Fist of Serrated Teeth: Murder Stories

By Sean Malia Thompson

Murder Stories from the writer of Screaming Creatures and God Damn Zombie Chainsaw Murderer.
Includes Bonus Material: part 1 of the sequel to God Damn Zombie, a stand alone story that does not spoil the first novel or the novel to come!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nictitating Books
• Release date: May 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223652892

Book preview

Contents

Fist of Serrated Teeth

Not a Person

Those Damn College Kids!

The Silent Man: A Documentary

American Death Cult

Bonus Material

Fist of Serrated Teeth

Murder Stories

Sean Malia Thompson

A Nictitating Books Publication

Copyright © 2023 by Sean Malia Thompson

This is a work of fiction. All characters and events in this book are fictional. Any resemblance to any persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

All rights reserved

Cover by Tiffany Morris

Interior Formatting by Sean Malia Thompson

Content Warning

The following book contains:

-A whole lot of fucking murders

Tonight you will be mine

Tonight the monkey dies

-Low

Not a Person

I am inside the old shoe factory, with its crumbling stone floors and broken glass windows staring at me, accusingly, temperamentally. Fingers are numb, the cold is like a frozen coma. I throw rocks at the windows, each smash a snare drum kick, rub the paddles together, clear—we’re gonna lose this one. Flatline.

Undead anyway, not literally of course, no vampire or ghoul, worse than that, far worse than that. I am what happens when all hope is lost, and then you stir in a little homelessness and fractured sanity. Fractured like the glass, fractured like the refraction of sound waves as they travel back over the standing moldy water puddles in the old shoe factory.

Can you imagine that, many years ago, men standing in lines working the machines, which made shoes that would ship out on trucks to stores, to be bought by poor saps like you and me? Shoes made from leather, leather which started life as skin, as some creature’s skin, can you imagine that? Can you imagine, you’re in your cube farm or your fucking sub shop job, whatever the fuck, and some asshole comes in with a bolt gun, and crunch, then he drags your corpse off, skins the cadaver; all those awful tearing sounds, and your soul has to watch all of this, your soul has to watch as your skin is tanned, and as it changes color, as it is turned into shoes. Your skin becomes that which men and women walk upon every day without a moments thought to how what adorns their feet used to be the sack which held all your meat and organs in.

I vomit onto the old crumbling floor, the vomit begins to eat through the concrete: I am acidic you see. I am a walking vat of acid, one touch and you melt, not in the fun between the sheets way, in the breakdown of tissue way, in the loss of fingers and hand way; this cage trapping my soul is nothing but a prison to keep me from frying you down, bones and all.

My father worked in this factory, I think, for a few years anyway before he walked out on my mom and me. I feel a strange connection to the abandoned factory because of this, like we’re both neglected kids, the product of broken homes, bodies breaking down, used up, no one wanting to work with us anymore. They fired me, you know, and they had every right—oh yes, they had every right, every right to let me go, so go I went, down I went, down, down, traveling further, lower, 9th circle my friends, step right up ladies and gentlemen meet the freak whose mind houses all the darkness.

The severed feet are in a backpack I bought from a used clothing store. It’s a thrift store, used clothing store, however you wish to refer to it. The backpack is not the important thing, though it assuredly has just as much of a history as I do. No, the feet, there’s the rub. Is it important how I procured said feet? Perhaps, perhaps not, the point is the severed feet are in the backpack. Sounds dreadfully philosophical doesn’t it, if the feet stay in the backpack do I really have the feet if you can not see them, if I do not reveal if I am being honest with you?

You’ll just have to play along then, won’t you? Because this is what is keeping you here now, these feet which may or may not exist, in this used green backpack which I can reveal in all truthfulness does in fact exist, is corporeal, is hanging off of my weary shoulders. Who am I? Not entirely important. I will give you hints, I can tell you the suspect is between 30 and 40 years of age (he has one of those faces which simultaneously looks old and young) has a lightish brown or perhaps even dirty blonde set of close cropped hair (this according to eyewitness #3) stands between 5 foot 8 or 6 feet. They do not know his eye color. I can tell you it is light blue.

I once worked the graveyard shift in a convenience store. Let me set the scene for you, buzzing bright lights, older grey carpet, white walls, rows of metal shelving with snacks, toiletries, birthday cards, and finally at the back a cooler full of drinks, and some microwaveable meals. A door which chimes when one enters. Do you have this picture in your mind? I’m sure your mental image is not terribly different than what the store really looked like, a smaller locally owned convenience store, not a chain store, that should help you crappy up the place a bit in your head, hmm? I used to violently masturbate in the bathroom before I locked up for the night, but that’s also not really important to the story, just want you to know what the suspect is like, and maybe I wanted to skeeve you out a little, where’s the harm, the harm in describing the used jizz that accumulated around the rim of the toilet I never bothered to clean up entirely. The harm in describing how all the anguish of my day as a register jockey would expel out of my body in one angry and forceful spurt.

So now you know the creepy fuck manning the register, and you know the store, so let me describe the night, the glorious and terrible night which changed me to the core, mutated me, burned me, bruised me, beat me, tied me up and dumped me into the blackest ocean of dripping, oily obsidian, the absence of light so profound you can’t ever hope to see the surface again. And why would you even want to, anyway? What was on the surface for you. No, your life is under the black waves. That is your destiny, has always been your destiny. I have always known this, you have always known this. We have always known this.

Anyway… the person was impossible to identify. Androgynous, nondescript black suit, black homburg hat, short hair, black sunglasses despite the fact it was a little after 9 at night. I can not tell you what race, what nationality. I want to say white, but that seems wrong. I remember the person being white. It is very confusing. The person approached me. I don’t say walked because I didn’t see steps. I can’t say if they floated for sure, they just somehow moved across the room, ambulated in some way. Maybe they did walk, it’s hard to remember.

I am Eden Reece, the person said to me. I do not recall my response, though it was something brief, due to my shock. One felt uneasy as soon as they saw this person, this Eden Reece, an indescribable feeling. I know I just said uneasy, but this is a fill in word. Not necessarily fear. Not necessarily not fear. The best I can approximate, the best way I can pontificate on the feelings Eden Reece filled me with…

You have left a cup in your refrigerator overnight. You know the cup to be filled with an orange soda. This cup, it is a paper cup, impossible to see into, one of those heavy duty ones they use for frozen drinks, the same material they use for to-go containers of soup. You went to bed knowing the cup in my refrigerator is filled with orange soda. Upon waking you are in the mood for a sip of this wondrous, much-fabled orange soda in your refrigerator. You open the door to the fridge. You grab the cup. Tip the cup to your lips. Sip. This is when the disgust hits you. It’s milk. No mistaking the taste, this is milk, whole milk. You look inside the cup. The liquid inside still very much appears to be orange soda. Now, part of the disgust is you were expecting orange soda, and milk tastes very different. You take another sip. No denying it now, this is milk. You look inside the cup again. Orange soda still sloshes inside.

This is the best way I can approximate the feelings I had that night, meeting Eden Reece. This person, they looked very much like a person, in the same way the orange soda looked very much like orange soda. Yet, as soon as I saw Eden Reece, from the moment I