April. I got nothing to pun…

Hello ND Fans! (Wow, really?)

Welcome to the post that signifies the beginning of the April challenge and maybe an interesting time for the writers. By now you should be able to start voting (click here) for March and basically choosing which of the writers you’ll be visiting in the loony bin because this month we’re going MACABRE. I know, April Fools, April Showers brings May Flowers well shut up reader! Last month I gave bloody Queen to a writer as inspiration for a love story and she gave me a court case! They (she) needs room to breathe!

So the gang get to write about macabre stuff. Where is the weird little addition Steven? I hear you ask. Well…

For bonus points, I’m offering a list of serial killers to feature as stars, extras or maybe just inspiration for our writers pieces. These are at the writers own choice and/or risk as some of the listed could be described as NSFW…

There are some dark people out there, or not anymore because of the death penalty

ANYWAY, I had to do a example piece. I actually learned restraint with my dark voices of my brain. So enjoy my slightly disturbed brain and we’ll see you next month!

The Interview Room

He sat in the office, staring at the ornate clock behind the plush chair opposite.
How many fucking times have I had to stare at that clock? He thought, hatefully. But still it went on ticking, almost intentionally catching each second with a sarcastic and sharp ‘CLICK!’ He hated that stupid fucking clock. He stretched out to gain feeling once more in his extremities. The plush chair in front of him was somewhat of a polar opposite to the hard backed wooden chair in which he found himself once more. Though, this time felt very different…

Suddenly the door to his left opened and in stepped a portly gentleman with grey wispy hair on the sides of his head. His grey suit, along with his long moustache gave him the look of a walrus; the dark green tie falling into place as seaweed caught in the debris.

“Radley, isn’t it?” The blob of a man asked as he stepped around the desk; stepped around being used in the most malleable of its phrasing.

“I’d prefer John, if it’s all the same” John Radley straightened his posture on his chair, letting out a series of cracks from his aged spine. The executive’s chair let out an almighty sigh as the larger man sat down.

“Oh,” he said with a hint of surprise, not like himself at all. “John, you say? Quite. Well John, my name is Mr Green… “

“No it isn’t” John smirked at him. The three chins were quivering in silent outrage at the interruption. The fact that the comment also showed a level of knowledge that his new employer did not agree with just made John smirk that bit more.

“Your name is Charles Eribesque. You are the bastard child of the late Xavier Eribesque, though not to the public. To the public, you are Albert Green: Charity owner, Philanthropist and generally all round nice guy.” He hadn’t meant to put the emphasis on round but he couldn’t help himself now he was in his stride. Albert’s eyes grew wider with astonishment as the creature before him turned from an embodiment of hate to a confident and unbridled power house. The ropes around his wrists and ankles looked like they would let go in an instant, if he only asked.

“Well Mr. Radley, you do your homework don’t you?” Albert stood and went to the mantle and picked up the clock, turning to place it on the table in front of John. The ticking resonated through the wooden body and then the table, giving the feeling that the noise was filling the entire room. “And what, pray tell, do you know about Charles Eribesque?”

What do I know of Charles Eribesque? He asks as if he were referring to someone else.

“You want me to go the short road or the long?” John asked, trying to buy time to think. He knew that around his old employer’s office were secret buttons to alert his team of the situation.

Xavier had died more than four weeks ago now and his dirty little secret had somehow worked his way into the business and up to the point of assistant, now head CEO. The announcement of his promotion mere days before Xavier’s demise only confirmed Radley’s suspicions.

“No need to drag out the exposition, Mr Radley. How far did the old dog dig before the viper caught him by the gullet?” He sat back into the chair and made a steeple of his fingers, looking triumphant and smug.

“Your father…”

“DO NOT PATRONISE ME!” The bulk may hold him down but John realised how quickly Eribesque could move. His age finally started to show on his face and Charles played on it. “Yes, I know about your past as much as you know of mine. Decorated war veteran turned detective who retires into a security team at my father’s behest. So please, I’ve shared; your turn.” He sat back down, though looked less placid than previous.

“I don’t know…”

Once more the hands came down on the table with ridiculous speed, and John kicked up to try and catch him off guard. The problem, however, was his body was a lot older than his mind and it could not produce the effect he had so desired. The fat dustbin lid of a hand swooped up the clock and connected with John’s temple…


He awoke once more into the office of his late employer. He looked up at the ornate clock behind the plush chair opposite. His head pounded and took all his might to lift it to the angle before dripping and rolling to one side, revealing Charles sat in the corner of the room. He had his back turned and appeared to be polishing what was revealed to be a handheld drill as he turned at John’s sudden groan. He crossed the room towards him and placed his face a mere breath away from John’s; revealing the stark white makeup he had applied with blue diamonds around the eyes and the red, jagged smile.

“1994, do you remember?”

John’s vision spun as his brain swam from the nausea to try recall anything from the year.

“1994! Do you remember!”

Charles slapped him across the face and backed off, circling like a lion in a cage.

“Okay, how about something more relevant. Do you remember when you met me in 1978?” The fire in his eyes pushed more and more at John’s hippocampus.

“You were, the last Gacy boy. I took you in after before the trial to protect you.” His mind flashed back to the visions of the crawlspace under the building. Gacy had tried to destroy the evidence of his, as he put it, “unlicensed cemetery” by releasing the sump pump to fill the space with water. John had been present when the first body parts floated to the top, grey and decaying. He was pulled back to the present by another slap to the face…

“SO 1994! Do. You. Remember?”

“I executed him, May of that year. This isn’t the way to get revenge, Charles. I killed him for you. You don’t need to go on with that hate.”

The man cackled in front of him, distorting the clown face into something much more terrifying. He stepped over to the desk and the drill set.

“Do you know what I did when I made my first million? I bought his house. I wanted to rebuild his legacy. He was like a father to me AND YOU TOOK HIM!” He began pacing once more. John’s head was starting to play ball.

“You asked what I knew about you. I know you bought the house. I also know about your little vendetta; 33 victims, all named John. I assumed it was in outrage at him.”

“You were wrong!” He grabbed the drill and almost glided over to John, wrapping one arm like a vice around his neck and placing the drill bit to the back of his cranium. “You took Jeffery Dahmer from me that same year.”

John’s entire body tensed. His confidence had been his downfall. He thought he could overpower Charles and get out in time, but his time had come. He decided to go out fighting…

“Dahmer was killed by an inmate, Charles. Not me! You gonna blame me for Chikatilo as well? You fucking psychopaths are all the same! Especially you, you fat, unimaginative prick!” He swung his head to the side, scraping the drill bit across his scalp though cracking Eribesque’s nose on connection. Charles had not expected such a fight, John knew and this might be the thing that saved him. “You kill 33 men called John in honour of that fat puff and think it gives you the right to wear his mask? Look at you, you pathetic piece of shi…”

The end of the sentence was lost beneath the sound of the drill whirring against bone. He somehow heard it before feeling the intense pain. Moments later he waited, expecting it to penetrate his brain and rip him into oblivion but the firey patch of his scalp soon was simply vibrating from the throbbing of blood vessels rather than the of the drills volition. He could barely make out what Charles spoke to him, there was a whistling that he couldn’t tell was coming from inside his head or the room.

“Oh no, my sweet. You won’t go that easy, I have to test another theory before you go in the crawl space.”

The last thing John saw before blacking out one more time was the old fashioned kettle in the Killer Clown’s hand…



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