LEGACY Read online

  ‘LEGACY’

  BY

  Michael Noe

  And brought to you with much fear and loathing from

  LEGACY is published in the US and A by MorbidbookS and the Grace of God. Copyright Michael Noe for words and music 2014. Cover art and design by Steven Scott Nelson 2014. Stage direction by The Grim Reverend Steven Rage and inappropriate fondling of said Author and Staff by FucknPunch, The Chronically Unemployed Child-Care Clown. Advance Reading, Proofing and sage wisdom from the one and onliest Monica Roncancio. The moral right, such as it is, of this author and his disjointed multiple personality disorders have been asserted. All Rights Reserved. No part of this dark, violent tome may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any electronic, alien or mechanical means including photocopying, recording, drawing stick figures, seventeenth century printing press, chain mail, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without the express written permission of The Reverend, Michael Noe, The Great and Powerful Oz and the Hand that turns the Big Wheel, except where permitted by law or whatever the hell you think you can get away with. But if you do please be advised that you will incur the righteous disdain of The Reverend. And that is no bueno, primo. Characters in this vicious tale are fictitious. Duh. Obviously. Any resemblance to real persons, be they living or dead, demons, succubae, demi-gods or the ‘formerly living’ (zombies) is purely coincidental.

  This shit right here is a MorbidbookS blunt. You dig?

  Morbidbooks Is A Grotesque Bizarro Ballet Where The Most Profane Things Occur. An Impious And Perverse Dwelling Of Dark Revulsion. A Cozy Cottage Where Torture Porn And Brutal Bible Tales Are Devised. A Quiet Place To Relax And Spin Tales Of Depravity And Wickedness. A Halfway House For The Disturbed Where Rules No Longer Apply. A Safe Haven For Deviant Serial Killers To Hatch Their Wretched Schemes. Bring Your Pets. The Tasty Ones Are Always Welcome.

  HTTPS://WWW.MORBIDBOOKS.WORDPRESS.COM

  I dedicate Legacy to my three amazing kids, Hunter, Hailie, and Justin. I love you all very much. I cannot tell you enough how much you inspire me.

  And to my amazing mother for always supporting me.

  Special thanks to Tracey for putting up with me and believing in me. I love you and cannot imagine seeing this in print without your name inside of it. Now go make me a sammitch!

  Peanut for also putting up with me and also for believing in me. You are awesome and I adore you.

  Steven Scott Nelson for publishing my twisted novella. Without him you wouldn't be reading this.

  Thank you for taking the time to read this. You rule!

  PUBLISHER’S NOTE:

  All lyrics quoted in this vicious tome are from the song ‘Prison Sex’, Track #2, from TOOL’s incredible album: ‘UNDERTOW’.

  If you are a TOOL fan, you know this song.

  If you are not a TOOL fan, you should be.

  If you are TOOL (and how cool would that be, Michael Noe?), The Grim Reverend Steven Rage loves you and your work. So for God’s Blessed Sake, please don’t sue. 

  LEG·A·CY /ˈlegəsē/ Noun

  “Anything handed down from the past, as from an ancestor or predecessor.”

  “My lamb and martyr, you look so precious.”

  I have her tied tightly to a simple wooden kitchen chair. She is bound and gagged and struggling against her plight to beat the band. Her brunette hair is plastered to her face; her dark eyes are wide with fear.

  "Shhhhhhh, don't try and move dear, it just makes the ropes that much tighter.” She settles down a little. I smile and even convince myself that my charming grin is why she beginning to behave. Or perhaps it’s the big sharp knife-tip I have poking ever so slightly into her left nostril. Either way, I do not care. Who would have thought that a man of seventy would be able to capture such a striking young woman?

