Vale & Ruben

“Will I be able to hear the sound of my blood gushing from my neck?
That would be the pleasure to end all pleasures!”
Peter Kurten to his executioner in 1931

Canon in D Major


Murder, Vale pondered as he gazed over a roadmap, Moosburg? Neufahrn? Palzing? 301 to Zolling? Tempting, but to soon...
Not yet. Can’t break such a grand pattern in the work merely out of impatience.
It had to be an I.
Had to be Inglostadt and Vale knew he was already heading that way, but it’s always nice to sneak in the back door. What’s the fun in booming into town on the E45 when one can slither in by the moonlight on the 13? So that’s how it would be.
Vale started the car and left the roadside. He turned on the radio and listened to a grinding male voice with interest as it mauled onwards with one German word after another and Vale didn’t understand a single syllable. But the incomprehensibility only opened up a mental road to his imagination and he began pretending. At once the possibly idle talk transformed into a most intelligent monologue concerning the effect of sorrow and to what extent it spread through the chains of human connections.
For instance if one person were murdered there would naturally be a number tied to that individual who would feel sorrow over the loss. Then if everyone who felt true sorrow over the victim themselves became murdered there would be an even greater number of individuals who would feel sorrow due to their acquaintance with the victims. And then if one would murder each of them there would arise an even greater number of people who would be affected.
The question now is would there ever be a configuration of individuals murdered that had no relatives, lovers or friends or likewise to feel sorrow for them? Perhaps they had only enemies or were completely alone or unknown? Would such a time come when all of the victims had none to grief over them so the system of killing the sorrowful ended? Probably not, but probably is not always probable and strange circumstances do happen. Someone wins the lottery every day and the chances of doing that are quite slim.
But Vale did.
Several million dollars in fact. Some he’d spent, but most of it still remained hidden throughout his car. He turned off the radio when the voice was exchanged for the latest German dance hit, cause when it comes to music Vale had a great difficulty in imagining a cheap computerized melody with annoying drum loops for, lets say, Pachelbel’s Canon in D Major. A composition he happened to have a great nostalgic love for.
It was to that harmonious number he had been born. Vale could remember it clearly playing on his father’s record player the very moment he came out of his mother’s womb, in the very house he had also grown up in. He was glad he hadn’t been brought from the other side, that place from where we all come, into this realm in the sterile environment of a modern hospital. He thanked his parents for that.
Inglostadt was near.
The night too. In the horizon the bleeding red autumn sun fell like a drop of blood.
Murder, Vale pondered.
Murder indeed.
S.E.B.A.S.T.Inglostadt.
It was four minutes past five in the afternoon, and Vale felt. And that he loved. There was nothing greater. Nothing more grand nor pur than the exhilarating feeling of feeling. And the high it gave. Living an orgasm.
Aaah…
Sebastian Vale came into town.



Black Cat


The streets were empty.
The night damp and dreary. Leaves scattered the pavement and electric lights gave protection from complete darkness. It was a clear sky. All the stars were there, and all the constellations. None of it had changed and Vale knew cause he checked it as often as he had the chance. Quickly he wrote in a little book.
Status: stable.
A black cat walked into an alley.
It made no sound. Vale grinned and began following the fabled creature thinking of lines like buried the axe in her brain and I had walled the monster up within the tomb.
“Oh Edgar, you devious cunt I love you,” he spoke silently to himself.
The alley was pitch black and reeked of garbage. The cat knocked over some bottles, or something else did, because he heard the distinct sound of glass against asphalt. But no breakage.
Vale did however see a shadowy figure come towards him, and before he had time to react, he had blood pouring into his face from a blow to the head. It hurt and he fell to the ground groaning. Consciousness crept away like a balloon let loose. Darkness was all around and now also within. And then he awoke.



