Page 296 of That Time I Accidentally Became A Serial Killer
Side note: I’ve always loved the story of Achilles. So angsty.
Now, where was I?
"But your wife wasn’t his mother, was she?" I purr, dragging the scalpel down his thigh. The meat opens like a zipper.
"His real mother wasyourrape victim."
I use clamps to get a grip and tug the skin back. It resists, but the slide ischef’s kiss.
"High school girl. Fourteen."
The next thigh gives less resistance. Noted.
“You celebrated passing the bar by getting drunk. You picked up high school hitchhikers. Then you came back and raped one—and gave her a souvenir. A baby boy.”
He tries to move his mouth. Nothing.
The pain must be a lot by now.
“And when the rapist apple didn’t fall far from the tree, you had to cover it up.
Not for him. For you.
Because if anyone dug too deep, they’d find your sins.”
Scalpel down. Next layer of gloves off.
"But when my mother went to your wife... she figured it out. And when your wife realized she was married to a monster, she did what any proper society woman would do—stabbed him to death, then smiled like a good little wife while she kept your tuna noodle casserole warm."
I grab the sheers and cut away his shirt, baring his torso.
“I always did wonder why Judge Maxwell hated me. But now I know. Judge Maxwell is your wife. Kept her maiden name and helps keep things quiet for you.” I tisk and shake my head. “What a couple you two make. A murderer and a rapist both casting judgement on everyone else but yourselves.”
I release a deep breath and with it, my disgust.
"But don't worry," I say sweetly. "Detective Blackwood—my very scandalous, very," my face gets hot, "sexy boyfriend—and I are going to tie up all the loose ends."
In our research, we’ve found the Judge has developed a penchant for mutilation these days.
Probably due to a little problem… down there. (Winky face)
So, do unto others and all that jazz.
"We're going to dump the evidence. Make sure every news station knows what kind of Judges you and your wife were."
My scalpel slices around his shriveled, pepperoni-looking nipple.
Ugh. I use pliers to avoid the jiggle when I flop it onto the tray. Gross.
We can’t have uneven chesticles—so, on to the next.
He tries to jerk. Still… nothing.
I smile wider.
"Your son is dead. There will be a manhunt for you. Sadly, they won’t find you.”
Barf. Jiggle nipple number two hits the tray. I shiver.
