A Serial Killers Guide: Dexter's Final Cut, Dexter, Darkly Dreaming Dexter, Dearly Devoted Dexter, Dexter in the Dark, Dexter By Design, Dexter Is Delicious, Double Dexter Tribute - Episode 1
Copyright © 2013 by C.A.Jarest and Tom Townsend
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“Ok Odette let’s start our session.” Says the therapist as she smooths out her pencil skirt, adjusts her position and opens her note book. Her gray hair is pulled back in a small bun and her spectacles make her eyes look a hundred times bigger. What is she from the 60’s, when wearing magnifiers were cool? She smells of Jean Nàte, even though she looks like she just walked out of a bland-ass, colorless closet. She wore a grey skirt, with a white shirt and a grey blouse. I wasn’t sure if she was color blind or if she enjoyed having no color to her clothes. I sighed as I slowly sat on the aged leather couch before me. It smelled like urine and old man farts. I held my breath as the last of the pressure in the old cushion was expelled as I sat my ass down on it. I wore white jeans, and a red T-shirt. I love red, the color and everything red. Though, to tell you the truth I really only loved red because that was the color of blood. If blood were green, then I would love green, but it was not. It was red; and red was an amazing color. It was not just a color, it was an emotion, it expressed your passion, your lust, and your desire. Red was so much more than a color and I loved it for that reason, plus blood looked really good in the color red.
The shrink looked tight, so tight, like she had never been fucked in her life. Maybe she could prescribe some meds for herself. I think a heavy sedative and some sort of memory lapse drugs would be just what the doctor would order, the doctor being me of course. Though if I were her doctor I would prescribe more than some drugs, maybe a good
fuck from one of those Chippendales guys, with their skin tight black leather pants, oily six packs of abs and those tight asses; and a shot of cocaine to top it all off with. She needs to loosen up and just say ‘The Fuck with it.’ This is a rule I live by religiously, when faced with a choice and you can’t seem to decide which to do ‘The Fuck with it’ and just do it.
I sat in t
he therapy office of the CIA. In college they found my dark side, me, and they unleashed it upon this world. This horrible, evil, sand box we all live in. Where the big kid picks on the little kids at recess; breaking their toys and throwing sand in their faces. I am the kid who you see every day, sitting there on her swing, playing with my hands. How I love to play with my hands. They feel, they grip, and tear, pull, pound and lust for the ever so orgasmic feel of warm blood on my skin. The way the red blood oozes out of the body, how warm and soft we all are. Glistening in the light of my den, with you their below me surrounded by your entrails, organs, ripped flesh and blood, hugging your expired bodily prison. You, the big kid in the sand box, you are in my sand box now, not so big after all. I am lord and master here, I am the one with all the shovels and buckets. You, who ran through my sand castle, you who pushed my face in the gritty sand, you now lay on the cold steel table. No more will you shove, push or beat the little kids.
Yes, this is the world we, I mean I live in. The CIA found me, and with their crafty ways they turned this run of the mill amateur who dabbled in the art of killing, into a precision tool. Like those
Ginsu knives you see advertised on TV that can cut through anything and yet they stay as sharp as all hell. Really? How is it that after cutting through five leather mother-fucken shoes, you're still sharp? Cut through a cinder block and get back to me. Yeah, precision, I’m like that. I never dull, never tire, never yearn for a rest, and never do I miss my target. How I relive these glorious, triumphant, orgasmic moments each day, savor them like a fine French desert.
As part of the CIA training I am required to document my experience here, my killings and how I became who I am today.
The therapist also claims that writing these down will help me to stay in the real world, as she puts it, and not in my fantasy world; so finely stated by the highly educated therapist with all the degrees after her name.
Well before I delve any further into my dealings, killings, and my murderous side I was told to introduce myself. How foolish is that? Hello journal, my journal. I am now going to document my full name in here so that when the CIA needs to set me up they can clearly point out that this is in fact my journal. The therapist is insisting I reveal to you my name. Don't get your panties in a twist! Seriously, I have no idea why people like her suddenly one day go 'Therapist, yeah that sounds cool. Think I like the sound of that.' Morons, the lot of them.
