This Book Is Full of Bodies Read online

  This Book is Full of Bodies

  Rick Wood

  Rick Wood Publishing

  1

  I am a human in a monster costume, given to me by society.

  But it’s invisible.

  No one can see it, not even me.

  Every day I get up and I dress like one of you, except better. I talk like you except about more interesting things and I eat like you except my food costs more than you’re worth.

  I am you but a better you.

  Because I don’t deny my nature.

  Think of all the constraints you place on yourself: monogamy, self-control, trust.

  You deny what we are and tell me I’m weird because society has told you that and you’re too stupid to question it.

  I don’t pretend to be like you, you just assume I am. You have your first glance at me, make your judgement, and then stick to it with the kind of stubbornness that shows why the human race is so deplorable.

  I have this image, you see, and that image is faultless, and that’s what makes it so easy. I live with Lisa, my wife, who I couldn’t care less about. It’s all part of the perfect family portrait. Me, Lisa, and…

  Ah, yes. I forgot to mention.

  I also live with Lisa’s daughter.

  Glorious sixteen with blowjob lips.

  She’s called Flora, like the butter.

  I am wealthy as fuck, too.

  I have seven businesses I inherited from my dead dad and I don’t bother with any of them—I just let them earn my money and I spend it.

  Lisa does not know it though.

  I won’t announce my fortune until she’s dead.

  I don’t want her hands on it, and I need her to think I’m at work during the day, and not grinding some soon-to-be-deceased-eager-dick-chaser by a jukebox in a shitty pub three hours from anywhere she would think to look.

  I have never killed before now. This may surprise you, considering the vivacious claim within the title of this book—but there would be little point in me starting the story after all the interesting stuff has already happened.

  I mean, I’ve wanted to, of course I have.

  I was fourteen when my geography teacher shouted at me and humiliated me in front of my class. I came in the next day and poured bleach into her coffee. A fat kid knocked it over her computer, and she shouted at him for being dangerous around electricity, claiming he could have killed her, never knowing that the fat lump of shit saved her life. That was the day I learnt what irony was. It was also the day I pissed on a cheeseburger and made an obese, tubby, lump of lard eat it, the fat fuck, for messing up what I wanted to do. I would have killed him too, but I didn’t want to drag his fat fucking body around and try to squeeze it into acid or whatever fucking way you dispose of a body.

  I hadn’t quite learnt how to rid myself of a corpse yet.

  I have, however, since learned about the nature of pigs, and how they will eat anything. Now I know what to do when I eventually need to dispose of a body.

  And it seems like here, dear reader, my ever-present voyeur, at about five hundred or so words in, it would be a good place to pause my memoir, just to check—am I offending you?

  I mean, if talk of your stupid human nature and my succulent step daughter and of killing and bad fucking language and disposing of bodies of pathetic morsels with no purpose when you think about it in the grand existence of things does so offend you, I suggest you fuck off and find another book. I hear Pride and Prejudice is good for all you pansies looking for a quick thrill with no substance. Maybe you should return this book on your Kindle or phone or tablet or whatever device controls your useless little life nowadays and demand a refund. Return this book to a bookstore if you found one that actually had the audacity to sell it to you face-to-face.

  I am not going to hold back, nor am I going to save myself from being honest in what I think, whether that be about me or what I do or about you, dear voyeur, you useless sycophantic stinking turd of a creature.

  Go and give it a bad customer review on Amazon if you so wish; moan about how it was shocking and horrible, like the freedom to share your pointless opinion somehow validates that opinion, like what you have to say is something worth saying or worth listening to just because you can spread it across the internet.

  But, if you would like to hear the true inner monologue of a fantastic beast of a man who does not deny his inner self and does not hold back in describing the delectable acts with which I do so engage, then read on—but do so knowing that to judge me would be to judge yourself.

  “Ooh that’s sick,” and, “Ooh that’s so wrong,” and, “Ooh I can’t believe I just read that,” only serves to show you are a true product of the feeble society that created you.

  Whenever there have been no rules in society, there has been murder and mayhem. Little over a few hundred years ago people would flock to the arena to watch gladiators murder themselves and each other, much like you flock to your football stadiums now to see a less masculine show of testosterone.

  Psychopaths have been needed by kings to do their duty in murdering those that need to be murdered.

  But do not call me a psychopath.

  And I request this for two reasons.

  One, it shows you know little of what a true psychopath is. You would most likely go along with the Hollywood stereotype or the image created by true crime documentaries you binge watch on Netflix for 8.99 a month.

  Two, it demeans what I do and makes it seem alien. It removes the human nature from human nature. It makes it seem as if what I do is unusual or not of the norm or is done because something is wrong with me.

  As I said, gladiators killed and died for entertainment. People were hung for stealing in the 1800s and families would go watch it like the picnic in the park.

  It is only recently that society has decided to find mindless and senseless acts of killing so unacceptable.

  It is only now we don’t pretend that we’d like to rip out the oesophagus of our impudent bosses, to tear the limbs from that arsehole hogging the middle lane of the motorway, or to stab that dickhead blocking the supermarket aisle with their trolley.

