Author Topic: Looking for a few Beta Readers for my dark neo-noir novel Chloroform Nightmares  (Read 325 times)

Offline Alex Buchinsky

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Hello my name is Alex Buchinsky,

I am new here and new to working with 'beta readers'. I'm at the end of the road looking for a literary agent and a publisher for my novel Chloroform Nightmares. It looks like there's a high chance that I will end up self-publishing. Before I do this I'd like to get perhaps 2 or 3 'beta readers' to give constructive criticism and good ideas that make it a better read.

This has been professionally proofread and read by others but just friends and family. It kind of comes off as a horror but I classify it more as a drama, neo-noir, transgressive fiction, or thriller. I'd say it's part American Psycho, part Death Wish, part Dexter, and part Fight Club, with a sprinkling of A Clockwork Orange - but it's also something completely different. The content is very sensitive and extreme...

Blurb: Years after horrific rapes and murders of two high-school girls in Houston shocked the nation - decades later - an exasperated and dejected man from that neighborhood (the same age as the victims) finds purpose in his life - killing those who kill the ones who never had a chance.


I suppose the best thing to do is post the synopsis, prologue, and two chapters. The synopsis may actually be more extreme than the story as it covers the just plot (which is mainly vigilante killings) and not the psychology, subliminal messages, and the sub-plots.  If it is too extreme, horrific, or if you're simply not interested - I understand. That being said all critique and/or help is welcome. Thanks, Alex


SYNOPSIS

CAMDEN LEE CASSIDY lives in a deeply ugly world where the innocent die in the darkness, molested, raped and tortured – women, teens, children, babies. It’s everywhere: on TV, movies, online, drilling his brain 24/7; it’s in T.C. Jester Park, where two girls from his high school were raped, beat, strangled with a shoelace and left to rot; it’s all around Houston, his city – home of cowboys and psychopaths.
 
His mother was a military nurse who taught him to stitch flesh when he was eight, and shared graphic medical encyclopedias with him. His firefighter father was a celebrated war hero who singlehandedly freed thirty-four men from a POW camp in which he had also been subjected to the violent horrors of captivity. Both die early deaths to disease and cancer, his mother when he was ten, his father shortly after graduating high school. All the kids in his crazy neighborhood were walking the same path whether they had dead parents or not; everyone was fucked up and just trying to survive – act like a psycho and they leave you alone. This was the hazy, pumped, mad, garbled world of body-bag violence, of liquor, weed, Xanax, cocaine, ecstasy, meth – the shit that turned the world upside down – of LSD, shrooms, Vicodin; the full set of stimulants, barbiturates, and hallucinogens, uppers, downers, and all-arounders.
 
Now a grown man, approaching his thirties, the friends have fallen away and Camden’s only companion in the haze of drugs and alcohol is Mr. Tibbs, his tabby cat, as he soaks up reruns of To Catch a Predator, surfs all the serial killers and murder methods that Wikipedia and crime documentaries have to offer, and reflects on a world that turns his stomach: how an average child molester will offend 200-400 times before being caught; how the vast majority of offenders don’t ever get caught; how, according to the FBI, only one in ten cases of child sexual abuse is reported to law enforcement. Where’s the justice? How is this happening? Someone needs to do something. His father was a hero; why can’t he follow in his footsteps and deliver the country from the grip of this insidious cancer? Wasn’t that what his father was trying to tell him with his last angry words? “You have to grab life by the horns, son … AND BREAK ITS blocked NECK!”
 
Pills, powders, steroids, and amphetamines are stirred into his cocktail of drugs as he thrashes his body into shape for the task ahead of him, ripping through muscles to a emotional playlist, practicing MMA, and dragging himself around and around the park until he pukes, until he can no longer stand or breathe. He is restored by the weight of T.C Jester Park and the horrors it has witnessed – rape, torture, murder. He knows he has a job to do. He has ideas from some of the most successful killers in his mind that he’s studied vigorously; John Wayne Gacy, Tommy ‘Karate’ Pitera, Tommy Lynn Sells, Mark “Chopper” Read, and Dean “The Candyman” Corll. How great would it be to take what made these monsters so prolific and use it on the worst offenders in the world? However, he gets his ass kicked on his first vigilante outing and his front tooth half knocked out of his face, looking out for a little ethnic kid against neo-Nazi psychopaths trying to steal his bicycle. He’s lucky to get out with his life, and manages to crunch his front tooth back into place, but he is more pissed that they have stolen his iPod. Those workout playlists were works of art.
 