  The knife feels so good in my hand. It is almost like coming home. I do wonder what will happen after she was dead. Not to her, of course. There will be no more boys trying to finger-bang her through her perty pink panties, as my old drill instructor used to say. Sweet Little Mary-Jane Rotten-Crotch is destined to die. Rather badly, I might add. At least judging from the pounding of excitement I feel in my temples and the erection coalescing in my trousers. But that’s not the real question. The real question is … What will I do? I have been blessed with the kind of patience that comes only with time and this is the best day I have had in a long while. I chuckle aloud and for some strange reason this makes her cry all the more. Like my good-time is bothering her. I run a roughened hand over my bald-slick dome, wiping free a sheet of excited sweat. I stare down at her, watching her closely. Her tears-for-fears are making me rebar-rigid. A grand idea forms fully in my blood-pounding brain-pan and I just love it. We are together and all alone in my basement. We have all the time in the world for me to enjoy a period of personal reflection. I figure, let us carpe diem and stretch this mother out.

  “You want to hear a story, sweetheart?" I chuckle softly at my joke because she's not in any position to say anything. I have her exactly where I want her. She doesn’t say diddly-squat, so …

  “Okey-doke,” I tell her, grabbing hold of the first one. “I’ll take that as a yes!”

  I begin the story in the best possible place:

  THE BEGINNING

  If you're reading any of these journals, I must be dead. As I was in Wal-Mart looking over the various notebooks and pens I knew that in order to do this and be successful I can't live. I don't plan on being captured and if the police ever find out about me I'm going put a gun in my mouth and blow my brains out. I have really studied and learned that in order to commit the perfect murder you have to be careful, and once you get sloppy you make mistakes and are then caught by the police. I want to be the one to say when it ends, I want to be totally in control. There are a variety of cute notebooks. Notebook with fluffy kittens, and puppies. I touch them and imagine what I could fill them up with.

  You already know who I am by now and there are going to be a lot of theories, a lot of stories but I want to tell my story my way. Will these journals be censored? I would imagine so due to the victim's having families and why in the hell should they have to read about the murder of their mother or their sister? Jesus Christ, that's pretty sick and I'm wondering why I'm even doing this. I know why I'm doing it but will anyone even see it? That is the risk I'm willing to take and if you're smart you'll close this book and walk away. I have no idea what these journals will contain, hell I have no idea how long I'll be killing. If I only manage to kill one person the journals that I'm buying are a waste of money, aren't they?

  To start this I pick up a couple of fake leather looking journals and a fluffy kitty notebook just to screw with people's heads. You have to to admit thaty it sounds pretty funny. I grab a pack of pens and wonder why I need to handwrite these journals. I have a laptop at home and it seems that in this wonderful age of technology I could keep a journal there but it doesn't feel right. I needed to put pen to paper and actually write it out. That was why I was at Wal-Mart that evening. I knew that very soon I would begin my killing spree. I have to be honest as I felt the subtle weight of those notebooks I was slightly afraid as well as excited. This was the moment it all would begin and life for me would never be the same. A journey starts with a small step or maybe even a leap off a high cliff.

  7-11-14

  Where should I begin this? What would you like to hear? Pull up a chair and get comfy because this where we'll begin this little adventure. Make no mistake this is an adventure but this is one we'll take together. I always liked adventures. When I was a kid my parents would take us to Cedar Point every summer. Living In Ohio Cedar Point was our Disneyland. It was an amusement Park that had some of the best roller coasters. I was just happy to be getting out of our small
town. We lived in Milford which was good two hours away from Sandusky. We would take pillows and blankets for the drive but that evening we would stay in a motel and hit Cedar Point early the next morning.

  Those trips made me feel alive and before every trip I would mark the days off on my calendar. Summer vacation still means a lot to me and I'm thirty three now. I think that's why I became a teacher. I liked teaching don't get me wrong but there were some days I wondered why I was wasting my time. Half of the kids I taught weren't very bright and came from homes full of domestic violence. These were parents that quite frankly had no business being parents. they were just as stupid as their kids. I think the point is that we all need something that makes us happy. A memory that we can cling to when life grows difficult and hard to tolerate. Everyone's life gets like that so the memories serve as a reason to keep living.

