The Human Nature Trilogy: Lamb Chops & Chainsaws and Lobsters & Landmines and French Fries & Flamethrowers - Twenty-Seven Disturbing Short Stories About the Darker Side of Human Nature.

By Glen Johnson

(Warning: The author would like to point out that this omnibus edition contains graphic language and descriptions of explicit sex and brutal violence).

LAMB CHOPS AND CHAINSAWS (Vol. 1)

What are your neighbours really like once their front door slams shut? Are your children's teachers' sound-of-mind? Has your partner got an evil, sinister side? Is a member of your family a murderer? These questions, and more, are examined in a collection of nine disturbing short stories; tales about the darker side of human nature.

Read about a wannabe serial killer who starts his reign of terror on the wrong footing. A Kindergarten teacher who has deep psychological problems that jeopardizes the safety of the children. Why a child of nine turns to violence in retaliation for drug smugglers slaughtering her parents. A fanatical mother who believes her thirteen-year-old son is possessed by the devil. How one killer spirals out of control and in his haste for victims makes a fatal mistake. A government trained killer who was set up as a scapegoat. Or a serial killer who has captured the attention of the world, and has set up one final, sickening display. What does it take to push someone that little bit too far and turn them into a killer? Find out when a savage murder is committed over a packet of lamb chops.

Strangers will never seem the same again.

LOBSTERS AND LANDMINES (Vol. 2)

Lobsters and Landmines is the second book in the Human Nature Series, following in Lamb Chops and Chainsaws footsteps, by continuing to look at the darker side of human nature, by delving into the dark twisted world of the sick minded, the perverse, the psychos and sociopaths; people who take pleasure from hurting others. Individuals, who could be your next-door neighbour or your lover, even a close family member.

Read about a captain who discovers the perfect lobster bait after a violent outburst. A HIV infected man who injects women with his tainted blood. A disfigured ex-army bomb disposal expert who has carved out a piece of paradise for himself in Vietnam, who keeps females as slaves and children as objects to sell. Or the sad story about two friends who are forever parted on September 11th 2001. And the airhostess Jenny who finds the perfect job on a Brazilian airline, but it seems they want more from her than most employers. What about the sweet little old lady who wins awards for her cakes, but what are her secret ingredients? Or the doomsday prepper that spends every waking minute of everyday prepping for the end of the world, until one critical mistake changes everything. Or a computer firm that sells its algorithmic computations to cosmetic firms, cutting out the need to test on animals, but below ground, the vast computer server hosts a disturbing secret. Finally, a businessman who realizes a little too late, what is truly important in life?

FRENCH FRIES AND FLAMETHROWERS (Vol. 3)

In an old apartment building, a group of people go about their night like any other. However, tonight is different, tonight all their lives intertwines. A night, when against all the odds, a series of events unfolds, culminating in a bloodbath.

It's a story of love, madness, sexual perversity, stalking, murder, greed, abuse, voyaging, and betrayal. Also, other, outsider's blood, stains the floors and walls; the Ukrainian mob, the French special forces, and the local police – it's a complete massacre.

Follow the complicated life-and-death dance. Read as they die one by one, causing a chain reaction that results in the building burning to the ground.

One building. Nine apartments. Nine intertwined stories. Twenty-nine dead, three missing, and only one survivor.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Glen Johnson
• Release date: Sep 18, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310466908