His mood is lifted when he finds a new resource to help him with his mission – the Texas Sex Offender Registration Program: a list of monsters with addresses for him to pick off one by one. Before he gets a chance to use the list a most dreadful news story erupts about an HIV-slinging kiddie fucker who not only coerced a minor into having sex with him for shelter but also bragged openly about giving the poor little victim AIDS. Victim? More like double victim. This parasite should have been baked by the state, he should at least be a feast for the piranhas at County lockup, but is walking free in Houston on bail. The news reporter is reporting the story right outside of the predator’s loft. He’s familiar with that neighborhood. Camden keeps it simple. One monster, one bullet. He takes him down on his balcony from the opposite roof and gets away blasting Radiohead’s ‘Karma Police’ on his new iPod, consumed with the overwhelming sensation of a new beginning.
 
Two years pass before the next blood is spilt: two years of transformation and growth, equipping himself with the skills, tools, and knowledge to become a killing machine and get closer to his prey, to hear them beg for mercy, and watch as their lives are extinguished. He hits two convicted molesters in quick succession, setting them up as suicides and forcing one to drink pesticides and makes the other ‘hang himself’ – but this isn’t enough to quench his thirst for retribution. Their suffering is minute compared to that of their victims. He needs to torture them the way they tortured the children whose innocence they stole and lives they destroyed. So, he takes a rental house and readies himself for the next step, with soundproofing, plastic sheets, and an arsenal of cruel and unusual weaponry, specifically designed for a slow and painful death. He then shakes hands with a new friend – chloroform.
 
His plan to bring the first of the sex-offender insects to the house is disrupted by news that Skinhead Mike, one of the neo-Nazis who jumped him, has murdered the ethnic kid that Camden was looking out for two years ago. He is a wanted man, but Camden knows exactly where to find him and now he will be the first in the torture chair. He is, however, still devoted to slaughtering the child rapist on the list, and simply slashes him through with his katana before making his way to Skinhead Mike, where he easily rags him with chloroform and bundles him into the car. He is rewarded for his efforts with a flyer advertising a neo-Nazi meeting. Hell, if he wanted to, he could take the lot of them out in one hit.
 
Skinhead Mike is Hitler tattoos and threats, bravado and violence, no surrender and fearlessness; or is that just ignorance and stupidity? He becomes convulsions and screams when Camden drives his nail gun into his thighs and takes a sander to his tattoos, while calmly educating him on the hypocrisy and idiocy of his tired, racist beliefs. He finally ends the ordeal with his sword, and Skinhead Mike ceases to resemble a human at all when he drags him to the shower and chops him into pieces; he is now more like an overgrown swine fresh from the butcher’s shop. Camden takes the smaller pieces to the bayou and the torso to the river, stuffing the lung cavities with stones to force it down.
 
He is left drained with post-kill lethargy, but he is soon lifted by his tunes, pain killers, and the new insect he has ragged and strapped to the chair – the first of the child rapists to experience this treatment. He drives a camper axe into his thigh, but then stitches the wound – not out of compassion, but so he won’t bleed to death before he has paid his bill in screams. His fate is then in the hands of a modified weed wacker, jammed into his legs, peeling the flesh and fat off the bones. As the muscle drops to the ground, Camden has the idea off putting it in his mouth to express dominance, king of the jungle, but as quickly as the idea shoots across his brain, it withdraws. He then jams the machine into the pervert’s cheek and watches it tear the skin clean off. Long red stripes cover the man’s face now, resembling abstract art of the American flag. He is becoming an American hero, just like his father.   
 
He met with an old friend before, NANDO, who fixed his taillight and offered him some decent coke. Now, as he drags this mangled cadaver to the bathtub, but is too drained to dispose of it, the only thing he wants is that coke. He calls Nando over, knowing it’s not the smartest thing he’s ever done. They get lit together and Camden even asks if his ex-Mexican Cartel uncle, CORTEZ, can help get rid of the dead guy’s car; not informing him it belonged to a member of the deceased. After more lines, Camden doesn’t even stop Nando from using the bathroom, but Nando is shocked but far from petrified by the scene awaiting him in the bathtub. This is not the first bloody body Nando has seen. Hell, his uncle can probably help with body disposal if he gives him a call.
 
From that moment, a beautiful alliance is formed, initially with Nando, and then Cortez also wants a piece of the action. Camden is a hero; he is ridding the streets of pervert scum; he is saving our children from unimaginable torture; he is a soldier in a noble war; and Nando and Cortez want in.
 
Their first team hit is a bailed child fucker with a big mouth, which gets bigger and more obnoxious the more they torture him. They think they have finally silenced him when they cover him in paint thinners and set him on fire – they are hypnotized by the bubbles of blistered flesh on his face, swelling and popping – and then he bursts out of the chair and attacks Camden, who manages to knock himself out as he tries to escape the human inferno.
 
Their next mission is more ambitious. There is word of a remote whore house where children are forced into sex for money. They can make a real difference in one hit, but this is going to take more work. They scope the place out, posing as punters, and the truth is confirmed; they are selling kids by the hour and the adult hookers have been there longer than they can remember. When Camden, Nando and Cortez return, they are armed, and the only people walking out with their lives are the girls. The death toll is growing.
 
