37. Hot Fun in the Summertime

37

HOT FUN IN THE SUMMERTIME

LESTER

ABOUT SIX YEARS AGO ― June 19th, 1969

The wind blows through my shoulder-length hair as I drive in the candy apple red Ford Mustang I rented, making my way down Sunset Boulevard in between the other vibrant cars that pass by.

The victim Landon supplied me with resides in Hollywood, California, so that's where I'm at. Sugar Sugar by The Archies plays on the radio, and I mumble along to the lyrics as I casually have a hand on the steering wheel, the other hanging over the edge of the car.

Two suitcases that contain all of my tools lie safely in the back, away from the eyes of the common man. I take off my sunglasses as I watch all the passing billboards on the sides of the street, depicting large images of Abbey Road by The Beatles, along with a few movies including Hell's Angels ‘69.

I've got to hand it to the city―it's vibrant and beautifully unique, despite the fact that it's way too overpopulated with arrogant people trying to make it to fame.

Having lots of time on my hands before I can indulge in my favorite yearly activity, I decide to take a long trip through Los Angeles, even driving past the Hollywood sign. Later on, I make a drive past the ocean, smoking a couple of cigarettes behind the wheel as I eagerly take in the warm sunshine on my face, looking up at the tall palm trees around me.

By the time I've seen everything I wanted to see, I grab a nice bite to eat before I get ready for the main event.

It's time to let the monster out.

Loud shots ring through the air as I stalk after my victim through the large, dark forest in the middle of the night. His agonizing wails only help me locate him through the bushes and tree trunks in the Angeles National Forest.

I'm not a big fan of doing my murders out in the open, but when Landon told me about this sick bastard, I couldn't pass up the experience. Mr. Hutcherson is a depraved individual who likes hunting girls for sport. So that's exactly what I do to him before I stage his body.

I decide to stop humoring him after a while and shoot him in the back of his kneecap. Going down hard, his whole body sinks to the ground as more tortured screams leave his throat. He lies flat on his face in the dirt before he tries to crawl forward, and I use the back of my rifle to knock him out cold.

I throw him over my shoulder with ease, even though he's heavy and packed with muscle. Must be from all the girls he's hunted in areas close to where we are.

Walking deeper into the woods, I find the spot where I dropped my suitcases some hours before. It's a risk, leaving everything there for anyone to find. It's an even bigger risk to kill someone in these parts. But I'm confident enough to think I can get away if someone does stumble upon us.

It's 3 AM anyway―who walks through the forest in the middle of the night? Hikers, maybe. But this reserve is enormous. I think I'll be fine.

By the time Mr. Hutcherson comes to, he's sedated, undressed, and clad with strong, expertly tied ropes. Glossy photographs hang on the tree branches around us, tied with thin strings, the wind softly blowing against them and making them flutter. The camera is already rolling steadily on the tripod behind us, capturing the entire ritual.

First comes rope, then comes pain and the remarkable beauty of creating my live sculpture. Then comes confession and more suffering.

And finally comes the satisfying view and melody of my victim's harrowing death. The last breaths of air, the pleas to end their miserable lives.

My mask is firmly put in place, and despite the California heat, I am wearing my long coat and leather gloves―my disguise. I can't do without them. They're part of the ritual as much as the flick of my blade when I slice into human flesh.

And in this moment, that's exactly what I do.

The sharp edge of my knife slides through thick skin as I carve out the intended shapes on my victim's back. Time glides by as I lose myself in the performance, slicing into flesh until two layers of loose skin resemble the wings. I attach them to the tree branches above us with thick, red threads.

The inspiration for my sculpture; Le Génie du Mal by Guillaume Geefs. A depiction of young Lucifer.

Landon always supplies me with a photograph of my victims because I wouldn't know who to go after otherwise. When I looked upon Mr. Hutcherson's young face with soft curls framing it, along with his muscled physique, he reminded me of this phenomenal piece of art.

He's young, only thirty-three, but already tainted with so much evil. I wonder what happened to him that made him this way.

Drool leaks out of his mouth, sedated by the drug I gave him. He can do nothing but watch as his body gets turned into a piece of macabre art.

By the time he's posed in the way I'm satisfied with, one arm rests atop his head and his torso is tied to the tree trunk to keep him upright. Behind him are the beautifully carved wings, and, staying true to the artists before me, a piece of cloth is draped over his crotch and upper thighs, his right ankle shackled like Prometheus, and a talon and apple are placed at his feet.

The apple is conspicuously bitten, of course. I forced it into his mouth when he was still unconscious and held onto the small piece. It's all very biblical, the apple bringing to mind the temptation of Eve in the Garden of Eden. Though I just want to pay tribute to a significant piece of art―I couldn't care less about the meaning.

When he regains the ability to speak, I make him admit to the murders of the six girls he's hunted, raped, and killed. "Confesss," I whisper, the words slithering through my lips like a serpent.

He does, and when it is all staged to my liking, I reach for the missing piece of the apple and force it into his mouth. Because of the remaining effects of the tranquilizer, he cannot swallow or spit it out, so he slowly chokes, and I watch the scene before me as it comes to its finale.

Inhaling the fresh scent of the California wind and trees, I let the sense of achievement and vindication ingrain into the bones of the monster that is me.

I get out of there as soon as he's passed on, leaving a videotape for the police to find next to his body. I call in the scene with a payphone on my way back to the hotel, then patiently wait until the next day for my masterpiece to come to fruition to the public eye.

The next afternoon, I turn on the television.

" The body of Alastair Hutcherson, son of major film studio boss, Eduard Hutcherson, was found in the Angeles National Forest in a ‘ritualistic' scene of horror. His murder seems to be staged like a famous artwork from 1848 by Guillaume Geefs …"

I watch and listen in pleasure as the news station recalls my art from last night. They leave out most of the gory details, but it's still satiating my need for spectacle.

" The Federal Bureau of Investigations has made a connection with five other murders of previous years with similar patterns in different states of the US, including the way the bodies were staged like artworks. More similarities are the date, which is June 19 th , and the type of victim, which seems to be of the higher class ― either in positions of power or connected to people who are ."

They go on for a while longer, and I lean back in my chair, watching contently until the next words leave the reporter's mouth. " With this new information come to the surface, the public has named this killer the Sculptor of Death. "

My mouth falls open as I take that in.

The Sculptor of Death…

An artist name.

I'm not an egotistical man, but I must admit that I feel a great sense of achievement. Gratification.

I take that thought with me when I return home inside the airplane, looking down at the world as I fly high in the air―leaving behind my victim, but taking the remembrance with me.

It is beautiful.