Glen Johnson

Glen Johnson was born in Devon, England in 1973. He is the author of 55 fiction and non-fiction books. In August 2014, he gave away all his belongings and bought a backpack and he started travelling around Southeast Asia. While he travels, he helps charitable organizations, writing and releasing books about their foundations, leaving them with all the royalties. His first charity book is called Soi Dog: The Story Behind Asia’s Largest Animal Welfare Shelter and it’s available in ebook and paperback worldwide. He has also started to release a series of books about his travel adventures as they unfold, and Living the Dream: Part One – Khaosan Road, Thailand, and Part Two – Krabi, Thailand is available from all good ebook retailers. He also loves to travel and has spent over eleven years living and travelling around the world – so far, he has explored forty-three different countries. At present, he lives in Bangkok, Thailand, but he has also lived in Mexico, Malaysia, Laos, Cambodia, and Singapore. He is also the lead writer on the development team for a new computer game called The Seed (2018), from the creators of the award-winning S.T.A.L.K.E.R Misery mod.Why not add Glen as a friend on Facebook. From his author’s page, you can keep up to date with all his new releases and when his kindle books are free on Amazon. He checks it daily, so pop on and say hello. Don’t be shy, he’s friendly and accepts friend requests.www.facebook.com/GlenJohnsonAuthorwww.facebook.com/RedSkullPublishing and all good ebook retailers.Glen has published 174 books worldwide (via two publishing companies he owns). 55 are his own work; the other 119 are modern-classic-fiction books that can be found on all good eBook and paperback retailers.Books Released by Sinuous Mind Books, and Coming Soon –Books released under his real name Glen JohnsonNON-FICTION BOOKS –CHARITY BOOKS (with Gary Johnson)Soi Dog – The Story Behind Asia’s Largest Animal Welfare Shelter (2015)BEES Elephants Sanctuary: A Haven for Old and Retired Elephants (Coming Soon)TRAVEL BOOKS (with Gary Johnson)Living the Dream 1 – Khaosan Road – Thailand (2015)Living the Dream 2 – Krabi – Thailand (2019)Living the Dream 3 – Penang – Malaysia (Coming Soon)FICTION BOOKS –APOCALYPTIC/DYSTOPIAN/HORRORTHE SIXTH EXTINCTION SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short Stories)The Sixth Extinction 1 – Outbreak (2013)The Sixth Extinction 2 – Ruin (2013)The Sixth Extinction 3 – Infested (2013)The Sixth Extinction 4 – The Ark (2013)The Sixth Extinction 1-4 – Omnibus Edition (2013)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: THE FIRST THREE WEEKS SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short stories)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 1 – Noah’s Story (2013)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 2 – Red’s Story (2013)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 3 – Betty and Lennie’s Story (2013)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks 4 – Doctor Lazaro’s Story (2013)The First Three Weeks 1-4 – Omnibus Edition (2013)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION & THE FIRST THREE WEEKS SERIES OMNIBUS (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short stories)The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks 1-8 – Omnibus Edition (2013)The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The Sixth Extinction America 1-12 – Omnibus Edition (2014)The Sixth Extinction & The First Three Weeks & The First Three Weeks The Squads Stories & The Sixth Extinction America & The Seven Seeds of the Gods 1-23 – Omnibus Edition (2017)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: THE FIRST THREE WEEKS – THE SQUADThe Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks – The Squad – Echo’s Story (2014)The Sixth Extinction Series: The First Three Weeks – The Squad – Coco’s Story (2014)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: AMERICA SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short stories)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part One: The Black Spores (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Two: False Hope (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Three: The Pods (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Four: The Long Road (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – 1-4 Omnibus Edition (2014)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Five: No Turning Back (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Six: A Friend in Need (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Seven: All Aboard (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Eight: New Hope (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – 1-8 Omnibus Edition (2015)The Sixth Extinction: America – 1-20 Omnibus Edition (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Nine: Keep Running (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Ten: Don’t Look Back (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Eleven: Resurrection (2016)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Twelve: Alliance (2018)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Thirteen: Abandon (2019)The Sixth Extinction: America – Part Fourteen: Burn (Coming Soon)THE SIXTH EXTINCTION: BOOK EXTRASThe Sixth Extinction: The Seven Seeds of the Gods. Book One – Ancient Egypt (2016)The Sixth Extinction: The Seven Seeds of the Gods. Book Two – Ancient Mayan (Coming Soon)The Sixth Extinction: One Year On (England) (Coming Soon)The Sixth Extinction: Clarkson’s Discovery (Coming Soon)THE ENDLESS SERIESEndless: Part One – Sorrow (2019)Endless: Part Two – Fear (Coming Soon)Endless: Part Three - Anger (Coming Soon)THE EVENT SERIESThe Event: Part One – The Last Hope (2019)The Event: Part Two – Crashing Down (Coming Soon)THE HUMAN NATURE SERIES (A #1 Best Seller on Amazon UK Horror Short Stories)Lamb Chops and Chainsaws – Vol.1 (2012)Lobsters and Landmines – Vol.2 (2012)French Fries and Flamethrowers – Vol.3 (2014)The Human Nature Series 1-3 – Omnibus Edition (2014)Backpacks and Body Bags – Vol.4 (Coming Soon)THE EXTREME HUMAN NATURE SERIES (Extreme Horror Short Stories)Condoms and Cabbages (2015)GHOST (Short Stories)Sea of Trees (2017)Child Angels (2018)Tall Ghosts (2020)The Lost Cat (2023)HORROR (Short Stories)Quarantine (2020)Laugh Out Loud (2021)Secrets and Lies (2021)Blood Lotus (With Hathairat Phuekhiran – 2023)HORRORThe Watchers (2014)THE WAR OF THE GOD’S SERIESWar of the Gods 1 – The Devil’s Tarots (2012)War of the Gods 2 – Lilith’s Revenge (Coming Soon)THE SEVEN WORLDS SERIES (with Gary Johnson)The Gateway – World One (2014)The Keystone – World Two (2015)Even Jewel – World Three (2017)The Sleeping Gods – World Four (Coming Soon)The Turquoise Abyss – World Five (Coming Soon)Oceans of Fire – World Six (Coming Soon)Journeys End – World Seven (Coming Soon)THE SPELL OF BINDING SERIESThe Spell of Binding – Part One (2012)The Spell of Binding – Part Two (Coming Soon)THE PARKINGDOM SERIESParkingdom – Book One (2012)Parkingdom – Book Two (Coming Soon)OTHER BOOKSTales from the Lake Vol.2. Short Story: Prime Cuts (A mixed horror anthology with 18 other writers – published by Crystal Lake Publishing. 2016)Books released under the pseudonym J.G. NewtonEROTIC PLEASURES SERIES (#1 Best Seller on Amazon USA and UK Erotic/Suspense)Guilty Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Dirty Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Secret Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Kinky Pleasures: Erotic Pleasures Series (2014)Erotic Pleasures Series 1-4 – Omnibus Edition (2014)EROTIC MONSTERS SERIES (#1 Best Seller on Amazon USA and UK Erotic/Suspense/Horror/Humorous)Frankenstein’s Monster: Erotic Monsters Series (2014)Dracula’s Lover: Erotic Monsters Series (2014)Mummy’s Desire: Erotic Monsters Series (Coming Soon)Werewolf’s Lust: Erotic Monsters Series (Coming Soon)COMPUTER GAMETHE SEEDGlen Johnson is on the development team as the lead writer (eight writers) for a new computer game series called The Seed. The Seed is a story-driven post-apocalyptic video game set in Eastern Europe in 2026. It’s a single-player 2D interactive novel, deeply rooted in HEXACO psychology – it showcases the gravity of choice. It’s by the same team that created the award-winning game S.T.A.L.K.E.R. Misery mod.The Seed: Act 1 (2018)The Seed: Act 2 (Coming Soon)The Seed: Act 3 (Coming Soon)If you need to get hold of Glen Johnson, email him on: [e-mail]

