Peter Jung (peterus7) wrote, @ 2005-02-26 17:12:00

Storytime.


Dear Angela,

I am amazed that someone has actually written me. That, or the guards finally let some mail get to me. Still, your letter was surprisingly neutral, so I have no idea of how to approach it. ‘Simon, why did you do it, -Angela Smith.’ Try to be a bit more descriptive next time.

So, you want to know why I did it, why I, Simon Futcher, killed those 3 people. Well, prepare to read a while. I have no shortage of time here, as they keep me in solitary confinement, and all I have are my books and the short hour of social time they give me at breakfast with the other inmates. It is of no concern, however, they fear and respect me, and they know I am perfectly aware of that. So, with things in that state, I am given to be able to talk to you for quite a while.

But again, where to start?

I shall tell you about my history first. As you have probably heard in the news and what not, I was an insurance salesman. I was born in Los Angeles, and moved to New York when I was 4. I have black eyes and black hair. I ride… rode… a tan Honda.

The news always tells you the things that matter the least. I shall tell you my true story.

My parents were always good to me. They divorced when I was seven, but even so, it was a fairly easy divorce and it went over well. My dad moved away, and I lived with my mom. Even so, I stayed in good contact with both of them and there were no qualms. My home life was fine, and I always got along fairly well with my little sister, Hannah.

My school life, however, was not such a happy story. I went to school, and I saw the horrible things people did to each other, and did to me. I was often the victim of bullying and abuse because I was this scrawny short kid. I went through a punk rock phase and began finding friends who were twice my size to defend me from the horrors of bullying, but even so it still happened.

New York has a massive problem with bullies. They rule the school grounds, and make everybody’s life miserable. My sister was almost raped several times, and I came home countless times with a bloody nose and black eyes. My parents felt for me, but it never helped, and the school administration ignored my pleas. Instead, they sent me to counseling, as why would the school administration ever listen to a kid who listens to devil music? I was a child who needed to be cured of my gothy hatred of life, not helped out and defended.

One horrible day on my senior year, Darnell Jackson, one of the bullies, got a bit too far. Not only did he try to rape my sister on several occasions, he regularly groped her and did other horrible things to her. He had beat me up on several occasions, and was a big guy. My sister came into my room in tears after he had gotten a bit too close for comfort, and we had a long talk.

The next day, Darnell Jackson didn’t come to school. In fact, he was never seen again. I will not comment on any of that, as I was not convicted for the murder of Darnell, and I don’t wish to incriminate myself. Let’s just say that… Justice was served.

After that, things did get better. The bullying lessened as everybody wondered what happened to Darnell, and people began muttering that one of the bullied kids had snapped. Maybe that had happened, maybe it hadn’t.

Anyway, a few months later, a guy who had been a senior when I was a freshman approached me. I can’t recall his name, but I knew him somewhat well. He handed me a police revolver and told me I was suitable to carry on his work. He told me one thing after that, “Be just. Don’t be cruel, be just.”

I got out of the hell that was High school shortly after, and went to a community college where I got my business degree. Shortly after, I got hired as an insurance salesman after a short stint working at a fast food place. I moved out of my mom’s apartment, and life was going pretty well. I kept the pistol that was given to me for the purpose of justice, but didn’t use it.

I always got along pretty well with the staff at the office until a new manager came as Mr. Timberlee, the kindly old man who ran the office, was told he needed to retire. He did so rather unwillingly, and the new manager came in. Her name was Denise Willhard, and she was as cruel as you get. At least once a week, a worker would get called to her office and leave crying. Several times I ended up having to hold some of the girls (and once one of the boys) as they recovered from the verbal beatings she issued. Then, on February 12th 1998, I was called to her office.

I hadn’t done anything wrong. I had always done good work, and I kept to my quota. I had, however, made a minor filing mistake.

She treated me like I had destroyed the company. She viewed me with such contempt, and yet I could tell from behind those eyes that she was doing this out of fear, out of fear of me. So, instead of taking her abuse and letting her get the joy of watching me squirm and perhaps cry, I sat there and looked her in the eye the entire time. Even though I could feel her words getting crueler and crueler as they shredded my insides, I kept eye contact. I could feel tears at times welling in my eyes, but I kept staring with a sort of weird smile. She had begun to talk about firing me, and yet I still kept on grimacing in an attempt to smile. Finally, she looked at the clock, looked at me, still staring at her with that smile which had turned from a polite smile into a bizarre leer, and told me I could go.

I went home that night, and became fascinated with the topic of justice. Over the next few days I read several books on it, and scanned the library for more books on law, justice, criminology, forensic science, and morality.

Several weeks later, Denise Willhard filed her resignation while apparently having a panic attack. Two weeks after that, she was found dead in her house, handcuffed to a lead pipe in the basement. From the police report, she had not been fed in those two weeks, and had eaten most of her tongue, several bugs, plaster from the walls, and several of her teeth.

I will not comment on how that grisly situation came about, but the only people who came to her funeral were her co-workers. Her family hated her, and she had no true friends. Those workers who came to her funeral did not pay her respect in flowers, but instead spat on her grave.

Justice was served.

