Chapter 1-- Hitchhiker on the Road to Hell
It's a thrill to hunt.
For Bo Mardsen, the desolate dirt roads in these backwoods on a crisp autumn night in late November provide the perfect hunting ground. Pedestrians are few. And even fewer are the preys that fit his ideal profile. But when he does find them, there is certainly no escape- No shops or residential areas in the vicinity where they can conjure help. No hiding places among these trees that he is not intimately familiar with. Where can they go that he won't find them and have his way with them?
He taps his greasy fingers rhythmically on his steering wheel as he trudges down the unpaved path. The faded print of
Mardsen Bro. Meats
and the image of a butcher's knife embroider the side of his vehicle; a crusty old white van with washed-out peeling paint and blots of rust and wear.
Being a butcher by trade has its upsides for someone with his particular fetish- It makes it easier for him to disassemble and store his favorite cuts, keeping them fresh for later enjoyment. In fact, it could be said that this really started out as a matter of convenience. He remembers fondly his first: like a first kiss, a first lover, impossible to forget:
(She was a regular at his butcher shop. Early thirties, shimmering golden hair and round, luscious hazel eyes: A real beauty. But also a massive bitch, always demanding the finest cuts of grade A beef and incessantly fussing about the prize, complaining about Bo's customer service which needlessly degenerates into personal insults about his looks and weight. Bo was enthralled with her looks but not her personality. He wishes there was some way he could make her his without having to put up with all that sass.
And then one day he found it.
During another visit, she had called him something that he was intensely sensitive to. He saw red. And before he knew it she was laying on the floor of his shop, a large dull butcher knife clinging to her skull, a fountain of blood gushing and intermingling with the blood of pigs and cows.
In a fit of panic. Bo pulls the corpse into the walk-in freezer, cuts her limb by limb, and arranges them neatly into an ice box. He would lock up that box and throw it into the river and nobody would have to know. He would have to live with it but it's a small prize to pay to remain unpunished. That evening, he would load that box into his van and drive to the deepest, most secluded part of the riverbank and cast away the one thing that could incriminate him of his greatest sin.
He pulls the van up to the river...
Unloads the ice box...
He stares at the box for a moment, then at the rolling black water, then back down at the box again.
Slowly, he opens the box, picks up the severed head, and carefully caresses the icy cheeks and lips, gazing into the lifeless hazel eyes staring back at him in horror.
She was finally his. Like he always wanted.
Was he going to throw it all away?
He holds the head to his mouth and, after a moment of hesitation, slides his tongue across the frosty lips, tasting the lingering fragrance of her lip balm. Soon his tongue is slithering in and out of her mouth.
And then, like a man possessed, he rummages through the ice box.
He pulls out the torso, kneading the bare succulent breast in his sweaty palm and twisting the frozen nipple between his fingers.
He pulls out the pelvis, unzips his pants, and has his way with it.
She was all his. To do with her as he please.
With the deed done, he loads the box back into the van and goes home.
From that day on. He would frequently pleasure himself in this grotesque fashion.
But as time passes, he longs to add to his collection. He had to be patient. The police were still investigating the whereabouts of his victim, and he had already been questioned several times. It would be a whole year before he makes his next move.
After his second. He was sure he was caught when a man dressed in suit and tie enters his shop and asks for him by name.
Instead, he was given a small business card with only a silhouette of a top hat and knife and a simple message:
"The Rippers Society sends its greetings."
Shortly after, the police investigation stopped.
He suspects this "Rippers Society" had something to do with it. But he didn't bother to find out. He was itching to strike again.)
By now, he had lost count of his victims. Many of them lone young women: prostitutes or tramps or drunks, meandering through these desolate roads in the dead of night. But of course there are also nights like this one where there are no fresh meat in sight.
And then he saw her.
A petite figure standing there on the side of the road, holding a small cardboard sign with "Easton" written in large white letters. He lets the van roll to a stop besides the hitchhiker and leans over to open the passenger window, examining the hitchhiker closely.
He was delighted to see that this was indeed a young woman. Probably in her early twenties. Her long raven black hair flows over her shoulders like a cascade of fresh ink and shimmers against her all-black outfit, from her long leathery coat over a tight-fitting T-shirt featuring some obscure punk rock band, down to her black denim skirt and studded ankle-high biker boots. A cute little black leather choker adorned with a tiny silver bell strapped to her throat and a long neck chain dangles a charcoal-black metallic cross from her milky neck, giving her an overall very gothic appearance. The skin of her face is lustrously white, almost ghostly pale in contrast to her clothing. A pair of faded blue eyes and full dark crimson lips accentuate in comparison to her complexion. Bo Mardsen ogles her up and down gleefully, satisfied with this encounter.
"Say there, little miss. Could use a ride to Easton?"