Book preview

Prologue

Everyday we are surrounded by people. When we walk down the street or get in our car, a taxi, a bus or subway train – constantly jostled by strangers, forever fighting for space. Generic faces and mass produced clothes. Our outward appearance is crafted by the television and the mass media. We are one of seven billion inhabitants on this spinning ball of carbon, hydrogen and oxygen. However, it’s what lurks in the confines of our mind – the dwelling place of our lusts and depravities – which truly makes us unique. Once the door is locked, and we are truly alone – in those sparse few moments – it’s what we do for personal pleasure that truly defines us as a human being.

However, for a few, their personal, deprived thoughts pour over into everyday life. No longer content to let them dwell behind closed doors, their evil eventually touches others.

-1-

Sod’s Law

If this is how you act, then I won’t stop until I get revenge on you! Judges 15:7

Here I slouch with darkness enveloping me. Eyes closed against the foreboding night. Body numb from stillness, my brain disconnected long ago and swimming on the cosmic void. I lie, like one of the undead; unmoving, unstirring. Life having given up on me long ago. What is there left for me now? What can I hope for from a world of hatred and unrelenting violence? A world where the young go hungry and the old uncared for. Where murder and death are as prevalent as the very air, we breathe. Surely, life once had a meaning? Life once had a purpose? Have I always been like this? Am I only now becoming aware of it, the natural order of nature now taking hold?

Fuck, what a life.

Why can’t I admit who I truly am? Who I really portray once no one sees the outer me, once everyone has gone and the real me comes crawling out from the dark place I inhabit, whilst the pretend me socializes with the other Homo sapiens.

Why does everyone try to fit into what other people expect of us? Why can’t we be who we want to be? Why do we have to fit the parameters of other people’s ideas, other people’s degree of what is acceptable?

What would the world truly be like if every person acted and behaved the way they determined was right? How they have decided, not their peers? Would the world as we know it exist anymore? Would it slowly sink down lower into the quagmire than it already has? Or would being who we want to be release the world from many parameters, make for a better world – a world where no one has to pretend, no one doing anything, unless they desire to? Would social order still stand? Would society as we know it still be upheld?

Do we really give a shit?

From what I witness on the television and in the streets, I say hell no.

I contemplate these things, as I lay awake well past midnight on a rainy English winter night, only three days away from the Winter Solstice.

I fidget.

I can’t hide who I am any longer.

I blink at the dark ceiling.

Do other killers think the way I do? Or am I an enigma? Do they believe what they are doing is wrong? Believe they are different? Or do they accept what they have become and grasp it with both bloodied hands outstretched, wanting to be held against the bosom of the nightmare they have unleashed?

I lay on a ripped filthy striped mattress, with dark bloody gang-rape stains, in a room that looks like an abandoned crack house; dirty and smelling of wet carpet and mildew. A small old cabinet, with burn marks and stained spoons, rests against one wall. To the other is a three-legged vanity table with congealed makeup and dirty cup rings. One corner is filled with empty beer cans and cheap vodka bottles. The wallpaper hangs off in sheets to reveal black mould clinging to the wet plaster. And this is the nicest room in the house.

After buying the house with what meager money I had, I had none left to do anything with it. It stinks. It’s cold. It’s dirty and unsanitary, but it’s mine.

I roll over onto my right side, peering out at the drizzling rain that covers the window in a gloomy depressing mist. The sack coverings hang limply and uneven over the chipped, flaky paint dry rot window. The darkness outside makes the trees look like tall powerful sentinels, ready to stop me if I try to stray away from my house.

Do I dare?

Fuck yes!

I sold everything I had to come to England’s black dirty capital: London. I now own a rundown three story, old Victorian house, right on the outskirts of East London in an area called Barking and Dagenham, near the A13 around Chequers Lane, less than a mile from the mighty Thames. What a shitty sludge pit that is.

The house, or more to the point, slum some would call it, even in this the twenty-first century, is on a rundown ugly district. It has an overrun garden that hasn’t seen a lawnmower or a pair of shears in more than a decade. An abandoned shed, with a deep pit below, more like a cellar. A place I hide many of my things. And a back, overgrown gate, that I can enter and leave by without alerting anyone to my presence, or to what I might be carrying. The lane comes out next to an even dingier river than the Thames. Here I keep a small rowing boat.