Weeks turn into months and the trio wipe another ten insects off the face of the earth, one-by-one, forcing them to face justice. Meanwhile, Camden’s extreme tastes are sharpening; he is covering his body in tattoos, experimenting with ever more dangerous drugs, and he almost kills a guy at Domino’s for asking him to move his car. He is getting restless; the cops must have started to put the pieces together. His mind is working towards the end, towards a finale that can send a message to pedo scum all over the world that there are now consequences. You will face justice. However, he is faced with tragedy when his cat, Mr. Tibbs, is run down in the street. A neighborhood hobo is the witness to this horrific crime of Camden’s last living “family” member. Camden stalks and shoots the perpetrator in the face at a stop sign for it’s what his cat would have done for him if the roles were reversed. Ride or Die.
 
The neo-Nazi meet from Skinhead Mike’s flyer approaches and Camden, Nando and Cortez organize a surprise for the congregation of racists; they are sealed in the building and gassed – a fitting end for Nazi sympathizers. The mass murder attracts media attention and the trio escapes to the drugs and hookers of Mexico. Camden even has his first taste of romance since the killings started and pulls out the violent bedroom moves he has learnt from his compulsive Blocked habit. But all good things must come to an end and they are forced to flee when they are caught in the crossfire of the Mexican cartel. The Houston finale beckons.
 
He has played it through his mind a thousand times: three men, three perverts, just like the three men who raped and mutilated the girls from his school in T.C. Jester Park. This will change history and redress the balance between the powerless and the predators. These three diseased men will be an example to their kind. They will be the consequence, the threat of retribution, and Camden knows that this final act will save an infinite number of children from abuse. This chapter of his life is closing; he is done targeting individuals and small-time organizations. He is graduating with this final act. It’s the college diploma he never attained. After this he will move up and make a real difference, go where he is needed, hitting the real monsters in the heart – the corporate kidnappers, the child-Blocked producers and traffickers, every high-level person who has anything to do with these crimes. But first the finale. The final act.
 
They entice a pair of molesting scum back to the house via a NAMBLA meeting (North American Man/Boy Love Association) and a third is found working at a local pizza place. They are strapped to chairs and left to weaken and starve while Camden and Nando celebrate their success by getting fucked up. However, when they return to the house the following day, all three men are loose and tooled up. Very soon, they are the ones in the chairs, beaten and abused. Camden has learnt from the best. He has devoted himself to the pursuit of homicidal excellence, eliminating approximately forty monsters along the way, and now he is furious to have made such a rookie mistake. It is luck alone that saves him when Cortez storms the house and easily regains control. The finale is back on.
 
Camden, Nando and Cortez mutilate the three captive insects beyond recognition and drag them to the bridge overlooking the T.C. Jester Park memorial for Jennifer and Elizabeth. This will be a memorial of a completely different kind. Two are chained by the neck and tossed over the edge to hang. The third is hanged dramatically by his foot with a letter in his pocket – Camden’s message to the world …
 
To law enforcement:
Don’t look for us. We are providing a service. Doing the job that you would love to do if the law allowed it.
 
To society:
Don’t fear us. We are not a threat. We are keeping your children safe.
 
To predators, pedos, rapists and other parasites:
You have been warned.


« Last Edit: March 02, 2018, 12:48:25 AM by Alex Buchinsky »

Offline Alex Buchinsky

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PROLOGUE

He sits at the bottom of a 30-foot pool he dug and made himself, with his own hands and own actions. Although the water was never all the way clean and clear the way a ‘normal’ human being would prefer, at least he could say he floated freely, briefly for one or perhaps a few moments, and he remembered enjoying this.

The pool itself was never properly structured, due to many mitigated circumstances as well as over consumption of alcohol, nicotine, and other mind-altering substances, man-made chemicals foreign to the human body. The water was the same water you would get out of your typical government-issued water hose, from wherever that comes from, but due to thirty years of bad maintenance and decisions, the mysterious liquid transformed into a waste pool, an alien fabrication of misery, confusion, lust, hate, love, frustration, emptiness, loneliness, violation, regret, love, anxiety, depression, desperation, and the feeling one gets when they blocked have had enough with the world’s warped concept of reality and know the time has come to make a change and do what’s right for themselves, the world, and the future …

Many people inhabit this world, applying their own actions, styles, and circumstances to it, inconspicuously creating life as we all know it. People possess both wants and needs, and distribute them amongst the world, discreetly carving what is our lively interior. Many people on earth believe all of our lives are somehow intertwined and everybody on this earth serves a certain purpose in life, even the evil ones. This theory is both logical and instantaneously absurd at the same time, a classic contradiction. Believing this means that you believe everybody on earth was supposed to be on earth, supposed to have been born, and suppose to have lived, breathing our seemingly endless air supply. Believing this is fine as long as you acknowledge that some people’s ‘unnatural’ exit from this world is supposed to happen as well. Some would argue that being murdered is as natural as dying of old age.

