Interview with a Masochist

The serial killer had been trying to read his newspaper when he noticed the man standing next to him.

"Excuse me," he said, "you're blocking the light from the lampost."

"Oh sorry, " said the man, "I didn't mean to pry, but I notice that you're reading about the Miller Park butcher."

"Isn't everyone?"

"Tell me about it. Imagine that guy killing and slaughtering seven different people all in one park during the space of a few weeks. It's a wonder the police haven't been able to catch him."

"Hmmph! Police!" said the serial killer.

"Yeah, I never thought much of them either. But, after all, we are in Miller Park right now, and it's a dark night, and it must be almost midnight."

"11:57 p.m." corrected the serial killer.

"Yes!" said the man triumphantly. "I always suspected that the butcher would have kind of an anal personality."

"Huh? Now wait a minute! Just what are you insinuating?"

"Nothing, but why are you reading on a bench in a park at this hour of the night. Seems kind of strange."

"That is none of your business!" said the serial killer.

"No need to get all huffy about it. Hey! You're probably wondering what I'm doing out here. That's just as strange."

"But that is none of my business! Why are you so nosy?"

There was a silent pause while the man tried to decide what to say next. "Did you notice I'm wearing an orange sweater?"

"What does that have to do with anything?"

"Well," said the man, "every single one of the Butcher's victims was wearing orange."

"Huh?"

"Yeah. The press didn't seem interested in that point. Maybe, it somehow eluded the police, but not me. I read every press clipping until I had that fact."

"Er. . .I don't think the fourth victim was wearing orange," but then he immediately realized his mistake, because there was no way that he would know that.

The man just smiled. "Oh yes, he was. Her socks were orange, but I don't think the police caught it."

"Well. . .I still don't understand why you're wearing orange unless. . .Hey wait a minute! You aren't a cop, are you?"

"A cop?"

"Yeah, or some undercover agent, trying to attract the Miller Park butcher and catch him in a trap."

"Ohh. . .You know it didn't occur to me that you might think that. But look at it this way, If that were what I was about, don't you think I'd be a little less clumsy about it then I have been so far."

The serial killer had to agree with that. "All right, then what is your story?"

The man sighed. "Do you want to hear the whole story?"

The serial killer didn't really like the sound of that, but he said, "At this stage, I don't see why not."

"Good. When I was a boy, I used to like pain."

"Pain?"

"Yeah, one of my earliest memories was of trying to scrape my knee. I would run and try to fall down on the floor, but my knee would be okay, so then I would try rolling up my pant legs, but it still wouldn't scrape, so I would go outside and run across the sidewalk, and fall down bare-kneed on the cement. That would usually do the trick and draw blood. Or sometimes when I was in the backyard. I would go over to the rose bush and touch the thorns just to see what would happen. I would touch them gently at first, but then I would start touching them hard in the hopes that it would actually draw blood.

"When I got older, I tried other things. Like in Middle School, we had this course called Woodshop. I used to think about how great it would be if I could start up the buzz zaw and just let my hand go into the blade so that I could feel what it was like."

"That's sick!" said the serial killer.

"Of course, I never did that. You know why?"

"I can't imagine," said the serial killer.

"Because I was afraid the teacher would get mad at me." The man laughed quite a bit at this.

When he recovered, he went on. "Then, when I was thirteen, my Dad taught me how to use the power lawnmower. Oh that was great! I remember my Dad telling me about all the things to be careful of. Like not to run over my bare feet with the lawnmower while it was running. I kept thinking to myself how wonderful it would be to one day do that, and I probably would have too, except that, well, I was such a good boy that I never could bring myself to do something my Dad told me not to do."

Hearing this made the serial killer a little bit more thoughtful. "You know, don't take this as a criticism, but it really sounds to me like most of the time, you were just too chicken to hurt yourself as much as you wanted to. And you used all that about your teachers and your parents as an excuse."

If he was trying to goad the man, he was disappointed, because the man just shrugged and said, "Whatever, but you know when I grew up, I found the perfect career. Do you know what that is?"

"I'm afraid to ask."

This got another chuckle, but the man said, "I became a writer."

"A writer?"

"Yep! I write all kinds of stories in which people are tortured or have to undergo painful experiences. It's great. The publishers all think I'm sick, but that's okay, because everyone knows writers are weird anyway. And sometimes late at night, I'll treat myself to a cut on the hand or on the leg with a knife, and I don't even feel ashamed, because it's research."

"I see," said the serial killer thoughtfully, "but then you came out here tonight, dressed in orange. Does that mean that being a writer wasn't good enough? You had to experience pain in some greater way like being the next victim of the Miller Park Butcher?"

"Exactly," said the man.

There was a long silence while neither one spoke. Finally, it was the serial killer who spoke first. "Go Away!" he said.

"What?"

"You heard me. Get out of here before I call the police."

"What? Call the police. With what I know about you?"

"Mister, you have been talking about yourself for the past five minutes. You know nothing about me except a few vague suspicions which will never hold up in court. Now go!"

The man sighed and sauntered away, but as he did, the serial killer could not resist calling out after him. "By the way! It was just a coincidence that they all wore orange."