I needed a new identity, so I created one. I went to a cemetery and found a gravestone with a male, around about my age that had died, possibly from illness or an accident. Either way it didn’t matter to me, just his name did; I don’t give a shit about why or how he died. I copied down the name and details, then I went along to the Birth and Death Registry Office. I gave the name and date of birth, saying I had lost my certificate. The Birth and Death registers are not joined; she didn’t know the man had been dead for over fourteen years. And with a smile, I paid my thirteen pounds and ninety-nine pence and received my new identity. Then with the birth certificate I sent away for a driver's licence. My old identity vanished; all burnt in a metal drum. My old name is now just a distant memory of little importance.

I have never been in trouble with the police, and my fingerprints have never been recorded. Something I will use to my advantage. I so hate wearing gloves, even when the needs dictate that I must, just in case something does happen and by chance my prints are needed for comparison. The chances are almost nonexistent, but then, things like that have been known to happen. No one means to get caught, that’s why the prisons are so full. Luckily good old England hasn’t got the death penalty, because what I intend to do will surely warrant it.

Strangely, the death penalty was abolished for murder in 1969, but remained on the statute book for certain other offences until 1998. What these other offences could be eluded me?

I watch the rain running down the greasy windowpane. My eyes follow one erratic drop as it zigzags.

I came from Devon; from a sleepy little village that most people don’t even realize exists on the southwest coastline of England. I had not been outside during daylight hours for years. People had forgotten I was even there. I arranged for rumours to spread that I had had a mild stroke, that half my face was sagging, and I was too proud to venture outside. No one bothered me. No one cared. People came; people went, and soon I was forgotten. Good old England was supporting me with a weekly Giro that was deposited directly into my bank. And through the beauty of the internet, even food was delivered to my front porch.

I should have been signing on, but one visit to the doctor, stating I was deeply depressed and suicidal, saved me the trouble. I wasn’t offered counseling, just a pharmacy’s worth of tablets. I had my prescriptions delivered; there were hundreds of unopened bottles in a black bin bag.

The times I do venture outside I wear a disguise, making myself look much older than my thirty-eight years. I am thin, but only five foot five inches in height. I wear old shoes, three sizes too big, with four pairs of thick socks to make them fit my thin bony feet. Thick rubber gloves ready to be used and a black ski mask, rolled up on my head like a woollen hat, ready to be pulled down. Brown contact lenses sit in the little plastic figure eight pot in the bathroom cabinet, ready to be positioned in place. Old dentures, filed down, making the teeth irregular, untraceable, in case the need for biting engulfs me. I can thank the film Red Dragon by Thomas Harris for that. I have light brown hair; that’s always cut short by clippers that I do myself. I am also covered in a light-brown hair, when I allow it to grow. I shave every inch of my body once a week. My eyes are celery green, like the colour of old coke bottle glass.

I have a large selection of old clothes. I can appear any age I so desire; I am an expert at deceit and disguise. Then again, in this day and age, who isn’t? We are all hiding who we really are. No one, not even close loved ones truly know the real us. They think they do, or more to the point; they would like to believe so. If only lovers realized what lies deep inside their partners’ heart and dark soul. You can know a person for fifty years; eat with them, fuck them, talk with them on every subject under the sun, and yet you don’t know the real person until you put their life in danger; hold a knife to someone’s throat then the true person shines through.

My father is unknown to me, someone who caught my mother with her legs open. I have never known him – not even his name. I don’t think my mother even bothered to ask him what his name was, just gave him a price. My mother died only four years ago, from cancer of the lungs. I watched her die slowly and painfully. The great woman I once knew and loved became a feeble skeletal figure. A woman who against all the odds managed to raise me into what I have become – a monster!

Thanks mum.

I had a well-to-do uncle I never knew who kept bothering us with phone calls. He had wanted mum to stay with him for her last few months, thinking I was incapable of wiping the dribble from her face and changing her nappies and feeding her Pot-Noodles. However, his stuck-up wife was having none of it. Mum ended up dying alone in a hospital. I didn’t go and see her there, or go to the funeral.

Once she had passed away, and left me the house – which I sold for pittance – I sold everything on eBay and moved to London; once the center of the world, now simply another grimy sprawling metropolis that is teeming with illegal immigrants and jobless chavs. Vast council estates with tatty high-rises and graffiti sprawled walls, which stink of shit and piss from blocked sewers and streets full of over spilling, unemptied wheelie bins.

Great Britain, an island empire that once controlled a quarter of the world’s landmass, and was the largest empire in history. Now look at her, overrun with foreigners and taking orders from European Union thugs.

How the mighty fall.

I roll onto my back. I am ready, dressed in old faded black clothes – clothes that can’t be traced. A large, oversized long black mole hair coat, one I’ve padded out with three jumpers beneath. I move around early in the mornings; I know every second-hand shop in the area I live. I collect the tied-up bags and boxes of donated clothes and carry them back to my house. A perfect camouflage; other people’s garments. If I’m lucky, they hadn’t washed them before dropping them off – very few do. They will collect many hairs and flakes of skin that fall upon my victims from these clothes, none of which will be mine.