I mean, isn’t every action done in this world somehow connected to ‘God’ – every abortion, street justice killing, state issued capital punishment, and Mexican cartel massacre? Everything happens for a reason right? Some believe this, others do not.

Humans are the only species that systematically murder their own for ideological reasons. More than 100 million people were victims of mass murder in the twentieth century, making it the deadliest century on record. That included the Ottoman Turks’ murder of 1.5 million Armenians, the Nazis’ extermination of 6 million Jews, Mao’s murder of 30 million Chinese, and the Khmer Rouge’s destruction of 1.7 million Cambodians.  And of course Stalin’s contribution, which is anywhere from 20 to 60 million Soviet citizens purged before and during the war. The list goes on.

Experts say an average child molester will offend 200-400 times before being caught, if ever. The vast majority of offenders do not get caught, and they have no criminal records. According to the FBI, only one out of ten cases of child sexual abuse is reported to law enforcement.

John Douglas, a former chief of the FBI’s Elite Serial Crime Unit and author of Mind Hunter, says, “A very conservative estimate is that there are between thirty-five and fifty active serial killers in the United States” at any given time. But others who study serial killers think there are many more of these demented predators out there than the FBI admits to – maybe as many as a hundred of them actively operating right now.

This life we all receive is full of invisible boundaries and abstract values. Life itself moves so fast and is so mystical we often easily slip into a force-fed trance that enables us to do only a couple of basic actions, which is essentially to survive and spectate. Every once in a while, certain humans break this mold. These humans are often viewed as abnormal and devious before they do something spectacular. It’s crazy how quick our opinions can change …   



           1. Mother Nature

They say that ‘There’s 6 million ways to die’. They never say how many ways there are to live…

I say, there are four ways to kill a person, all with their own characteristics and degrees of being undetectable and appropriate. Killing people can be very complex, depending on the way you perceive it and the action or actions you take in accomplishing it. When I say ‘kill a person’, I mean kill a person professionally. And by professionally I mean with reason. Killing people without reason is terrible, it’s awful, in fact it’s just as bad as significantly abusing children or animals; if you do it without reason – it’s a suicidal offence. If you do not kill yourself someone else will do it for you – it might be painful, it might be torturous – it’s always safer to just do it yourself. 

I was never successful at making bombs. I do not know how to synthesize drugs, combine materials to make toxic gases or poisons, or know the steps it would take to meld Styrofoam napalm. Does this bother me? Yes. But so many things in this life do.
Murder is one of the oldest crimes in the book, next to prostitution, rape, and robbery. And when comparing it to those in nature, it might be the most natural.

Most actors in nature consume other actors’ lives in some way or another, from the animals that eat other animals, the animals that eat the plants, the animals that eat the bugs, the bugs that eat the bacteria, to the bacteria that eats the humans. Most things in life survive this way. We, as humans, call it the cycle of life.

Before DNA testing came out in the late eighties, you would have to be a fool or looking to get caught to get charged for murder. I say this as a white man. Being a black man, you could be charged with murder or rape for simply going through a drive-thru after work – RIP Timothy Cole.
Thanks to the new phenomenon of TV shows relating to crime scenes and the approach taken by law enforcement handling cases of murder, a common US citizen can essentially become a successful serial killer just by sitting on the couch watching television. Gangster rap music is another alternative if your stomach can’t handle seeing David Caruso’s bitch ass act like he’s tough enough to be calm and collected around a brutally murdered human corpse.

The first way to kill a person is your typical ‘on site’ murder. These murders occur with lots of passion and emotion, and/or very desperate and unthoughtful decision making. These types usually happen with the motive being revenge or robbery. They usually happen by the means of stabbing, shooting, beating to death with bare hands or some kind of foreign object. The object can be anything, but it needs to be hard; a rock, phone, brick, lamp, frying pan, bottle, 2 x 4, bat, wrench, tire iron, lock, cane, toaster, and a gun (if you don’t want to shoot it) have all been used successfully among other anonymous, dense objects. Often times, in these cases, the actor will leave behind incriminating evidence as well as being seen by witnesses (witnesses are the worst). The most horrendous form of this type of killing is called a murder spree.

A murder spree is different to a mass murder. Many people do not know this. Another term people often confuse, or blatantly assume wrong, is serial killing. All of these terms involve the death of multiple people, yet have distinct differences.