  What I need to say here at this moment is that I'm not crazy. Despite what you may read, or think, or hear, I am of sound mind. You hear people all the time who give their reasons on why they kill. It's always the same bullshit. They hear voices, they see demons, they were addicted to killing, and the list goes on and on. What if one day I just woke up and decided that the world needed a bit more violence? Would you believe me if I said that I wanted to replicate the legacy of Jack The Ripper? I don't mean to say that I want to commit the same type of crimes, or even his style. Give me some credit. All I want to do is kill and kill and kill without being caught. No one has ever been able to do that. Serial killers have this idea that they're God and I guess in a way they are but then they get sloppy and then what happens? They get caught.

  I guess the question I want to ask is this; can a normal, sane, intelligent person kill? I will be totally honest with you here and tell you that my daddy never touched me and my mom never beat the shit out of me. Never. That's the problem with killers and even criminals. They want to blame everyone else for what they've done. Daddy fucked me in my ass, my mother beat me with a belt, or my uncle used to beat off in front of me. I had a normal childhood, and even as I write this I am a stable and well-adjusted adult. Maybe at some point I'll give you my name and we can be friends. I'm a teacher and I'm engaged to be married. When this is over you'll see that I'm not bullshitting you. You will see countless people come out and tell you that I was a great and decent man. I did so much for the town of Milford and they are shocked that I did what I did.

  “Got your hands bound, your head down, your eyes closed.

  You look so precious now.”

  Death is inevitable for me so if I don't really care if I am caught. Her skin feels so good, so warm. It has been too long since I felt this vibrant, this alive. It makes my knees weak. I can smell her fear and I miss that smell so much.

  7-15-14

  Did you know that for four dollars and seventeen cents you can go into any Home Depot and get these disposable painters coveralls that will save you from being covered in blood? I got the idea after reading about various crimes and realized that if one were smart they would just wear something that would protect their clothing, and why stop there? They have shoe covers and disposable gloves as well. Wear that shit and quite possibly you save yourself the grief of being tied to a murder you had fun not only planning but also carrying out. I saw the coveralls while I was paint shopping with my fiancée and bought them because I do want to commit a few murders and I don't want to get caught right away.

  I know what you're thinking. I'm full of crap, I'm deluded. I write in these journals and say that I'm going to murder some people yet no one has died. Where oh where is the violence and bloodshed? When are you going to show us that you aren't full of shit? See the date? I am here in my kitchen eating a peanut butter and jelly sandwich a mere day after killing a Mr. James Brandenburg. Now your eyebrows are going up, your heart has started beating just a little harder hasn't it? If this were a porn you would get your money shot. You would see me having sex with some cracked out porn star, and suddenly I pull my cock out of her cunt and unload my nut all over that bitches fake tits. Now is the time when I tell you about my evening and I assure you by the end all the facts will line up and you'll see that this was the night my reign of terror began.

  You read about tragedy and dying on a daily basis so what I'm doing isn't new or unique. People crave blood and guts and I intend to give all of you one hell of a show. All you have to do is grab my blood splattered hand and we'll go on an adventure. Oh the sights you'll see! Are you really prepared to read about James' murder? Are you sure you want to peel back my skull and look inside my brain? What if some of me exist inside of you? Sometimes I'll be talking to someone and instantly I wonder what they're thinking. What deep dark secrets are they hiding? What's the sickest thing they've ever done? Do we really want to peer into the dark? What if we see ourselves there peering back at us?

  I saw James coming out of a Burger King two days ago. He was carrying a sack of food and I decided to follow him to see where he went. James just happened to be at the wrong place at the wrong time. If there were a God you could say why didn't He intervene and save him? There are so many people walking around why I would pick a man who was just walking out of a Burger King? It was just a random coincidence and nothing more. If a woman had walked out of there then we would be discussing her murder instead. There can be no pattern, no victimology. I wanted to create a reign of terror and in keeping with that idea I realized it all had to be random. The kicker here is that I don't know shit about stalking or even killing. All I know is what I've seen on countless criminal television shows and horror films. This was real life and as I watched James pull out of the parking lot I felt a tremor of nervousness. What if he saw me? Did I really want to go through with this? Of course I did. Underneath the nervousness was the reality of what I was doing. This was my first victim, my first kill. There were so many thoughts running through my head that I couldn't keep track of them all.

