. Actually, I don’t think I’ve ever been inside of a meat locker. I’m using movies for reference again. And I’m babbling again.

There are eighteen other people in here, mostly two to a cell. Like I said, I’m with Rodney Telfare from Phoenix, one of my co-passengers on the trip here. When I’m done I’ll pass around the recorder and let everyone say their name, just for the record. I only have one other tape, so I hope I don’t run out, but everyone deserves to have their name on the tape so there’s some chance that their families will find out what happened.

Actually, I hope I do run out! That means I’m alive longer than the length of the tapes! I take back my previous comment.

Believe it or not, these cells aren’t all that uncomfortable. There are two beds, with comforters and fluffy pillows. We’ve even got a water cooler. No refrigerator, though. Every cell has its own bookshelf, but every single title on ours is either a horror novel or true crime. Just getting us in the mood, I guess.

Oh, and I can’t forget the inspirational slogan painted on the wall: “Today is probably the last day of your life.” Cute, huh?

I think I’ll hand this over to Rodney now, so he can…no, wait, I think somebody’s unlocking the door.

[ Sound of door opening . Footsteps .]

“Hey, dead meats, how’s it going? I’m coming for one of you! One of you gets to die tonight! Whoever could it beeeee? I just don’t know, there are so many fine candidates to choose from! Eenie, meenie, miney, moe, catch a tiger by the toe, if he hollers…oh, no, I like this one. Big and strong. What’s your name, sir?”

“He asked you your name, asshole!”

“Now, Foster, that’s no way to speak to a dying man. You really do need to learn some manners when conversing with people who are just moments away from a ghastly, hideous, unbearably painful death. Again, what’s your name, sir?”

“Rodney Telfare.”

“Rodney Telfare! Well, Rodney, YOU’RE GONNA DIE!!! I hope that hasn’t ruined your evening. All right, Foster, get him out of here and bring him to the ring. I’ll meet you there.”

“Yeah, it would be a shame if you had to do anything around this place.”

“Ah, quit yer dad-blasted bellyachin’. You love using that cattle prod and you know it.”

“Yes, I do.”

“Ta-ta, everyone! Keep looking over your shoulders! You never know, I could be coming for YOU next!”

[ Sound of door closing .]

“What a dick. All right, Rod, you can make me work for this, or you can be nice. See this gun? One of your fellow prisoners gets shot for every second of annoyance you cause me, starting with your cellmate. Come over to the bars. Good.”

[ A cry of pain . Sound of a body falling.]

“Heh heh, look at him twitch. And if you don’t want to be in his place, you just stay right back there where you are.”

[ Sound of cell door sliding open . Body being dragged. Door slamming shut.]

“Damn, what did we feed this guy?”

[ Sound of door opening, then closing .]

Oh, God.

I’m…I just…I’m turning off the tape now.

THIS SHOULD have been the time where I got over being Mr. Cautious and did something. Maybe I could’ve grabbed a steak knife or a lobster claw and tried to use Stan as a hostage. I knew it wouldn’t have worked, but I was still furious at myself for not trying.