We took another look at the 'serial killer' blog that caused a major stir earlier this month and decided we'd give it an airing. We thought that at the very least it might appeal to the followers of 'snuff lit'. Let's hope that somebody likes it.
"It is a common misconception that your common or garden serial killer washes down his victim's liver with a fine Chianti. Aside from the fact that I personally would choose a Marcillac, the very idea that you would hang around to remove, sear and eat the victim's liver is entirely preposterous. You either get the hell out of there with as little fuss (and leaving as little mess) as possible. Or, in the rare instance that you have to butcher the poor bastard to dispose of the evidence, then the last thing you're going to think about is getting the liver out in one piece. The very thought of it! It's more a case of slice, slice, saw, saw... or if you are lucky enough to have a Black and Decker knocking about, then its a bit of grind, grind, drill, chew, splash, splash, spray.
And I'll tell you another thing. I don't mean to sound disdainful but the kind of pond life your average serial killer preys on is hardly likely to be packing away a nice reddish-brown fat-free organ. Years of crystal meth and alcohol abuse will have taken their toll on the fucker. You'll be looking at the kind of thing you're more likely to find in a dodgy takeaway - fatty and swollen, or even worse perhaps, knarled and scarred. Not very appetising - even if you tried washing it down with something stronger like cognac.
And, yes, I know that in the ivory tower, make-believe bullshit world of this Lecter guy, who probably only slaughters people with PhDs, you think there must be a better line in livers. But no. Don't believe it. There are a fair old number of knarled livers in the higher echelons of society, that's for sure. Maybe not meth knarled, but certainly crusty from years of crusted port or whatever it is these guys drink.
So, rule one: Kill the fucker as cleanly and as quickly as possible. Rule two: the less blood the better - think of blood as a kind of forensic soup that will happily swallow up your DNA, your fingerprints, those tiresome but revealing threads and hairs that fall off you during the course of the day. Rule three: don't even think about eating the fucking liver. Kill... move on... kill... move on... live to kill another day.
And finally, killing is not an art nowadays. It might have been in the days of Conan Doyle, Agatha Christie, Patricia Highsmith etc. But it sure isn't any more. It is a science pure and simple. And you know why? Because of the fucking gadgetry they have at hand. No more Sherlock with his powers of deduction. You're up against scientists who will nail you on the kind of thing that you cannot see its so small. Fuck, you have always to be thinking, must stay one step ahead, it's so easy for them to nail you, so darned easy.
So when anyone ever starts talking about Lecter and his liver and Chianti bullshit, just tell them where to go. Tell them, that's not like it is, and it's not funny and it's not clever to repeat that bullshit... let alone do that stupid thing he does with his teeth. And as for fava beans, well... just don't get me started."
This blog will continue through the coming weeks with an analysis of the highs and lows of serial killing, the day to day routine and drudgery, and the long term job prospects for those engaged in the ancient practice of multiple murder.