The Actor

The Actor

"Are you afraid? No no no I mean are you truly petrified of what it is that stands before you? A monster, a fiend, a psychopath? You know what terrors I've done and seen my deeds. But I am here to assure you of one thing: you do not need to be afraid, not of me anyway. See I am a man of faith. I believe that everything should be left in the hands of a much higher power. This knife, for example, is God; determining the fates of lesser men, reflecting the raw emotions as it casts judgment. Now I ask again. ARE you afraid? Well, my friend, you should be. Because God is calling you home."

"Next!"

Jeremiah makes his way off stage after giving one hell of an audition. His whole body shakes from the adrenaline of performing for the role that he has spent the past month rehearsing tirelessly over trying to get. Waiting patiently in the next room on the results, he ponders of how much this movie is going to change his life: a roof over his head every night never worrying when the rent is due, that new Mercedes that just came out he will now be able to afford, enjoying the tenderness of a hot, juicy steak down at that very luxurious restaurant down the street where all the local celebrities wine and dine. Yes he was sure, almost positive, he had gotten the part. But what choice did he have? Everything was on the line. There was no home to go back to, even if he had the cash to make it back, no friends, no family, no nothing. He gave it all up to make it big out here. To be the biggest named actor that Hollywood ever saw or would see thereafter.

The hours pass horribly slow as person after person begin to fill the waiting room, all with the same goal in mind. After the last audition exits the room, the director tells everyone that it will take about thirty minutes before he calls us in one at a time to go over the pros and cons of our performance and ultimately if we got the part or not. Tension and anxiety fill the room as the clock takes its time as it always does in moments like these. There's an earthquake of nervous legs shaking the room, Jeremiah included. Finally, the director calls in his first victim. They are not in there even five minutes before trudging out, head down in disappointment. This goes on for the next twenty or so people and there aren't many left waiting. For Jeramiah, his dream comes ever closer.

"Jeremiah McCarthy!"

This is it. The moment that defines everything he's been working for.

"Mr. McCarthy, there are two key elements we look for as directors when deciding who to choose for a role like the deranged killer you auditioned for. We look at appearance, how menacing does this guy look, and emotion, do I want to piss my pants when this guy speaks. And although you are a talented actor, it brings me great displeasure to have to say that you just didn't make the cut. Sorry."

Completely taken aback, Jeremiah with no other alternative falls to his knees and pleads.

"Sir, Mr. Alvarez, please I am begging you to reconsider. This role was my last and only hope. I have nothing. I've given up everything for this one moment and you, the only fighting chance I have, are saying no. Please just give me a chance."

In an annoyed but tactful manner, Mr. Alvarez says, "Look, there is nothing I would love more than to give every small time actor that walks through those doors, stands on that stage and begs just like you are now a major role. Unfortunately, that's bad for business and that's what I'm running here. You just didn't have the look or feeling of a serial killer. I need a monster and you just aren't convincing enough. Now I am going to have to ask you to leave. Good day Mr. McCarthy."

Jeremiah, fueled by relentless apathy, storms out of the room and through the rest of the building until he exits. Nothing halts him on his way to his apartment. Bursting through the door, he begins to totally destroy his room, which wasn't in the best shape to start with; throwing lamps, chairs, coffee tables. He's ripping doors off cabinets, shattering what little dishes he had and busts every light that shone. Then, he stammers into the bathroom bloodied and exhausted. The mirror reveals the image of a defeated man, laughing at him. With all his hatred in one punch, a ring of shattered glass now remains. But there's something different, something unique that catches his eye and inspires him to grab some razors in the top drawer. A pool of salted water runs down his face as the sound of a sorrowful mourn begins to wale up. It's not long though that the hiccups of depression quickly turn to the hysteric sound of the darkest most sinister laugh imaginable.

"You need a convincing monster eh? A pure and utter unremorseful son of a bitch with no sympathy? Well", he says putting a handful of razors in his mouth, "I won't disappoint."