  Because it is wrong.

  Well, as you know, wrong is invented by your world. Wrong is only seen as wrong because you’re told it’s wrong.

  Do what you feel.

  Do what you want.

  There is no heaven or hell for you to fear. Religion is ridiculous and don’t even get me started on those fucking hypocrites who run the church.

  I say this all not to shock you but to be straight with you; that I do not wish to have to censor what I do when I record it in this magnificent memoir of perfection. I wish to share every little detail and share it with all the satisfaction with which I do it.

  So fuck off and read Jane Eyre if you’ve got a problem with it.

  If you are ready to understand your true side, your true feelings, your true desires, then read on.

  You may learn something.

  Just don’t pretend you are better than me.

  I repeat:

  Do not ever pretend you’re better than me, you fucking cretin.

  Pity the one who holds in their nature.

  Envy the one who frees it.

  2

  My typical day starts with the same tedious alarm, silenced by the same tedious wife. She rolls over; the covers draped below her thighs. She wears vest and pants. To most men this would be attractive. She is thin, mousy blond hair, and although she has cellulite on her cheeky little arse cheeks she owns it, she’s confident with it, and that’s so much more attractive than someone who just moans and moans about their shit body.

  Truth is though, I’m bored.

  If th
is was the first time I was seeing her then I wouldn’t be able to wait to slide those panties off and pin her arms down and fuck her as I looked at the cactus on the windowsill and fantasise about choking her on it.

  But, honestly, I don’t want to touch her. Her body is sticky with sweat, and her mum scar—despite being sixteen years old—seems to light up in the morning sun. I thought it was sexy dating someone ten years older than me, but in truth, it was a phase. Like Tamagotchi’s or pogs or nu-metal music, the spark just goes and you want something newer, something fresh.

  I peel myself out of bed before she breathes her morning breath over me and asks for morning sex. She tries to entice me back to bed but I pretend I don’t hear her and I go into the bathroom and I shit with the door open in hope this will mean she doesn’t touch me. She does though. She strokes my neck as she comes in and begins brushing her teeth and oh aren’t we the image of a married couple, shitting and brushing together.

  I pretend I need to shit more just to get some peace. She goes downstairs and I hear the kettle boil just as I hear a bedroom door opening from down the hallway. I end my fake bowel movements and walk into the hallway.

  There she is.

  Standing in the doorway to her room.

  Flora. Pouty lips, dainty waist, and tiny tits. I love tiny tits. The tinier the better. I love something I can grab in one hand and pretend it’s been ripped off. She shaves, too. Usually girls her age have only just acquired their hair and aren’t in such a rush to get rid of it, but she’s the exception.

  “Hey,” she says, her voice sultry like silk.

  I smile.

  She walks past me to the bathroom. Her buttocks throb from side to side beneath pyjama shorts so miniscule that I can see everything. She leaves a gap in the bathroom door while she pees. I listen. I picture it.

  She flushes and walks out.

  “Can you stop staring at me?” she says.

  “Right you are,” I say, and walk sideways to the stairs so she can see my erection.

  Downstairs, Lisa has her suit on and she’s wearing trousers with a blazer. She dresses like a man. Sometimes women trying to be strong women do that. Don’t get me wrong, I like strong women, but I disagree that a strong woman should dress like a man to appear as a strong woman. Why can’t femininity be strong?

  “Have you got a busy day today?”

  “Yes,” I say. “I’ve got the Anderson account and I might be late.”

  There’s no Anderson and there’s no account and there’s no being late. I’m filthy rich, and she doesn’t know it, but I’ll be going to have a beautiful lunch she could never afford, followed by an afternoon of whatever I fancy. I’ll be late because I’ll probably be tying up a whore and inspecting their body with a flashlight.

  Flora walks in. Now she knows how to dress. She dresses up like all those girls her age, with a skirt halfway between her waist and her knees that flows and brushes up in the breeze as she walks. The top three buttons of her school shirt are undone, and her blazer is hung over the strap of her shoulder bag. Her school socks are white and floral and go up to her knees. There’s something so sexy about a knee between socks and skirt. In other circumstance a knee would just be a knee, but when it's framed in such a way it is immensely alluring.

  “Right,” Lisa says. “I am off. Have a good day at school.”

  She kisses Flora on the cheek. Flora doesn’t react.

  “Have a good day at work.”

  She kisses me on the cheek. I don’t let her see me flinch.

  “I should be back about five,” she says. “When will you be home?”

  “Late.”

  “Flora’s got a parent’s evening at seven, don’t forget you said you’d come.”

  Ah, yes. A parent’s evening for a teenage girl who’s not my daughter. Wonderfuckingful.

  “I’ll be there.”

  Her heels make that irritating cloppy sound as they disappear into the distance, and she makes the house shake under the strength of her opening and shutting the door.

  Me and Flora just look at each other.

  She butters her toast, repeating the same action again and again as she just stares at me.