Well here it goes; my name is Odette Sara Hicks. There I said it, you happy now? God I hope so. Do you want my first born to. My social security number? How about my rights as well, oh wait, you already do. Damn it! They’ll probably take any child I have, not that I want children. Gee I can see it now, career day.
“So
, why don’t you tell us a little about what your mother does for work.” Teachers asks.
“She kills people.” Replies a small child.
Yeah, that would go over real well. I can’t help it, I was born like this, no, really I was. I still remember the first day my urges started. I was seven years old, sitting on an old log that my father used as a chopping block. There were chicken parts smeared all over the wood, blood stains, and feathers about the ground. I sat there looking at the bloody ground. My dad had just killed a bunch of old hens that were no longer laying, the fresh blood on the brown dirt; it was marvelous. I knelt down on the ground as I slowly placed my hand in the blood. Goose bumps covered my body and my eyes closed as the sensation, satisfaction, utterly indulgent stirring in my soul reverberated throughout me. That was the moment I knew I would never be the same, I would always have to kill.
The
shrink feels that I should explain to you my short, dull, inferior childhood. As she so stated to me ‘It would be good for you to write it down, to let go of your childhood, it will help you to connect the dots. Help you see why you are the way you are today.’ If this is the best the CIA could scrounge up, that’s saying a lot. Really, such an educated woman should not explain things the way she does. I’d be a better therapist than she is. Course there might be more blood, some guts, and the body count would pile up. My office would not be this neat, or this well-furnished.
Seriously, why are there five boxes of tissues in one room? If I were a therapist we would meet down below the ground in a small dark, damp cement cellar. With nothing more than a single, low watt bulb swaying from the ceiling, course there would have to be a couch for them to sit on. A couch I would have picked up on the side of the road; yeah one of those free ones you see. The free one that looks like someone fucked the shit out of it, and the fuckability of the plaid is no longer there. You slowly drive by and swear there are blood smears, cum stains and probably vomit all over it. The fabric has been torn from it, as if the person who was being fucked had to grab something other than the fucker on top of them, fear of ripping them apart. Yeah, that couch. What’s a therapist office without a box of tissues? Me, being such a thoughtful therapist would have gone to the dump mall to see what kind of shit would be good enough for my clients. The Kleenex box with mouse holes on the bottom of the box and all that fucking mouse shit on those white ti
ssues. Now that I have my fucken couch and mouse tissues, we would have so much fun.
Though I don’t see my career as a therapist working out very well. I’d end up beating the brains out of whoever was laying on that plaid cum couch. Get a
life; seriously find purpose in something other than your pathetic, prune ass, depressive, limp life. The rage, anger and complete satisfaction I would take in cracking open their sternum, ripping into their flesh with an old ass, rusty chain saw that could have used some WD-40, but me being a cheap ass, forgot. Their flesh getting caught up in the joints of the saw, the fresh, warm, vibrant blood spraying my face. Oh their screams and tears, here’s that fucking box of Kleenex! I’ll give you purpose! I give you permission to be depressed now. I’d have to go get another one of those, fucken cum couches for the next client. Or maybe not, they should be aware of what they are getting into. Tell them that the last client was so depressed; I had to kill them, explain that no amount of Kleenex could fix their problem.
This room I sit in, too much sunlight, large windows, cool air, leather couch and fancy oriental rugs. I swear I’m part vampire, I only come out at night; I dance
in the darkness with my switchblade and precision hands. The smell of leather, reminds me of home. Reminds me of when I was free to do as I wanted; no rules, no one telling me who to hunt and how to do it. The restrictions and confines of the right angled boxy offices of the CIA, with their white walls and bubblers. Their fancy suits, pencil shirts, and dull ties. I much prefer the vast plains of Kansas, fields of roaming cattle, racing horses and tumbleweed. That was my playground, my sand box. Living on a ranch it was easy to kill, no one notices a missing chicken, a barn cat that no longer comes by, or a missing calf. It was the cycle of the farm, things die all the time.