Follow the Smell


“Guten Abend!” a voice said.
Vale saw a dull room full of dust and the stench of rotting flesh. He was tied around his ankles and wrists. The man who had spoken sat beside him. He seemed normal wearing dark blue jeans and a wrinkled shirt not tucked in. His face was shaved and on his distinct Jewish nose he had a pair of glasses. The hair was parted through the middle, brown and short. He had eaten a carrot recently because there were tiny orange pieces of it still stuck to his teeth, and Vale could smell it through the haze of all the other smells. The man spoke again and said something else but Vale couldn’t understand.
“I’m sorry, you’ll have to speak English.”
“American,” he said and instantly chuckled. “American scum, fuck yeah… lucky day!” He got up and lit a cigarette. “American. Where in America? I hope you are from Californ-i-a!”
“Milwaukee, Wisconsin.”
“Jesus Holy Mary Christ, you’ve just earned yourself another hour of life my American friend.”
Vale began feeling annoyed, and though he loved feeling that particular feeling he did not like at all. The reason for his irritation was firstly due to him being tied up, secondly because his head was hurting terribly and thirdly this stupid man in front of him looked like a right German version of an inbreed redneck hillbilly. A race he particularly despised above all others.
Vale wasn’t the least bit afraid. Something was happening and that was good. He enjoyed that feeling, but he would enjoy it even more once he got free from his bonds and shoved his fingers into the eyes sockets of the smoking moron in front of him.
“Jeffrey Dahmer?”
“What?”
“Do you know him American?”
“Of course I do you stupid fuck!”
Vale got up but found it hard to move and he was easily pushed back into the sofa. His captor produced a knife and held it to Vale’s throat.
“Now listen American, I am going to kill you. Then I am going to eat you. Then I am going to digest and eventually shit you out, and flush you down the toilet. The only question is when?” after he had said this he cut Vale lightly below the left ear, not deep enough for any serious damage, and then asked:
“Tell me your name.”
“Tell me yours.”
The man took out Vale’s wallet out of his pocket and found a driving license.
“Nathalie… this isn’t you,” he said and searched on and discovered a number of various identifications with no photo matching Vale’s distinct face. “Tell me, where did you get these?”
“From them,” Vale answered.
“How?”
“I gouged out their eyes and cut them from navel to Adam’s apple!”
The man seemed genuinely amazed and put all the cards back into the wallet and threw it on a table crowded with empty beer cans. He sat down next to Vale lighting another cigarette, as the one he had just been smoking had finished. He smirked.
“My name is Edward Ruben, please indulge me… what is yours?”
“Sebastian Vale.”
“I would shake your hand, but it is tied up I am afraid and until I’ve fully assessed the situation it will remain so. But I would like to show you something so I will free your legs.” Ruben pulled a large carving knife from beneath the sofa’s pillows and quickly cut the rope. “Any movement I see unfit and this blade will go straight into your face. Now get up, I insist, and follow me to the basement. You first, this way. Down the hall to the left. The door is wide open. Step on through. I’m right behind you. Just follow the smell. You can’t miss it. It’s quite appalling.”