A murder spree is killing multiple people, three or more, in one setting then moving to a different place or setting, continuing to kill. The most famous is the Columbine incident, although what happened at the Virginia Tech Massacre was more recent and had nearly triple the death count.
A mass murder is killing multiple people, three or more, in a single setting. Most of the time, this is correlated with terrorism and bombings, such as the Oklahoma City bombing or the 9/11 terrorist attacks. But these can also happen with the use of firearms.

One of the best examples of a firearm mass murder happened in Killeen, Texas, 1991, when George Hennard crashed his pickup truck through the front window of a Luby’s Cafeteria, shot fifty people, killing twenty-three, exchanged shots with responding police, and then hid in a bathroom and fatally shot himself.

The term “Going Postal” is derived from mass murder. Some will attribute this solely to Patrick Sherrill, the first postman to gun down his fellow employees, killing 14 excluding himself on August 20, 1986. But if you know the facts you know that the first recorded time the expression “Going Postal” was printed happened on December 17, 1993, in the St. Petersburg Times. There had been four more mass murders done by postal workers before this date. So it was clearly a compilation that led to the publication of the phrase, not that sole event.   
 
I myself will agree that both mass murders and killing sprees can be easily confused and one could argue that they shouldn’t be classified as different. But you should never not know the difference between those and serial killing.

Serial killing is traditionally defined as a person who has murdered two or more people over a period of more than a month, with downtime, a cooling-off period, between the murders. The motivation for killing is usually based on psychological gratification. Some sources, such as the FBI, disregard the ‘three or more’ criteria and define the term as ‘a series of two or more murders, committed as separate events, usually, but not always, by one offender acting alone’ or, including the vital characteristics, a minimum of two murders. Most of the killings involve sexual contact with the victim, but the FBI states that motives for serial murder include ‘anger, thrill, financial gain, and attention seeking’, which, in essence, is more or less why every crime is committed.

Another distinct and very concrete attribute of serial killing is that the murders may be attempted or completed in a similar fashion and the victims may have had something in common, for example, occupation, race, appearance, sex, or age group.

Serial killing is not the same as mass murdering, nor is it spree killing, in which murders are committed in two or more locations with virtually no break in between; however, cases of extended bouts of sequential killings over periods of weeks or months with no apparent cooling-off period or ‘return to normalcy’ have caused some serial killer experts to suggest a hybrid category of spree-serial killer.

The second way to kill another human is to snipe them. This simply involves an individual, an elevated or open yet hidden shooting area, and a sniper rifle. This method is good to use when your victim is in a large crowd or when your target is on a platform you can see but not get to.
When somebody is shot in America, people usually never presume a sniper. By the time they do figure out what’s going on, you can be a million miles away. John F. Kennedy was killed by multiple sniper rifles.

The third and most complex, as well as one of my favorites, are frame murders. The best way to accomplish a frame murder is to make it look like a suicide. There are many elements that have to be met in order to accomplish this. First, you cannot force entry into the victim’s house when doing the suicide replica. You can only do this if you are trying to make the frame a murder or a robbery. The problem with frame robbery is it comes with a large level of noise, confusion, and undetermined actions from both you and the victim. You can, however, immediately kill the victim and then take a few things and gently knock some shit around and make it seem that the robbery was the motive and it was a very chaotic and desperate scene.

I suppose the real problem is what do you do with the stuff? Taking it out leaves you vulnerable to intense suspicion, whether that comes via the neighbors or people driving, especially if it’s a patrolman. Let’s say you get the stuff to your car without anybody witnessing; now you have lots of evidence in your car. If you get pulled over, and you should ALWAYS think you will, and the cop does a basic search, and you should ALWAYS think he will, especially at night, then you’re fucked.

Let’s continue and say you get the stolen merchandise to your house; what do you do? You can’t pawn a murder victim’s stuff, especially one you recently murdered, and you can’t be confident in selling it to others in case the cops get to them and they flip you. It sits at your house, more evidence, police raids, the only option is to burn it. Doing a frame suicide/murder requires none of this extra nonsense.
Frame murders with robbery as the intended motivation decoy is for blocked amateurs. 

When doing a suicide frame you have to make yourself a ghost. Police must believe the individual was alone at the time or else they could easily start thinking homicide. You usually have to be creative to accomplish this. Befriending your victim is a great way to approach this, but often difficult when dealing with certain people, especially the ones I am after. Another option is dressing up as some kind of person that would normally or reasonably need or want to get in their home, such as a utility worker, police officer, firefighter, or even a door-to-door salesman.

If you’re not up for summoning your inner Di Niro or Pacino, that’s fine. Being the anti-social and bad actor that I am, I usually opt out of the acting gig, but doing this requires you to become a ghost, an apparition, moving with a flicker, a phantom, transitioning in a glimmer. A wise man once told me, “Real killers move in silence.”