  Either it’s a cheeky little smirk or a knowing smile of loathing. I can never tell.

  I convince myself that she wants me.

  “Your mum will be back at five,” I say.

  “She is,” she says.

  “I’ll be back about three thirty,” I say.

  “You will,” she says.

  She finishes buttering then scrapes the remnants of the plate into the bin.

  “You not going to eat that?” I ask.

  “I hate toast. I hate breakfast. I didn’t want any. Just didn’t want Mum going on about how important breakfast is.”

  Defiant little bitch.

  I love it.

  “Have a good day at school,” I say.

  “Oh,” she says. “I will.”

  She walks out of the room, her skirt outlining the top of her posterior, swaying from side to side and I marvel at it the way cavemen once marvelled at the first wheel; something new to the world that will be used over and over.

  I finish the shit coffee Lisa buys and I walk out the house and get into my Mercedes. I drive for about an hour until I get to a new restaurant that’s being opened by some loud-mouthed chef from television. It’s supposed to be expensive, which means it should be good. I go in and I order a coffee and already I can taste the difference between the exquisite bitter aroma of a marvellous cup of fresh beans and the putrid vile Lisa purchases from whatever local chain of cheap food supermarkets she shops in.

  “Would you like to see the brunch menu?” a waitress with stubby legs and high cheek bones asks.

  “Veal. I want veal. I’m feeling veal—do you have any veal?”

  “Erm, it’s not on our brunch menu–”

  “That isn’t what I asked.”

  “I—I think we have some. I can go check.”

  “Yes, you do that.”

  That was more complicated than it needed to be.

  I await her return with impatient anticipation. The napkin is folded into a duck. I pick up the fork and I stick it through the duck’s neck, twisting it until it unfolds, and the duck lies as a dead piece of white fabric.

  “The chef says he can do you some veal,” she says, returning to my side before I notice she’s there.

  “Good,” I say, not sure what else she’s waiting for.

  “Is there anything else you would like?”

  “Well, what comes with the veal?”

  “Creamed mashed potato, I think, an assortment of steamed vegetables doused in herbs, and–”

  “All of that sounds fine.”

  She scuttles away like a lopsided beetle and I take a moment to myself. All around me are groups of people together on their mobile phones, living life through deadening technology. I don’t have a mobile phone with me because I wish to experience life. I could kill all these people and they would be just the same as they are now. Dormant and alone. Pathetic and obsessed.

  One of them takes a photo of their food. No, my dear, you are meant to eat it, not capture its image in the immortal hard drive of your coma-inducing device.

  Pathetic. Sad. Really, all of them.

  After eight minutes and thirty-two seconds my veal arrives and whilst I appreciate its speed it makes me sceptical as to how it was cooked.

  I eat, satisfied that I am living a grand life whilst Lisa is not. It gives me a little tingle to know she will never get to experience what it’s like to eat real food. Later on, I will chomp on the shit she makes before leaving most of it to the knapsack. Then I will imagine in what way it would be best for her die.

  3

  I spend my afternoon sat in a local bar with three people I call friends in an attempt to appeal to the world’s requirement for someone normal to be surrounded by idiotic specimens they supposedly like. Having these pricks around makes it seem like I
’m one of them, one of the guys, but they simply allow me to conform to conventions that make me seem regular.

  There are three of them, all filthy rich and ugly as shit. Charles, Carter and Clayton. All names that begin with C, linking to how they all adhere to the connotations of another word beginning with C.

  Charles dresses in a brown suit that looks like it’s made from wool but probably isn’t. He grows a moustache to try to hide the fact that he looks like he’s still twelve, despite being thirty-two. The moustache looks like the kind of moustache a twelve-year-old Indian boy could grow. He sits back and crosses his legs and I wonder how small his dick and balls must be to do that. He has a wife, but he never talks about her, nor does he converse about his three daughters. There isn’t even a picture of them in his wallet. It’s like they don’t even exist which, to Charles, they may as well not.

  Carter is the quiet one. He likes to pretend it’s because he’s introverted and doesn’t like idle chatter. Honestly, it’s because he’s too thick to say anything useful and too self-conscious about how thick he is to have the confidence to give his contribution to the conversation. He sits there every day, fingers clasped, desperately lonely. His seven-year-old son wants nothing to do with him, and how much of a sack of shit must you be for a seven-year-old to already realise you are a sack of shit?

  Clayton is the kind of male you get in every male group. Sometimes you get more than one. He attempts to be the alpha male yet is anything but. He brags about his sexual conquests in the most vulgar of language but is probably getting the least sex out of all of us. Charles is married, so he is sure to have the obligatory fuck when it gets too long since he and his wife last fucked and they have to resign to the idea that they should probably fuck again. Carter may be quiet-mouthed and inept, but he has enough money to pay for whores—usually the same whore he keeps going back to, probably to convince himself he’s in a relationship with her, despite him fucking her hours after she has likely fucked someone else. I even fucked her once, just for the fun of it, just so when he was fucking her and pretending to be in love I could have the knowledge he was enduring my sloppy seconds.