Switch


The basement consisted of one large space with concrete walls and three light bulbs hanging from the ceiling. The floor had been broken up and now there was only earth there. Black dirty dirt filled with the corpses of many human beings, some with severed limbs and decapitated heads. Others whole but half buried or covered with maggots and flies. The smell was so strong that Vale felt nausea to his own surprise.
“I have 42 men, women and children buried here and a dog.”
“Well Ruben, how the hell can you take the stench?”
“It’s my own flowerbed of death. It doesn’t disturb me and I have no neighbors to sense it if, for some reason, the smell would leak out. And any friends or relatives I did have, that could drop by to discover my secret, are all in here somewhere. But it’s filled up and I have decided to sell the house and move on. I just figured one more for the road. And that’s where you came in.”
“I see, well I have not been so productive but I must say I have a different angle on things.”
“Vale, good man. Tell me more.” Ruben put his arm around Vale and led him to one of the corners where there was a table, a chair and various cutting tools such as knives, saws, axes and even a chainsaw. Two fresh bodies laid next to the table on top of each other.
“Sit there,” Ruben said and Vale sat down on them, “Pascal and… I forget the other one,” Ruben continued and placed himself on the chair crossing his legs with a satisfied and proud look on his face. The carving knife he placed discreetly on the table.
Vale found the corpses comfortable. Why had he never tried to sit on them before? 1-0 to Ruben.
“How many and how?”
“Six and like I said before all cut from navel to Adam’s apple with eyes gouged out.”
“All the same? What’s the fun in that?”
“I killed them all in different cities.”
“What cities?”
“Stockholm, Esrum, Berlin, Auschwitz, Spalona, Tachov…”
“…Inglostadt. And then Augsburg perhaps?”
“I never plan a head.”
“You were right. Your technique is different from mine. You are a serial killer spelling out your identity knowing full well the law won’t, and isn’t, smart enough to figure it out and they don’t really co-operate across borders when it comes to singular killings within a country. The random pattern and the wide distances between the victims will not be easy for them to connect. But killing them in the same way do add that little bit of extra dangerous spice. Are you sure Interpol isn’t on your tail?”
“I am not an amateur.”
“I never said you were. Quality instead of quantity.”
“Correct.”
“Serial killer.”
“Mass murderer.”
Ruben smiled.
“Well then we have our titles established and I must confess it would be a shame to kill you. Would I be out of line by asking you to join me?”
“No, but I don’t see how… you’d be too much heat. You’re too messy.”
“How about a switch? I continue your journey finishing up your name. There’s only seven letters left. It won’t take too long. In the mean time you move house. I’ve already set one up far from here in Switzerland outside Zürich. There you could continue my work with diverse killing of a massive magnitude, I’m going for golden one zero zero,”
“Ruben you’ve certainly have been thinking quick. But what if you release me and I kill you? I am after all intending to kill someone here in Inglostadt. Why not let it be you?”
“I’m not worried about that,” Ruben answered and got up. He took the carving knife from the table and cut Vale’s hands free. Instantly Vale punched Ruben in the face, wrestled him down tearing the carving knife out of his hand. Vale then pushed it against his throat without cutting it. Ruben smiled.
“You won’t kill me,” he said.
“Why not?”
“Because we are not in Inglostadt. The media would report my death as occurring in Ried. We’re about 20 kilometers away.” Ruben pushed Vale off and stood up. “The problem with serial killers is they love the pattern, can’t break that pattern.”
“You fuck.”
Ruben laughed.
“Want a drink?”



Holiday Hunting Trip


They sat in the kitchen drinking beer. Vale only tasted his whilst Ruben downed one after the other, burping occasionally. The light in the kitchen was warm and there was a classic plastic red and white checkered tablecloth on the table. A door that led out to the backyard was open and the chilled air that sneaked in stole some of the stench on its way out again, but Vale had already begun getting used to it.
“Normally I’m not this social,” Ruben said, “but I usually don’t have such fine guests as you. And I must apologies for banging your head and cutting you. But from here the wound seems fine and how could I know. To me you were just number 43, or 44 if you count the dog.”
Vale studied Ruben.
He was a character. Unpolished. Eager. Annoying. Disgusting and utterly disturbed. A raving psychopath. He’d read about mass murderers before and seen specials about them on TV. More than less they, besides killing and maiming, indulged in perverse sexual acts with their victims. And Ruben did look like the type that would fuck a corpse in the ass, coming with exhilarating force as he’d see all the little maggots crawling on his cock head when he pull it out.
The only reason Vale didn’t end Ruben’s life, apart from the fact that they weren’t in Inglostadt, was because the man was creative. He had the will and the passion and in a way he reminded Vale of himself as a kid, even though Ruben was probably a decade older than he himself was.
Vale never considered himself a psycho. All he wanted was adventure and excitement. The rush. The feel. And killing people did do it for him. And to have a plan, a scheme, to work after made it scientific… almost moral.
When he had won all that money he instantly knew what to do. He quit his job in the factory, gave up his apartment and sold, or threw away, all his belongings (including some family dreaming girl called Mary or Maria… Maud?). Then he bought a couple of nice suits and a plane ticket to Europe. Before he left he extracted all his winnings in 500-dollar bills and packed them in a large suitcase. It had been a dream to come true and it was nothing sinister about it. Money merely made it happen.
So he went across the Atlantic Ocean to go hunting. So far it had been both easy and fun. His plane landed in Oslo and that’s where he got his car, with which he then drove to Stockholm for his first kill. As fate would have it it was a fellow American.
A tourist with a camera, map and all. It had been intense. The guy’s son was with him, but Vale never touched the kid. Only one per town he’d decided so the kid got to watch. It all went relatively quick and easy. Vale could still recall how it felt to force his knife into flesh and upwards along the body to the neck. It took a lot of strength and Vale really had to use all of it that he had, and it had felt great. And never was he afraid or worried. Just eager to get to the next location and the next kill. But there was no hurry. And he knew they would never catch him. Cops are too stupid.
“Are you up for it?”
Vale looked up realizing he had been staring at the table.
“What?”
“To become a mass murderer.”
Vale sighed.
“It sounds like a lot of work. I’m on a holiday hunting trip you might say. I want to take it easy. Travel around, do Europe as they say. See the world for a couple of years and kill a few of the people in it. I see no joy in being stuck in a house slicing people up on a conveyor belt. I’ve already worked in a factory. It’s a shitty job.”
“But you could do so much fun with them. Make them do stuff, cut them, fuck them, eat them. Whatever you want. Watch them. Sit on them…”
Vale laughed.
“Like a kid in a candy store.”
“Come on Vale, it’s got to happen. We got to do it. Can’t you see. A mass murderer and a serial killer. We’d be unstoppable.”
“You should go to Hollywood Ruben, you think big like them.”
“I’ve been there. Studied in college there many years ago.”
“That explains your English skills. Most Germans aren’t so articulate.”
Ruben went to the fridge and got another beer.
“More?” he asked.
“No I’m fine.”
The sun had begun its climb.
It was early morning. Vale felt tired and his head was still pounding. The aspirin Ruben had given him hadn’t been of much help. He yawned.
“Look Ruben I’m tired. Did you say my car is in the garage?”
“Yes.”
“Give me the keys. I’m going to get a room somewhere. I need some sleep.”
“You can stay here.”
“I’m sure I can.”
“I insist. I’ve got a spare bedroom upstairs. It hasn’t been used in years. It belonged to my daughter.” Ruben smiled and rubbed his stomach. “She made a delicious stew.”
Vale sat silent. Ruben stood silent. The sunlight approached.
“All this beer and talk of stews is making me hungry. How about you?”
“No, show me the room:”
“It will be my pleasure.”