  As we drove along we passed the town square and what we called a downtown. All it consists of really is a library, a post office, and a small diner called Luanne's. When I told you that Milford was small I wasn't kidding. I saw people I knew out walking their dogs, I saw students that I taught playing in various yards. There was a second where I asked myself if I was really sure I wanted to go through with this. This not only affected me but my parents and my fiancée Debra. So many lives would be forever altered and it wasn't something I wanted to think about yet it was there. I loved Debra and knew that there would be a lot of unanswered questions for her but that was what made this exciting for me. No one would suspect me or even think that I could do something like this. There was a thrill there that I kind of enjoyed. It proved that monsters were real and they were everywhere. The big question would be why and those answers are all here in these journals. This is more than just a confession, this is my life story. When I decided to keep these journals I wanted people to know the truth about me. Who knows me better than I do? No one.

  As I followed James I realized that I was heading toward dangerous territory. I was following a man home and then later I was going to kill him. At the moment I had no idea how and quite honestly I didn't even know when. There were so many variables that it made my head ache and my butthole pucker. What in the hell was I going to do? Knock on the door and when he answered it was I just going to stab him? That wouldn't work and it was quite risky. As I sit here writing this, and remembering I can tell you that I was scared to death. I was playing God and as James pulled into his driveway I swear my heart was beating so loudly I thought for sure he would hear it. I had parked close enough so I could observe the landscape quickly. There were two elm trees in the expansive front yard and a large picture window facing the front of the house. It wasn't a remarkable house at all. It was two story brick that reeked middle class. James was in his early forties maybe and I wondered if he lived alone.

  I was confident with what I had done and spent the rest of the afternoon doing laundry and doing other chores I had been neglectin
g. I couldn't believe how normal the rest of the day seemed. Here I was shopping for groceries and being just like everyone else but later? Everything would change. I wasn't exactly thinking about killing James, in fact, I wasn't thinking about anything. I had dinner with Debra and I felt good. My life is exactly where I want it to be. Others can bitch and moan all they want but me? I'm perfectly happy with where I am. I was on the verge of destroying everything but sometimes maybe we all need to take a risk. A leap of faith, or something prophetic.

  Later

  My hand was starting to cramp with all of that damn writing. Let's skip to what you really want. The death of James. It wasn't pretty and I'll admit it didn't go exactly as I had planned. When you see death on television it looks so perfect, so pretty even but in real life it's anything but. I have seen countless horror and war movies and death looks poetic. I didn't even know what to expect really but as I drove toward James’s house I felt like I was going to puke. The lights seemed brighter and the full moon that peeked out from the clouds seemed to shine on me like a spotlight. This was a quiet neighborhood, people looked out for one another so I knew that I had to be quiet, and pretend that I belonged there. If I got cocky I was going to get caught for sure and I couldn't let that happen. Not now.

  I noticed that the street was quiet, and I could smell fresh cut grass. The people in this neighborhood were sheep and busted their ass to keep up with each other. James it seemed was the same way and I hated him a little because I was just like him. I mowed my grass every Saturday, bought the Girl Scout cookies when they came out and did everything I could to keep up the appearance that I actually gave a damn what the others thought about me. I had always been the most likely to succeed, the guy that banged cheerleaders and was an all-around nice guy. I got into teaching because I truly thought the youth of the future had potential but if the elder race died off the planet was truly fucked. There is no hope there. God is fucking dead, he left the building and I doubt that he was ever there to begin with. James had the perfect lawn, the nice brick house but in the end it didn't really matter because I wasn't here on a social visit. I held back a chuckle as I imagined what his neighbors would think when they discovered that James was not only fucking dead but murdered.