Once inside, the use of chemicals and sheer force becomes essential. You need to subdue your victim very quickly and precisely. You cannot leave signs of any kind of struggle or of another individual being there. Once you accomplish this, you are set.

Hanging is the third most common form of suicide, next to overdosing, and your number one method, firearms. Hanging should be number one when setting a frame for suicide. It is very hard to force random shit down people’s throats, and a firearm produces a loud bang that enormously complicates and endangers your agenda.

Hanging somebody can be done in silence and looks very reasonable to a coroner. You can use numerous objects found in the house, such as extension cords, just about any article of clothing, sheets, shoestrings, ropes, and chains.    

It is very common for individuals, especially adults, not to leave suicide notes. People usually know about their problems and usually suspect those as their motives. Everybody has problems, especially adults who are convicted sex offenders, so no note is fine. Then you disappear like a delusion.
The last and most effective murder method, in terms of not being able to be convicted at a fair trial, is the abduction disappearance murder. This simply means abduct your target and make them disappear. There is, of course, an art to this, just like the frame murders, with strong creative attributes. Many times, this is easier to execute than the frame murders. No pun intended.

There are many ways to get the target to become in your possession. Examples of this may be as stupid as telling them they won something or that there’s free shit somewhere, or complex things like convincing them they need to be somewhere for legal reasons. Sometimes this is not the best way to go. Sometimes hard work is necessary to accomplish the abduction phase of this procedure. Knock-out chemicals, strength, and spectacular technique may be necessary, or at least very useful, and many times it’s all you really need.

The next step in this procedure is very easy and you have numerous options to carry this out. Whether you’re creative or not, is not necessary. Do whatever you feel or believe fits the crime. Feel free to generate various forms of torture in this step. Like I said before, every target is different as well as every executioner. But always remember that you can’t ask somebody else to clean up your mess, so don’t make a mess that’s difficult to clean up.

The last step in this procedure is the most important. One very significant thing I have learned from studying the criminal justice system and murderers is that without a body you cannot be tried for murder. I mean, it’s possible, but generally, without a human corpse, the DA will never waste their precious time trying to get you on circumstantial or second-rate evidence, especially if there’s no connection between you and the victim.

If you have ever seen the movie Snatch, you will notice how the scary crime boss has a pig farm. He explains how easily the pigs will eat dead human bodies, even the bones. He needs this pig farm because he is in the business of murder and knows the ‘no body, no crime’ mantra.

Now I’m not telling you to go out and buy a blocked farm and start raising blocked pigs. I am simply using this as an example. Alligators work even better. Interesting fact: a common way for the Mexican cartel to dispose of bodies is vultures. Rugged and ruthless, these birds will eat a deceased human body as if were a banana split. Constantly hovering above us as if they were God and everything on the ground are just peasants, God’s entertainment, just waiting to die in vain in order for them to feast. The smell of death pleases the creatures. The smell of death means more life and survival for them. The cartel body disposers will post the body on a fence, slice it up, and then the birds come, and – boom! – no more body. After that they saw up the bones that still remain and then put them in a pile. They have some kind of special powder they sprinkle on top of the pile of sawed-up bones and the birds come back and eat them, consuming every single speck of evidence that the human ever existed.

But you don’t have to use animals. There are chemical mixtures that you can obtain to basically make a human stew. You need either a bathtub or oil drum. The problem with this is it takes a long time, the chemicals are hard to obtain, and you need lots of space because it’s very messy with a significant odor. If you don’t have neighbors that’s great, but if you do, you might want to stick with working with Mother Nature.
      
« Last Edit: March 02, 2018, 12:39:17 AM by Alex Buchinsky »

Offline Alex Buchinsky

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2. Metropolis

“Houston is like a trailer park version of LA.” These are the words told to me when I was twelve years old, sipping a 40 oz. Schlitz and smoking a personally rolled marijuana cigarette with a fellow street carp. This was told to me by a heroin addict in his early thirties, who had just completed a successful ‘tie-off’ and whose inner arm was bleeding from the needle’s puncture. Almost stereotypical, it was the first time I had ever seen a heroin addict actually use the inner arm, which is what the common person would picture in a situation like this.. All the other times I had seen the junkies use their leg or neck. I saw on a drug documentary that had this one smackhead who was talking about how he had used up all of his veins on his body and was forced to shoot heroin into a vein in his eyeball.

As I evaluated the subject I was talking to, I saw small skin craters on his leg. Not small like ant bites or acne scars, but craters with the diameter of a bullet wound disfigurement. They were healed abscess mutilations. I counted five. This was evidence that he was a skin-popper in his younger days.

Skin-popping is another term for subcutaneous injection. You can also inject into the muscle, which is called muscle popping. This vocabulary is most commonly used by three kinds of people: those in the medical field, cops, and people who shoot coke or heroin into their bodies. People skin- and muscle-pop because it’s an accident and they missed the vein or it’s the opposite and they do it on purpose - because there’s less chance of an overdose.