A large old oil drum sits prepared in my overgrown backyard, waiting to be filled with my blood-soaked clothes, ready to wipe the evidence clean away. Cleansing by fire – a gift from the Gods. None will see its light, because both houses on each side are abandoned. The estate agent thought I was mad buying a home in this run-down section of the city. More abandoned houses in this one area than there are with people living in them. However, it was very cheap, a real bargain. I heard the mayor had plans to resettle people and flatten the whole area and start from scratch. That was supposed to happen over eight years ago. The slums remain, good old Boris still mentions it from time to time, just like his predecessor, when there’s nothing else on the agenda, or when the time for voting arrives. It’s soon swept back under the carpet once whoever is voted in. It’s always the same. Fucking government officials, the biggest liars of them all.

It also goes without saying that I brought the house in my newly acquired name. Nothing will connect the real me to the abomination who will soon settle down here, engulfing this old damp house.

New life will be brought through other people's deaths.

I will become a living God among men.

Do others like me pick their targets the way I do, or do they seize any opportunity that passes by, hoping not to get caught, hoping to be able to go out another night?

The aching in my stomach has intensified, similar to the pain when you need to indulge in a good wank; sperm building up, needing to be released. In fact, I have an erection, hard and pushing against my black jeans, excited about the prospect of death. I will masturbate before leaving tonight and wash myself down. I don’t want to get too excited and come just as the victims’ life is seeping away. That would be very sloppy.

Even Gods make mistakes. Just look around you.

It has to be tonight. I have been planning for this night for months; every last element in place, every significant detail taken care of. A flawless plan. A perfect murder. I will become the most perfect serial killer England has ever known. Even Jack the Ripper will be forgotten during my frenzied attacks. My mentor, my guide, my loving teacher. In the streets, some might even cry: Jack is back!

My hand smoothes over the black case I will carry. Similar to the old-fashioned cases doctors use to carry around with them, some still do. However, inside aren't tools and equipment meant to save life, but to take it a way, in ways most couldn’t even imagine or comprehend. That’s the other beauty of the internet, everything is accessible, and I have become quite proficient with a scalpel and saw.

My letters are ready to be posted. If I am to follow in Jack’s footsteps, then I need to follow his every perfect move. I will be writing many letters.

I climb to my large booted feet, feeling strange with so many socks on; it feels like I’m walking on deep moss. I pull the large coat around me, my shaking hands doing up the big black plastic buttons. They don’t shake from fear, but from anticipation. I have been dreaming of this night for more years than I care to remember. Of course, I don’t suppose everything will go according to plan. Even Jack had to make a few attempts until he perfected his technique. It doesn’t worry me too much; I will have many more chances to become perfect.

There will be many bodies in my wake.

I pull the back door open. No keys needed here, because the house looks identical to the abandoned ones next to it. I firmly grip the handle of my black case, my knuckles going white with the strength of my grasp. I trudge along between the tall uncut grass and disappear out the back gate. To a London that is unsuspecting. To a London that by this time tomorrow would have changed. Changed for the better? Who can say? But then, what I class as better isn’t the choice of the majority.

Jack is back! they will be screaming, echoed boldly across all the newspapers. That’s one thing I have made sure of, because as well as my letter going to Scotland Yard – like Jacks did. Actually, I believe it is now called New Scotland Yard, how appropriate, because I’m the New Jack. It will also arrive at The Daily Telegraph, the Daily Mail and Daily Express newspapers.

It will be obvious the old Jack the Ripper is long gone. Many have tried to name him; none succeeded, simply guesswork. Some have compelling evidence and substantial new leads, but all just meaningless smoke. I will be the New Jack, a product of the 21st Century, created by man’s need for violence; movies, television, video games, all guilty of breeding my imagination, my lust, my needs, my uniqueness. A serial killer. A product of the media.

Violence is now just another billion-pound product to be packaged and sold to the masses. Parents don’t care, most don’t even know. The computer game they buy for little Johnny must be safe, they wouldn’t sell it else, would they? They ignore the fact it had the eighteen sticker on it. A computer game, an eighteen? They mutter as they pick it up anyway. Games full of violent car jacking. Unbeknown that little Johnny is running over pedestrians and having to turn on the car wipers to remove the large volumes of blood. Johnny kills children, mothers and babies in prams. He runs over old people as if they were simply garbage cans. He has shootouts with the police and fights pimps and hookers. Alternatively, games full of killing hordes of zombies. Or his preference may be running into an airport terminal and gunning down innocent civilians with an automatic machine gun. Possibly creating and unleashing weapons of mass destruction, wiping out whole civilizations, and all in stark realism, making it difficult to tell its computer graphics and not reality. It’s just another game, another activity to keep them from getting under their parent’s feet. Who cares what the little fuckers are doing so long as mum can watch her soaps.

I have had years of violent video games, horror movies and descriptive books – books about crime scenes, now teaching criminals and killers about how to keep themselves from getting caught. About hair traces, blood smears, fingerprints, saliva, DNA, botanical materials, volatile hydrocarbons, plant, mineral and synthetic fibers, gunshot and explosive's residue all mapped out, explanations, ways to avoid detection. The killers guide books. I have many, underlined, studied and restudied; now memorised and useful. The television program CSI – Crime Scene Investigation is a horde of invaluable information for the would-be serial killer – thanks CBS. All my collective information will go to good use; for my special needs, my particular wants, my cravings.

