Ryan Harding - Genital Grinder

My hand’s about to fall off from reliving this great experience . . . and I’m getting tired of writing, too. More tomorrow.

July 20, 2001

Oh, I said there were a couple differences from the pictures yesterday, didn’t I? It turns out Mr. Holier-Than-Thou can’t abide by the cost of feeding the girls, so he improvises. Chunks of flesh are now missing here and there from thighs and stomachs ( Gray’s Anatomy note: The buttocks were left intact, thankfully). The good news is that the girls don’t have to worry about their stomachs eating themselves from malnutrition . . . the bad news is they’re experiencing self-cannibalism from the outside.

That was hardly enough to sustain them and keep them from looking like refugees from Auschwitz, though. It turns out there was a FIFTH girl, but she wasn’t local. Owens picked her up hitchhiking (they never learn, do they?). It probably got the whole thing started, such an opportunity falling into his lap. This is, in fact, how he figured out the high cost of living (as in keeping a sex slave alive), because he had to start buying for two. Then three, because he had to grab Cassandra Bittaker. Why do that if he can barely afford to keep one? Because he HAD to grab Cassandra Bittaker. Check back issues of the newspaper for her picture, and you’ll understand immediately. After some soul-searching (and coming up empty), Owens gave the hitchhiker one more for the road, then slit her throat from ear to ear. A good strategy move, when you think about it—Cassandra Bittaker sees just how valuable she is from his perspective.

Frugal as he is, Owens didn’t have a very big crisper. The fifth girl couldn’t possibly fit. One hacksaw and three hours later, though, Owens did the impossible. Now he had plenty of meat to keep the livestock fed awhile. He’s crafty, I’ll give him that much. It couldn’t last, though, especially when he kept bringing in more girls.

I made him swear not to carve on Jenny. I’ll feed her myself, if need be.

Today I got the privilege of doing the carving for the others, though. A few strips from Aurora’s arms. I whittled all the skin from Mariangela’s toes (which contributed little, but the reaction was worth it). The soles of Cassandra’s feet, to prevent visible scarring. That was something! Peeled off like the skin of a potato. More bones in the human foot than you’d think. We’re going to need a new knife.

Did the deed with Cassandra and Mariangela today, savoring the coming fun with Jenny. Went off like gangbusters in Cassandra almost on contact, but held out for five glorious minutes with Mariangela. Still haven’t managed a bee-jay because of the duct tape over all their mouths, which seems unnatural (my not getting a bee-jay, I mean, not the duct tape). The pictures in the paper of Mariangela showed some of the most pouty lips imaginable. Not Geisha Hammond worthy, but they promised a soft landing. Friends and family claimed she wasn’t taken without a struggle, because she’s a tough one. I take that to mean she’d bite a man off given half the chance. It sure wouldn’t be worth it to take the chance of those teeth.

So we’re gonna need pliers.

July 26, 2001

The political correctness of the papers is hilarious, and actually quite dangerous. Hilary Stiglitz is the fifth (known) disappearance in the past three months. Police do not want to attribute her vanishing to the same person or persons responsible for the first four, but they won’t reveal why. “We have some leads we’re working on,” claimed Detective Keene.

No one will state the obvious: The bitch was too ugly to fit the pattern! Cassandra, Jenny, Aurora, and Mariangela were gorgeousness and gorgeosity. Hilary was what happened when you pissed in a test-tube. She was (and I do mean past tense) one of those overweight women whose pounds congregate in one area—in her case, the ass. It looked like someone threw a blanket over a monster truck tire.

You wouldn’t insult your dog by feeding him the remains. Your basement-bound sex slaves, on the other hand . . .

You never know what might develop when you drop off some film and leave your address.

And yeah, I admit it . . . I took “the plunge” in her, too. But Carl did it first. You take that kind of risk, it seems a crying shame not to get the most out of your effort.

July 28, 2001

I watched Katy through her window tonight. I thought she was going to undress, but the phone rang. I have to be completely silent during the summer, because she leaves her window up. Even the sound of a zipper might draw her attention, but that’s part of the thrill.

The phone call was for her. A new boyfriend, apparently. That was rather depressing. I can’t help thinking that if I was the one she was so happy to hear from, I wouldn’t need a basement of women to satisfy me.

Loneliness is vastly underrated.

I did my thing anyway, quietly as possible. They were still going on when I left. Then I went to buy a pair of pliers before the store closed.

July 29, 2001

We’re going through two and three rolls of film a day at Owens’. I develop film for less than six bucks an hour for six to eight hours, then I go to his house and do it for free for a couple more. The upside is that I am already halfway through Binder Number Six.

Stock tip: Buy as many shares of Vaseline as you can.

July 30, 2001

Owens is pissing me off.

Remember what I said about my goals? That’s plural. Katy was at least the second reason I got involved in all of this. It’s been my plan to bring her to Owens’ from the beginning—or better yet, to have Owens bring her there himself. He’s got a great track record, six for six all told. Katy has everything but a COME THROUGH MY WINDOW, ABDUCT ME AND RAPE ME sign on her house. It’d be nothing for him to do it.

But he won’t.

“It’s not the right time,” he said.

“What are you waiting for, a full moon?” I shouted.

“It’s just not the right time,” he said again.

So I got to thinking. It’d be nothing for him to creep through Katy’s window and take her. It wouldn’t be anything for me, either, would it? This time we’ll be collaborating on a chemistry project—I’ll administer the chloroform, she’ll succumb. Then I’ll bring her back to Owens’.

Owens won’t object, because Owens won’t be around anymore. I’ll get the hang of this kidnapping thing, and I won’t need him. I can have ALL the women to myself, with no more of those disgusted looks when I do as I please with Jenny. At least not from him, anyway.

No more sloppy seconds, and I get the van AND the house. You couldn’t ask for a better divorce.

July 31, 2001

I’ve never kept a journal before either. I guess you’ve heard about me, but we haven’t been properly introduced. I’m Carl Owens. I picked up this nifty little journal from Alex.

You’ve probably figured out that I still have my harem.

I noticed that Alex didn’t care to leave out the truth whenever it suited him. I DID recognize him when he first showed up on my doorstep—from the papers. He was Jenny MacColl’s brother (and I do mean past tense). He forgot to mention that, didn’t he? He sure didn’t seem like the kind of guy to be ashamed of anything, but I guess you never really know some people. For example, I didn’t know that he wanted to kill me and take over my congregation. Personally I was just getting sick of him, and I thought I’d take my chances with finding all the evidence he had against me. He was dead to the world whenever he got going with Jenny . . . only this time he stayed that way.

His mother isn’t exactly my type, but it’ll be good to have some meat on stand-by when they get done with Hilary Stiglitz. I think I’ll hold onto this for awhile. Mrs. MacColl might be interested in reading it.