Shooting up presents more health risks for the user than any other method of consuming drugs. If needles, syringes, cottons, cookers, spoons, or water are shared, viruses and infections, like hepatitis-B, hepatitis-C, syphilis, and HIV, can be passed from one user to another through blood left in the works. Bacterial infections, blood poisoning, and endocarditis (an infection of the heart lining) can result if bacteria is injected along with the shot. Abscesses, cellulitis, and other injection-related injuries can result from the cuts in street heroin, especially for skin- and muscle-poppers; and after repeated use, a mainliner’s veins can collapse and become unusable. Finally, hitting a nerve while injecting can result in paralysis, and hitting an artery can lead to a large loss of blood or the loss of a limb.

I know all of this by reading my deceased mom’s medical books from the age of about twelve to the age I am today. She had many books and pamphlets about infections, diseases, and techniques to make proper surgical incisions and stitching up the wound.  She had these books because she was a PA or physician’s assistant. I never saw her read any of them. She must have not needed them from all her experience as a military nurse in the sixties and seventies.

I remember thinking of all of that amongst other things while the narcotic enthusiast rambled on about the City of Angels. Compulsive thoughts have always plagued my contentment. He continued to speak, still not noticing the plasma falling out of his arm at the speed of a sloth.   

Quite frankly, I’m not even sure if my twelve-year-old comrade, whom I entered the heroin addict’s house with, was even paying attention to the conversation. I’m sure the significance of it to him was completely on the other side of the spectrum to mine. I always paid attention to weird shit. I always had peculiar obsessions. At this specific time in my life, I was obsessed with Los Angeles and, in all honesty, I still very much am.

We were hanging out with this character because we were young, local, and, most importantly, had weed. We were bored and wanted alcohol. He was of age to buy alcohol and desperately wanted weed because he was from Austin and didn’t have a weed dealer here in Houston – or at least not a good one. I could tell he was well over twenty-one, but young enough to maybe hang out and buy us alcohol in exchange for smoking our chronic.

“’S’up, bro? You got any papers?” I asked, as we walked down the street in the subversive summer heat. When you ask indirectly it comes off cool and there’s a better chance the interaction will go your way. You always want to be cautious when jumping into a drug conversation. Anybody can be an undercover. I suppose the same goes with any conversation. You should always choose words wisely; you never know which word could trigger someone into pulling a trigger in your direction or perhaps just saying the word ‘no’, leaving you with nothing but yourself, your thoughts, and the lonely street to walk down.

When we were that age, the objective was always to get high with as many random people as we could. The crazier the person the better. Then, after we got high with those people, we would ride our bikes somewhere else – a park, a forest, a parking structure – and get high again and talk about how trippy it was getting high with the random people we smoked with earlier.

While the heroin aficionado rode his bicycle to the corner store to get the malt liquor, we stayed at his house and rolled up some joints. When he got back, we smoked and drank and talked about shit people who smoke and drink talk about. ‘Generation X’ and ‘Generation Next’ engaged in deep discussion. I had asked him what LA was like, because this was something I would often ask others, mostly older people, because this place, from what I had heard, read, and seen on TV, seemed magical. I would often ask people I encountered (mostly through drug interactions) to get a more personal perspective of what this place actually was like. Not the Hollywood delusion. These conversations would often come after getting into a discussion of how boring and backward Houston or the entire state of Texas was. I have asked about five random people what LA was like and I have repeated the heroin addict’s description of Houston to others while on this topic. As it turns out, his opiate-induced simile was quite on the money.

Houston is the fourth largest city in America. It’s been this way for a while and it’s estimated to double in the next couple of decades. It’s very diverse for being the lowest (most southern geographically) big city in the United States. It may be a place people want to come to because it’s very large and has lots of room due to the fact it keeps adding suburbs to it, making it a Goliath city – a chaotic metropolis.

The city is unique in that there really isn’t a rich or poor side. I suppose you could say there are some world famous neighborhoods that became famous through rap songs and movies. Houston local, Wes Anderson, had two big movies sweep movie screens around the world. Both Rushmore and The Royal Tanenbaum’s were filmed in Houston’s most prestigious and wealthy neighborhood River Oaks. Some poor and notorious were put on the map from ghetto rap songs from artists like Scarface and the Ghetto boys, UGK, Lil Flip, DJ Screw, Slim Thug and unfortunately South Park Mexican. They came from and rapped about South Park, 3rd Ward, Clover Leaf, Sunnyside, Acres Homes, and 5th Ward also known as ‘The Bloody Fifth’.  Other notable areas in the conurbation known as ‘Space City’ and sometimes ‘Bayou City’ are Garden Oaks, Oak Forest, The Heights, The Galleria area, Bellaire, Katy, Missouri City, The Woodlands, Montrose, and Midtown.