I have studied Jack for many years; he is now my passion. My lover you could say, in a nonsexual way. The one true killer of our time who was never apprehended. I will be like him, untouchable. I will become a living God. Mere mankind will become my playthings.

Each of my victims will be reminiscent of his, all following the same patterns, reasons and wants.

I walk along the dark wet back lane that comes out onto another neglected area, all abandoned and boarded up, smashed and covered in graffiti. Once the proud dwellings of the new home owners, now the adolescents’ playground. In these buildings reside unprotected sex, drugs and violence. Little do people know that tonight something far worse is stalking the dirty streets of London.

A predator on the hunt.

A story in the making.

My first victim is going about her night like any other, not realizing that soon the last breath will escape her shuddering body. For tonight I am playing at being God, I say who lives or dies. In my hands are held their very being; because tonight the New Jack is back.

What is it that drives me? I ponder, as the cool night air brushes against my warm face. It’s not because of the mountains of thick clothes that I’m warm, blushed. It’s because of the prospect of what awaits me around the corner, across the small river and into my hunting ground.

I have studied this area for many months, watching, waiting. Many come and go, not realizing they are being watched, studied like animals in a cage. A cage of my making, my needs.

The first one is always special, or so the movies and video games depict it. A crossing over from one plane to another – one of domination, strength and conquest. A human soul is ebbing away because of your two hands; because of your will. Their last ounce of life draining out with their vital fluids. Blood your own hands have brought forth.

My hand tightens on the handle of my black bag. A small stone or possibly a piece of trash makes me trip; I stumble but right myself within a few wobbly steps. My shoulder is jarred as my heavy bag is pulled back under control. The noise of all my implements rattling around arouses me. I pull at my jeans to make room for my growth. My face flushes even redder.

I come to a crossing, heading out from between derelict buildings, out under the harsh illumination of the street lights. I peer up and look at the old railway bridge, black and solid, built to last. Bright colourful images of seagulls are patch-worked over its metal surface, trying to bring a semblance of beauty to something so ugly.

The night looks hazy. The light misty rain has started again. Everything becoming a washed-out, polluted blur – a dirty painting. It could almost have been a Joseph Zbukvic watercolor painting. My mother used to have one of his prints over the mantelpiece, titled Wet Day, Melbourne.

I lower my head and stride purposefully across the narrow one-way street, up over the high pavement and straight down another even darker alleyway. My gloved hands reach for the brickwork, raking the black leather across the rough wall, feeling its age and strength. Large unsightly bins fill half the alley, the stinking garbage spilling out over the metal rims. One large blue bin stands out, towering over the rest. That’s me, I think to myself – large and full of shit people don’t want, but still bigger than all the other pitiful fucking trash cans.

My feet feel strange, bouncing on so many pairs of thick socks. I find myself wondering, did the previous owners of the socks have Athletes Foot, or some other kind of fungal disease? I snort out a mirthless laugh. With what I’m about to do, I should be more concerned if my intended victim has AIDS or some other STD that could infect a person who might get some of their blood in their mouth. Then again, nobody lives forever, not even Gods.

Even my mother died early. However, she wasn’t perfect. Once when she was drunk and on cocaine, she even watched one of her numerous lovers make me suck him off when I was only ten. Even now I gag at the thought of his rancid unwashed cock. Nevertheless, even that paled into comparison to what two of her male friends did to me when I was eleven. I couldn’t walk properly for weeks. The bleeding eventually stopped. It hardly even bothers me anymore – just a little blood on the toilet paper every now and then. However, after the first time, it became easier, even regular. I learnt to turn myself off. I even imagined I was on a boat, and my rocking was really the water tipping me from side to side. She said it made her sad to see that happening to me, because she always watched, to make sure they left no bruises. And she reminded me that it helped with the bills. And if I wanted those fucking new ADIDAS trainers, then I had better stop crying and moan a little louder. Apparently, it turned them on more when I moaned like a bitch.

I kicked the black bin liners out my way, the content’s spilling across the dark wet passageway – other peoples crap, a look at their private lives. Fat women hiding chocolate wrappers inside other packages. Husbands hiding their mobile telephone bills that have their lover’s number on. Teenagers hiding their semen covered tissues or unwanted ripped porn.

My bag was reassuringly heavy. How eager I am to reach inside and remove the long sleek blade that I spent hours honing to a razor-sharp point. How easy it will slice though her pink scrubbed flesh, cutting through her tendons and muscles as easily as it parts her clothing. She didn’t realize when she got dressed this morning that I would be the one to remove most of her garments, leaving the rest to the morgue attendant’s minimum wage lackey.

The alleyway opened up becoming a wide road. No cars whizzed past at this time of the night. 3 A.M. in London’s dodgy districts are reserved for the underpaid nightshift workers, the wandering homeless or the mental lunatics, like me – if that’s what I would be called? Personally, I think I’m much more. I don’t think names exist for people like me. Hopefully tomorrow the newspapers will have chosen a sufficient new one. Like I have already said, Jack’s Back will be fine; I don’t mind being named after a great creature like him. Then again, it might take a few killings for them to pick up on the fact a new serial killer has spawned, even with the letters I’m going to send.

