It’s Saturday, let's have a Comic Romp with a Serial Killer

It’s raining. I cannot be in the garden. What mischief can I get into?

5 min readMar 16, 2024

Grandmother’s lips are sealed. I know this because I sewed the fucking things together. It was like sewing together two dried worms. I’ll kill her later.

The doctor looked at Granddad on the bed, stiff as a poker.

“He’s been dead a week,” the coroner said. “Did no one come by to check on him,” he asked, looking at me.

“Not me,” I said, “I was scared of the old bastard.”

“Could have been a heart attack,” he suggested, “I’ll know more later,” he said to the cop.

Damn right, it was a heart attack. I made that old bastard watch me sewing up Grandma’s lips. Grandpa hadn’t been able to get out of bed for two or three years. I brought Grandma in, sat her on the chair, and tied her hands together behind her back. As each needle passed through her dried lips, her screams became less.

Grandpa was laughing so hard, it just happened. Such luck has always been mine.

That was six months ago.

Isn’t it strange what turns a man into a serial killer? In my case, funny enough, it was the big bouncing breasts of the teenager who lived opposite.

The truth is, she would never have been interested in a bald guy like me, who has a paunch, is 5' 3", and has a squint—well, not when she was alive, anyway.

Again, luck played a large part in my story.

This same girl had her head severed in an automobile accident a week later. When they brought her to the morgue, I couldn’t believe my good fortune. She’d been decapitated, her head, bless her, which was fine because when I laid her out, those firm breasts jutted up like pink-tipped melons. The same breasts I’d long fantasized about getting my hands on.

That’s when Grandma saw me getting to know the decapitated girl. I’d been at it for quite some time. Grandma was never quite the same with me after that — the strange looks started, then the comments, the dark mutterings… well, I knew she had to be shut up.

I knew the game was up when the bourbon-drinking Uncle Bernie and the grotesque Aunty Sylvia arrived to stay to help look after Grandpa. But a week later, Grandma had her will changed, and then I knew they all had to go.

Uncle Bernie was a dick, liked nothing more than a drink, but Sylvia was a nightmare. Constantly complaining about me, who did all the work. How I grew to hate the fat bastards. It seems that Bernie and Sylvia had plans for the business, which didn’t include me. I had plans, too, which most assuredly didn’t include them.

When Aunt Sylvia complained of mice in the kitchen and instructed me to do something about it, I decided it was time to get rid of her and Bernie.

I constructed the trap, which I told Bernie, who kept asking questions, was for catching mice. He threw back his large head and laughed. I could almost see up to his brain. I would. Later.

“You’ll never catch a mouse in that!” he mocked.

Correct, I thought.

“You’ll never catch anything with that contraption!”

Only your fucking ugly wife, I mused.

Bernie disappeared to commence his nightly drinking session and poured himself a large brandy from the decanter. As I knew he would. Just as I knew he would not taste the Rohypnol.

Then it was time to lay out the slice of strawberry cheesecake. The trap was concealed underneath it and hooked to the table. There’s no way fat Sylvia could resist her favorite slice.

I slipped down to the morgue to collect the electric hoist for transporting Bernie. When I returned to the sitting room, he was slumped over and drooling but still awake. I hoisted him aloft and grinned. “just so you know, Uncle fucking Bernie, you drunk, I’m slowly going to expose your entrails, show you your stomach,” I said, and let him hang there,

I could hear Sylvia heading to the kitchen. That fucking stick of hers is enough to drive any sane person nuts. When it gets dark, I’ll load the two of them into their car and drive to that dangerous hill with a severe bend before going over the cliff. They’ll go through the guardrail and crash to the bottom of the hill. Both were killed in a tragic accident, terribly mutilated.

I’ll weep when the news is broken to me.

But here’s what I mean: how luck plays a part. I was relaxing at a café in town a month later and watching people go by. When he should come in for a coffee, that bastard who made my life a misery in High School with his constant bullying. I sipped my coffee and watched as he left without a care in the world.

He doesn’t know it yet, but I have plans for him.

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