.........................................................................................

December 13, 2012

Daily Journal

Serial killer on the loose- by Alejandra Teran

As the year draws to a gruesome close, local authorities have gathered new evidence for the four recent murders

of 25 year old Steven Shepards, 23 year old Daniel Everett,

23 year old Zackary Fairview, and 22 year old Nicholas Berry.

Sgt. Monroe, head of case, tells us that all the victims

share similar features in that all major extremities

were sawn off by a hack saw and the bodies were left

hanging by barbed wire. The only thing that connects these

men with the earlier killings are the words "Convinced Yet?"

etched across the diaphragm.

....................................................................................................................................................................................................

I sit in disgust as I crumple up the morning news wondering how the newspaper can print such vivid monstrosities for the public eye to see. Of course, I've only been here now for just over two weeks. How would I know how fucked up this town may be? Do they find pleasure in the grotesqueries in the tales of madmen? Do they, themselves, have a craving for blood but are sane enough not to play with desire? My name is Vincent Lewis, a detective being assigned to LAPD to aide in the search and seizure of this unknown maniac. The case has only been open for two and a half months and yet the bodies are coming in faster than loose change being dispensed from a slot machine won by a vacationing senior citizen. Everyone in the department is busy doing their own thing; running errands for the commissioner too busy dealing with the politics of the matter at hand, going over files they've scanned through enough times they could site from memory every last ink stain, getting hammered by the higher up for some reason unbenounced to them. Everything is such a cluster, I am a ghost to these people.

I begin my own assessment report on the four newest members, trying to find what connects them and the other sixteen victims together. Something is being overlooked. As it stands, all I have been able to draw together is that they are all men in their mid to early twenties, worked part time in small local businesses, and were all relatively new to the area. Something's not right though. Is it so obvious that we just haven't glued the pieces together? There has to be more to this than a man killing at random just to get his rocks off. No, this reads "personal" all over it. But what is the missing key?

"All units, I repeat, all units. A call just came in reporting another murder. I need all available units on the case ASAP. Head to 5th Avenue, Building 7083, Room 134. "

I rush to my car, wanting to be the first one on scene. I, however, arrive behind a mob of blue suits and shiny badges awaiting me as I approach the building slightly disappointed and quite honestly, frustrated. Being that I'm only a couple weeks familiar to the city, it doesn't come as a surprise when my face isn't that familiar to the other guys. I flash my identification. They let me through no questions asked. I think to myself at how easy it really is just to get onto a crime scene. The thought quickly gets exiled through my once the door is opened and a carnival of chaos stood before me. As I entered, a bloodied, disfigured left arm hangs directly to my flank by the light switch. The tip of index finger teases the switch as to give it a purpose still. The right arm can be seen vomiting chunks of blood as it twirls the familiar orbital path that every ceiling fan is accustomed to. Both the legs, in a sick sense of humor, are stapled to the vintage leather reclining chair centering the room front facing the door with a purpose.

Outside the landlord, an old woman dress way out of her pay grade giving that apartments are so rundown, speaks to an officer describing how she found out about the victim; Irvine Roberts, a 24 year old male who worked part time at a grocery store and moved in around four to five months ago. I interrupt briefly to ask just a couple of questions of my own.

"How well did you know Mr. Roberts?"

"Oh I knew him better than I know my own son. He was such a nice fellow. Bringing me my morning newspaper, helping me with groceries, trimming my garden. It's such a shame he's gone too. He had just landed an acting job over at that studio down the street."

As soon as these words came dancing off her withery old tongue, my missing key was handed to me on a silver platter. I scurry out the building dodging oncoming traffic of the officers coming in as I make my way to my car. Back at the station, I flip through mountains of folders discreetly hiding the information I'm looking for. Minutes pass and I start to chant the words "Where is it" repeatedly. Like a miner digging for coal, it's only a matter of time before what it is I am searching for is unearthed. Found it!