I scurry across the four-lane road, traffic light’s blink in the emptiness of the night, with no one around to pay any attention. The misty rain causing a red halo over the stoplight. A cat cries in the distance, possibly two having a standoff regarding the very trash bags I kicked about the alleyway. Their piercing cries sounding like screaming babies in pain. It ends with an almighty screech and the rattling of glass bottles as one pursues the other. A dog barks, adding its symphony into the mix.

I speed up my pace, unconcerned about the noises around me, but simply eager to get to work. She should be leaving her job about now. Oh the dilemmas of working at night. I scouted this area for weeks, picking the right location, the right surroundings making sure all would be perfect, no one or anything would disturb my greatest hour – my turning into something far greater than a meager man.

Once the right location had been picked, I went about scouting the adjoining areas, looking for the right subject, my canvas to work on. I don’t know her name; I have never been that close, or ploughed that deep. I watch her from a distance. I never use binoculars either, I want nothing to water down the moment I grasp my hands around her and pull her into the dark enclosed death space. She look tall, muscled even, but I think it will turn me on more if she struggles. She works in a large warehouse, possibly a cleaner. Why she needs to be there at night; I’m unsure about? Possibly, it’s the best time, with no one getting under her feet. But luckily for me, she is.

My hands start to sweat inside the gloves. Maybe I will remove them for a while, let them breathe. No, the rubber gloves beneath the woollen ones and the leather ones will be impossible to slip back on; and some of the talcum powder might spill out. Never give the police one iota of evidence to work with.

I now jump the low brick wall that runs around the vast car park, which stops the cars just exiting anywhere. I pass the tall galvanized kitchen and bathroom warehouse on my left, and the Toyota car lot on my right. However, no video cameras look in my direction; that had been the first thing I had checked for. I wasn’t going to be an oblivious participant on some building’s security surveillance equipment. I don’t want to create a snuff movie, because I want it all for myself. Call me rude, but I’m very selfish.

I keep to the tall red building that was once a fabric warehouse, now just another empty lot, like so many others. I duck under a colossal air-conditioning unit that is all rusty from disrepair, heading down around the side of the empty cavernous warehouse. No powerful halogen lights flare to life, tripped by my presence. Why should they, who would want to protect an empty building? And it’s around the side of this very building that I have chosen to leave my mark. My first victim – my first love.

I catch my bag on a piece of rusty metal. I pull it free, satisfied that it hasn’t been torn. I’m starting to shake now, adrenaline coursing through my pumping veins, like fuel through a high-performance jet engine.

There it is, my square derelict patch of concrete, that will support the body of my souls dark needs. It’s to the left of the gap between the two tall buildings, galvanized steel soaring into the sky. A chain-link fence surrounds the area. This has large metal containers stacked around its circumference, providing cover and padding against the noise she is bound to make. Plus the echo of the rain pattering off the metal containers makes a low-level droning sound.

What had this area originally been for? I have no idea, or give a shit. However, it is perfect, as if being created for my personal needs and perverted wants.

I scamper across the clearing, unconcerned with being seen, because the containers are over twenty feet in height. I run because it is so close to the time I will release the inner me – the real me, the creature inside that we all nurture. A creature that slowly eats away at us all. A primeval instinct – to kill.

I wedge myself between the two huge containers that have the only passable gap in the complete square, apart from the gap between the buildings that I entered from. Large green metal doors stand like sentinels, unmoving and uncaring.

I kneel down and with a shaking hand open my black doctors’ bag. The noise it makes is music to my ears. I swallow saliva. It is a time. I’m so aroused now; it’s throbbing like a living entity, having a mind of its own.

She will be walking past any minute. Walking with the wide strut of a whore, legs slightly apart, because of all the action and lovers she takes. She looks the type. Just like my bitch mother.

I hear the tap tapping of her high heels, making a beautiful harmonic sound echo to my hidden location.

I reach in and remove the long silver blade. I have poured so much love upon it; it will repay that love now. However, for some reason, this being my first, I want to touch her living flesh, seize her from behind. Let her have that one millisecond where she realizes she’s about to die. And taking the knowledge with her that it’s a man who’s about to do it. All women know they are targets; they all instinctively stay away from the dark alleys, the silent roads, where predators like me lay in wait.

I peel off my gloves and massage my sweating hands. I have a small yellow tin of lighter fluid; I will pour some over the location I touch and set it alight, just to make sure.

Her heels are loud, a deafening tattoo of sound.

Then a flash, as she moves past the gap where I am crouched down hiding.

Sweet Mary, Jesus H. fucking Christ, this is it.

I spring forward while tucking the knife into my coat’s pocket. Just one quick grasp, wrap my strong hand around her throat, thrust my hand between her long legs, feel her moist cunt.

In a flash, I am behind her. She doesn’t hear me. She doesn’t realize these are her last precious moments left on this ball of spinning dirt. She walks unconcerned, engrossed in the tinny sound of her iPod.

With all my strength, I reach around her, grasping her long throat. I force my left hand between her legs, fumbling like crazy for her pussy.

Wait! What the fuck?

My left hand is full, but not of panties and dress, but a soft sack of meat? My other hand closes over an Adams apple?

What the fuck? A deep powerful voice said, as if parroting my very thoughts. It was not the sound that should be originating from a female, even one as tall and wide as her.