People kind of roam free down here because the land is so spread out. Neighborhoods that could be cities or towns are interconnected. There really is no heavy segregation. This means there can’t be large concentrations of police (or people) everywhere and sometimes it almost feels like there’s none at all. You don’t see drug dealers posted up on corners or anything like that. They often operate out of their grandparents’ house in the ghetto or meet up with clientele at gas stations. Just like everything else in life, they have adapted and evolved. That doesn’t mean you won’t encounter a metropolitan street zombie trying to sell you some rank weed or fake drugs while you’re walking on the sidewalk or waiting at the bus stop. If you encounter this, it’s more than likely this individual wants to get you alone, stab you, and steal your shoes and wallet rather than become your new drug connection.

You do see an array of bums and hobos on the corners, intersections, and loitering in front of gas stations, many meeting their crack or heroin dealers or telling random people sob stories in exchange for coins and small amounts of cash. They reside under bridges, in the numerous wooded areas in the city, or simply on a park bench. This all, of course, is when they’re not in jail. Rarely do these nomads sleep in the homeless shelters, which are specifically made for people in their situation. They make the city uneasy as their appearance is contagiously gloom, often infecting the everyday commuter’s happiness with sympathy and sadness, a constant reminder of how real life is, how low it can get, a reminder that this could ultimately be you.

Most homeless people suffer from some kind of mental illness or some kind of disability, either physical or mental, or either or, but there are some who were successful at one point. Successful for most of their lives or at least some point in their lives, but ultimately lost it to too many interactions with the demons that inhabit the earth, the accidents, the injuries, the violence, the lawsuits, the depression, the addiction. Too much ‘bad luck’. The truth is, many of us, most of us, are only one missed paycheck away from being the person holding the sign that says ‘homeless’, one divorce away from suicide, one road rage dispute missing from spending the rest of your life in a 6 x 8 cell for permanently hurting someone you only knew for two and a half minutes.       

Sometimes, when you drive into Downtown Houston from the North Freeway, otherwise known as I-45, it looks as if you are driving into an emerald city, because you see the Wells Fargo Plaza, which could literally be a building that comes from the Land of Oz, due to its extravagant height and luminous green, tented windows that shine bright in the reflection of the sun. Most of the buildings in the downtown skyline have these green tents. But even if they aren’t green, most of the buildings have this certain glow that attracts the human eye like a bug zapper attracts flying insects. The skyline has a certain radiance that seems to project energy to everything that surrounds it.
Lots of people come to this city with hopes of starting a new identity or life. I believe both individuals and families do this or even individuals that are hoping to become part of a family. I know one major factor of this is the weather down here. I also know criminals come down here to escape their past.

It’s a warm climate where you hardly ever have to worry about putting on a jacket or other ridiculous extra layers of clothing. Many people seem to immigrate from the Midwest or Northeast. 

If I lie in bed without music or my fan on, which is a necessity for me to sleep, I can often hear the faint but clear sound of the train slithering through the city like a gigantic iron serpent, perhaps a rattlesnake, with the pumping of its 5,000-horsepower diesel engine representing the rattle. You will hear this if you live anywhere within about a 6- or 7-mile radius of the tracks. That’s more or less everywhere in the greater Houston metropolitan area.

If it’s not a train it’s a plane, cutting through the air like a surgeon performing a thoracotomy. I sometimes have daydreams of them crashing into my house or in my neighborhood. I always contemplate what I would do in that situation. I have always wanted to be a hero.

Planes aren’t the only things making noise in the sky …

Helicopters chop up the wind like a rogue Harley Davidson biker gang. Police helicopters will periodically fly around in circles at night time, shining a spotlight on the land below. This happens most often when there’s a police chase, raid on a drug house, or a shooting. Preferably, multiple victims if you want to see the local news chopper. Single victim shootings happen daily and tend to be rather redundant to those of us who impulsively read the newspaper every single day and neurotically watch the local news every single night at 9 o’clock. 

Sometimes it’s a life flight helicopter, bringing someone’s mangled body to the hospital from a grizzly car accident outside the city limits or a vicious gang fight from one of the surrounding penitentiaries.

Loud sirens from ambulances, fire trucks, and police vehicles let you know someone in the area is fucked up or has just fucked up. You hear this approximately twice in the morning or perhaps evening, and at least twice at night. You hear all of these noises just lying on your bed or couch. Lower class and middle class. The bulk of Houston.

When there’s no conductor operating a train and there’s no flying or dying, there’s people driving. Not just up and down your block, but on the freeways. The freeway, approximately two miles away, keeps a constant buzz. It never sleeps. It is the heartbeat of the entire city.           
 
« Last Edit: March 05, 2018, 12:18:50 AM by Alex Buchinsky »