The Hand of Death


The room was colored pink.
And there was no mistaking it had belonged to a little girl now long gone. Vale was alone.
“The bed’s too small,” he said as if stating the obvious. He sighed and let his eyes glide over the various photographs on the walls. He heard a faint whisper. No mistaking the voice belonged to Ruben who had gone downstairs minutes ago. Vale sneaked out on the landing to hear better. Ruben was on the phone.
“…er ist hier. Ja, wan? Ok. Bis später.” Ruben hung up.
What had he said? Who had he been talking to?
Vale decided to confront him instantly.
“Ruben!” he said loudly as he descended the stairs.
The man turned with a satisfied expression on his face like he was glad he had been caught.
“You are wondering who I just talked to on the phone, well,” he began whilst lighting a cigarette, “let me answer you by asking a question. Have you ever heard of the Hand of Death?”
Vale casually shook his head.
“They are quite famed in our kind of circles.”
“I don’t keep a circle. But I have no doubt you attend lavish parties where the guests cannibalize on young children whilst funny killing stories circulate.”
Ruben drew a large breath of smoke, exhaling it through the nose.
“I do just that, even though my appearance is a bit shabby I must admit, but these are my work clothes. I never told you that I am in fact a Prince!”
Vale began laughing, but Ruben did not laugh. Instead he sat down and opened a beer that had been left on the table.
“I am serious. Soon I shall rise to the next level to become the fourth Prince of the Hand of Death, and then I will receive the recipe so many initiates long to get.”
Vale knew it was time to leave.
Wherever all this was going it didn’t sound good. This Ruben was disturbed. And Vale knew he might as well be, nevertheless if ever measured, Vale was sure to come out the most sane. After all he was on holiday and to him murder was just a recreational affair, but to Ruben it was a religion. A much deadlier foundation.
“I will soon prove myself… it was the Hand of Death that I called. I’ve told them about you and they are really keen on a meeting. They are on their way now.”
Here it comes.
It is time.
“I will leave you now. Give me my car keys,” Vale demanded.
“No no, you cannot leave!”
“My keys… give them to me now!”
“You will have to kill me if you want them,” Ruben said and patted his right jeans pocket and the sound of the keys could be heard within.
“I understand that.”
“And by killing me you will break your pattern,” Ruben leered.
“You know what. Patterns are interesting and I do like working with them, but as I said earlier, I am on holiday and that means I can do what the fuck I want. And now I am going to rip you up, you mother fucking scum whore…”

7 October 2003 - 9 February 2004

[but the idea was hatched on the 28th of April 2000]