I feel strong hands pull my arm away from her throat, and then her body spins around to confront her attacker.

You little fucking pervert. Try to grab my cock will you? Well, I’ve got a real surprise for you! Then all I saw was a hairy tattooed fist, with JACK inked across the knuckles coming straight at my face. What are the astronomical chances of that, I thought? God is taking the piss out of me. Then, there was nothing – unconsciousness.

*

I don’t know how long I was out for, but the pain in my face was almost as bad as the pain in my anus.

The attacker had now become the attacked.

Sods-fucking-law.

Strong powerful arms hold me down. One hand was pushing my bleeding face against the cold wet concrete; the other was steadying the man above me, the man wearing a woman’s dress! A fucking transvestite! I thought transvestites were peaceable, loving people? Trust me to attack the exception to the rule. I could feel his pelvic thrusts pushing himself deeper and deeper. Oh, the hurt. My pain filled tears washed the blood from my nose away.

I realized that my hands were tied with my blue nylon rope. My mouth taped with my silver duck tape.

Think you can try and fucking rape me, you little bastard? his deep voice said in fits and burst as he fucked me harder.

I closed my eyes against the pain, and was transported back to when I was eleven, and pretended I was on a boat, rocking from side to side.

Row, row, row your boat gently down the stream, merrily, merrily, merrily, merrily life is but a dream.

Then the last thing I felt was the explosion of his groin inside me. At the same instant, my long sharp blade sailed across my throat. With my last thought being, there are some sick fucking people in this world…

-2-

The Last Straw

Age should speak; advanced years should teach wisdom. Job 32:7

Knock… knock… knock…

The old rocking chair creaked as his weight carried it back and forth, back and forth. Accompanied by the knock, knocking sound as the left runner tapped the edge of the mahogany coffee table.

Back and forth, knock…

Back and forth, knock…

Old and weary his body completely relaxed into the bulky antique rocking chair. His old wrinkled features were drawn and tired; his eyes closed. His metal rimmed glasses were askew, and the left lens cracked. His large hands were the only sign of tension, as they clenched tightly to the armrests, so hard the bones seemed white through his parchment skin and brown liver spots.

Back and forth, knock…

Back and forth, knock…

He let out a rattling breath, then a long weary sigh. The gold watch that he had been given only hours ago was also broken; the thick glass shattered into a million fragments.

Today was Jim Henry Lambert’s fiftieth wedding anniversary: golden anniversary, hence the gold watch. He brought her a simple gold bracelet. Today he had been married to Elizabeth Catherine Frank for fifty long years. Fifty years of constant nagging, bitching and complaining.

Fifty long years of having constant earache because of her. Fifty long years of having her mumbling under her breath. Fifty long years of her always getting her own way. But not anymore.

All that was remedied; all the blood that was covering Jim’s big hands was testament to it being the end; the blood splatter patterns that splashed up his once white flannel vest and over his arms and dripping from his face and hair. Today he was released. Today he was free for the first time in fifty-three years.

The silence was a blessing.

Back and forth, knock…

Back and forth, knock…

Strange what finally triggered the end to it all. It was a simple argument about what to have for their late dinner. Liz wanted chicken again. Always chicken with her. However, Jim just wanted a change. Lamb chops were all he wanted; one little concession from her getting her own way all day. That’s not too much to ask? Lamb, not damn chicken again.

He even took the frozen lamb chops out from the freezer and put the thick plastic bag on the draining board. That’s why they were so hard when he started to beat her with the unopened packet. That’s why her body now lay dead on the kitchen floor, after being pummelled repeatedly with the solid frozen lumps of New Zealand’s finest meat.

Back and forth, knock…

Back and forth, knock…

It had been a long day, family popping around; their six children and fourteen grandchildren. With Elizabeth talking by phone to their seventh child, the oldest son, who lived in Perth, Australia and couldn’t make it over. She talked on the damn phone for four hours! The last quarterly phone bill was almost three hundred pounds!

All the hassle and fuss, Jim just wanted them all to go away. They eventually did.

Back and forth, knock…

Back and forth, knock…

His mind is jumping now, trying to grasp anything to think about rather than what he has just done.

His children.

He hates his offspring. They were always around, always wanting something. The grandchildren constantly wanting new bikes or pocket money for Dr Who stickers or sweets and crisps, even mobile phones. Their children needed help with mortgage or car repayments, even though they were old enough to look after themselves. Jim and Liz never had anyone to fall back on; they never had an endless pocket to dip into. What they had they had to scrimp and save for. Sacrifice for. They simply couldn’t pick up the phone and complain about life’s misfortunes and expect to be bailed out all the time.

The Bank of Mum and Dad.

Kids today don’t know what real hardship is, Jim mumbled. He raises a hand and pulls at his broken glasses and simply lets them fall down over his rounded stomach; they land on the blood drenched burgundy carpet. Funny, the blood is almost the same colour.

Back and forth, knock…

Back and forth, knock…

Jim was raised by hard parents, cruel even. Even so, it taught him to respect them. Not all this namby-pamby, not allowed to hit children today malarkey. How do they expect children to learn respect?

When you walk past parents with their children in the street these days, all you hear is, effing this and effing that, coming from the children, and the parents don’t bat an eyelid,