I was eight when I made my first kill. It was a goose. I hate geese, those fuckers. Hissing, biting, all around
annoying animals. That goose, it followed me, chased me, bit me, and hissed at me. How I hated that goose, it was my mother’s; she had bought it as an egg. That ass wipe poultry only liked my mother. Ever more reason to rip that gullet out, tear those feathers from its wings. I knew that goose hated me too, with a passion I still do not understand to this day. I had followed my father out on his hunting trips many times; he did not know I followed him. I had mastered the skill of being quiet and unseen early in my life, my mother hated me for it. I watched my father closely as he set his traps; he was so tedious about setting them. I wanted my trap to maim, tear into the gooses orange fleshy foot, rip open to the bone, crack the hard white calcium, shattering the bone, shards being flung into the air. I also knew that I could not set the trap near to the house or barn, or where my parents might find me. So I followed the goose for a few days and discovered where it liked to rest.
So I set my trap in the grass patch it liked to eat from. I got up early that day, went to the barn and found myself a cleaving knife. I did not want the knife to
o sharp; I wanted to feel the flesh of that tight ass goose under the tension of the knife, the tugging of its flesh being cut open. I wanted to feel everything; I wanted to soak up all of the killing. I grabbed a spool of rope as well before I dashed out the barn door, giddy I was. It was like my first Christmas day, that first present from Santa, the very first one; the virgin present, the virgin Christmas day. There they sat, those colorfully wrapped gifts, under the sweet smelling pine tree. A holiday for parents to psych their kids up and when they are no longer of tender age, they crush and rip all that imagination they created in their kids. A holiday where people rush to the stores to buy the newest and latest thing for the people they think love them, the people they think they love. Wrap those things they bought in the store and pretend giving that person the thing that makes everything better. Empty, heartless, price based holiday. The one holiday where it is acceptable to buy the love of someone; your child. Yeah, that was my first kill, I killed Christmas.
The goose did not waste time in waddling her fat lard ass down the river bank to that patch of grass. The grass she ate from every
day, that patch of grass she fed from. She was such a selfish goose, none of the others knew about this grass, either that or she was a bitch to all of them as well. I could see her hissing at them while she ran them down. What a bitch! I hated that goose, that fucking orange beak, her white feathers, how I wanted to see them covered in her own blood. The bright red of her blood splattered on the pure white feathers that covered her body. I sat patiently waiting, waiting for her to show her lard ass. I had read in school that lionesses would lay in wait in the tall grass for their prey. So I did as the lionesses would do, I lay in wait for the goose to come by. I held the knife in my tiny hands; I had pulled my long black hair back into a pony tail. I did not want my hair in the way of my killing; I wanted to see it all. My little hazelnut eyes were fixated on the small path that lay before me, the grass waving in the wind.
I held the cleaving knife tight in the tiny hands as I lay, waiting; I learned patience that day. The fucking goose took forever to walk her fat ass down to that grass patch. I had quit
e good hearing, and I listened. There was something on the wind, I did not want to give away my hiding spot, but I was curious and I was young. I sat up, peering about as the sound echoed on the wind. What did it sound like? I was about to stand when I heard her, that ass of a goose. I quickly planted myself back in the tall grass. There she was her white body, yellow beak and orange feet. I loathed that goose. She walked down the path, her head lowered and squawking all the way. She made a b-line for the rock to my right. I watched her closing from within the green grass hiding spot. My hands shook and my heart raced as I could almost touch her white feathers. Though the trap I had set up was on the other side of the patch. I would have to kill her without the help of my trap. Why was she over by the rock?
Chirping echoed from where the rock was. Eggs, she had laid eggs. I smiled an evil, hatefully, joyful smile as I slowly stood from the depths of the grass. Like the lion
ess I had read about in school, I was quiet, slow, and sure not to alert my prey of my presence. The knife I held by my side as I raised it up towards my head, so close now. I could hear that fucker talking to her chicks. That was the most annoying sound ever; I wanted to silence them all. There, I could see the white goose lying next to her chicks. My shadow gave me away, the goose turned its evil, maniacal head towards me; hissing that evil hiss. My knife came down upon her white head, her body rising up to bite me, to defend her young. Though my dull, chipped, rusty, cleaving knife slowly cut through her gamy neck as she went to bite me.