"Sergeant Monroe, I have something I think you might want to see." I bestow to him what is probably the most crucial piece of evidence this case has at this point. "Actors! These guys were all wanna-be-big actors. This here is a list of names who auditioned for a movie that our latest guy, Roberts, got the role in. If you look, you'll notice the names of some familiar names currently bagged and tagged in the morgue. I think whoever the killer is right there on that paper."

"Jesus Christ! How did we miss this? Good work Lewis! I need you to scavenge up any possible bodies that you can and bring in the remaining names on this list. We'll hold them in protective care until we figure out who the lowly bastard is."

"Yes sir. And what about the director, a William Alvarez. If the killer is targeting the actors on this list, it's safe to say that there might be a grudge towards the director as well. It wouldn't hurt to have him in protective care as well."

"Alright. Have him brought in as well. We end this today."

Hours pass and as we bring in one person at a time, we have all but two people accounted for: the director and another low time actor. I decided to go look for the actor. This shouldn't take long. He conveniently lives right across the street from the precinct. I arrive at the front desk and ask, "What room does Jeramiah McCarthy live in?".

"I'm sorry but Jeramiah isn't in right now. Haven't seen him for about two weeks now."

"Really? Can you tell me a little about Mr. McCarthy?"

"Sure. When he first moved in, he was just an average guy. He would come in from work, say hi and go on up to his room. It was like this until one day he storms in, doesn't say a word to me and goes on up to his room. From that day forward, he changed. Only coming out at night, he would have face completely covered, and I swear to God, the creepiest sounds would come from his room. It sounded almost like laughing."

After hearing her story, I thank her for her time and information and start to head back when Sergeant Monroe calls. "Alvarez is in custody. Any luck on the last man?"

"Landlord says he hasn't been seen for two weeks. I'm not a genius but I think I know who the killer is. I'll be there in a few minutes. You were right, it ends today."

Not even a minute after the call ends, I am greeted with the sound of a thunderous boom and my face feels the gentle touch of the warmness of flames even though I am a good fifty feet away from the blast. But as soon as the fire came, it vanished just as swiftly. I sprint to the precinct, squeezing my narrow body through the only crevice passable that has been charred black by the unforgiving rage of fire. I scan the area looking for anyone who might have survived the blast. Nothing. The room only speaks the language of the dead now, filling it with silence. Standing there amidst this room of ash and bone, a screaming voice can be heard echoing from down a littered hallway. I make haste to see who this lone survivor is. Moving debris of filing cabinets no longer with the company of paper, I've reached the area of the hollow screaming. There's no need to open a door. I am forced to kneel down to enter the room and inside it a man trapped underneath a pile of rubble.

"Mr. Alvarez are you okay?"

"Yes I think so. But my legs are pinned under this pillar. Thank God you showed up."

"No. God's not here just yet." I pause for a brief moment.

"Are you afraid?"

"What?"

I inch my way closer to him now, maintain my balance. Running my fingers up my forehead, I begin to peel off a thick, rubbery layer of latex off from my face hiding the scars.

With a look of horror in his eyes, he screams, "No. No no no no no no. It's...it's you!"

"Yes. I'm surprised you noticed me with the new facial features and all. I'm flattered. Is it to your liking? I've been a very busy man these past couple of month's Mr. Alvarez. Becoming a renowned serial killer is a very meticulous job. First you got to find your target. Then you got to plan, making sure the T's are crossed and I's dotted. Wouldn't have wanted the brilliant cops here finding out too soon. And finally, comes the disguise."

"Wh- why are you doing this?"

"Why? Why?! AH HAHAHAH! This is what you wanted, remember! A monster! Someone that'll make you piss your pants at the mere sight of them! Now, I ask again. ARE you afraid? Well, my friend, you should be. Because God is calling you home. Oh and one last thing: Convinced Yet?"