I kept working there, and soon a new manager was found. His name was Mark Halder, and he seemed like a nice guy. No problems there. It was all good, until Jason Veranis, the company vice president came to our office. He was a perfectionist, and yet from what I had gathered in break room talk, he had his dark side. He had disowned his gay son, abused his wife regularly to the point of her having to cover up her black eyes during company dances, and regularly drunk himself into oblivion, only to beat his wife before blacking out.

He disliked the amount of time Mark Halder was spending trying to heal the wounds of Denise’s tyranny, so he cut his wage and demoted him to a sub-manager. He then began to watch over us like a vulture, and soon it became just like Denise was there again.

Two days later he filed his resignation unexpectedly, shaking like a leaf as he did. Four days later he was found in an abandoned steel mill outside town. According to the police report, someone had chained him down, then melted down a large amount of change, then poured it down his throat and on his face.

I didn’t go to his funeral, but I heard his wife was crying tears of joy.

In the neighborhood around my office there was a lot of crime, a lot of homeless, and a lot of junkies. There were muggers, gangs, crack whores, meth heads, and all manner of sickos.

One day, one of my co workers, Tim Branton, came into the office dejected. We began talking about stuff, and apparently he had decided to not go home to his wife, but was instead seduced by a hooker named Tasha. This had turned into a habit, but he had begun to worry, and got himself tested for HIV. Sure enough, he was positive, and he believed his wife might have been infected too. He had brought it up with her, and she had just laughed.

I didn’t know how to react to this, so I went back to work. Several days later, he was found dead, overdosed on various over the counter pills, with a haphazard suicide note written by him.

Tasha was found dead two days later. According to the police report, her face had been shoved into a filthy toilet where she had died of suffocation, then left there to rot.

Justice had been served.

Time went by, and more deaths happened that I will relate to you. There was Father Gregory Jones, a Mormon priest who regularly blackmailed his congregation. He was found crucified on the altar, with pages from the book or Mormon stapled and nailed all over his body.

There was Zach Lewis, a paranoid and dangerous meth head. He was always panicking, and had mugged quite a few people. He made the mistake of mugging one of the people from my office. He was later found dead. According to the police report, he had been injected with enough meth to kill an elephant.

Then there was Logan Mason, the principal at a local high school. From what I heard, he would let bullying go on, let certain individuals whose parents were in PTA get away with shit like bullying, rape, and drugs, but if a dorky scrawny kid was found wearing a pentagram, he would be expelled faster than he could say “hypocrite”. He was found dead soon after, and according to the police report, he had resigned several days before while having a panic attack. His body was found on a barbed wire fence outside town limits, with his chest gutted and his intestines spilling out, and several pentagrams were carved deeply on his body.

There was Bill Barker, a cop at the local station who was in charge of homicide. To say he was a corrupt cop was an understatement, as he would pull over a black guy for no reason and arrest him for resisting the law when he got angry. He would plant evidence, and was known for his racism. He had killed several black guys for running away, and always planted evidence. He was found dead in the local ghetto cafeteria after a power outage, his eyes gouged out with spoons, suffocated, and various parts cut off.

There was a poor little girl named Stephanie who lived in the apartments near the office. Her parents abused her regularly, and made her do horrible things for them. They were obviously insane, and were always getting drunk and making her do horrible things that kids shouldn’t ever have to see, much less do. The school administration had never commented on the fact that she was always crying and beat up, and didn’t seem to care at all. One day she came back home and her parents weren’t there. She never saw them again, and was put in a better foster family. Two bodies were later found right outside city limits, but due to the extensive amount of mutilation, the bodies were never identified.

Justice had been served again and again around me.

Now, here are the stories I can tell you about, the murders that I did commit, according to the police. The rest, they were unable to pin on me, and I will never confess to them.

There was a professor at my community college, a horrible woman named Deborah Nitt, who taught mathematics, but at the same time didn’t teach anything. Instead, she would lie to the students, expect them to memorize the book, and try to make them fail so she could weed out more students. She believed that the weeding out process was in her hands, and that nobody was as intelligent as her, although the fact that she was so insecure said wonders about her true intelligence. I had taken her class a long time ago, and failed it along with most of the class, not because I did too badly on tests, but because I questioned her logic. Even so I still continued on my degree.

Anyway, I read in the obituaries of a teenager who had shot himself in the head after failing her class. He was the type of kid who tried his best at everything, and even though he wasn’t too smart, he did well. This class, though, he failed too, and ended his life.

So I decided that this bitch was going to die.

So, I took to myself to create a mask, a mask so terrifying it would drive anyone mad who saw it. I did just that, and found myself so incredibly repulsed by it that I could barely put it on. Even so, I did just that, and began my pursuit of Deborah. Of course she still had her job, the college administration was too busy with their bureaucracy to worry about firing a teacher who had led to a student killing himself. Hell, suicides were fairly common with college students, but nobody had wondered why most of these suicides had come out of her class.

I found out where she lived in the phone book, scooped the place out, then hid in the bushes, with my mask, wearing tattered rags. In this costume, I appeared to be something worse than death, not even human.

She got home with a box of dunkin’ donuts, which she was always eating in class. As she stepped into her house, I made my appearance.

She panicked, and I began to chase her, then suddenly withdrew to the bushes. I then saw her peek out the door, and then lock it.

I then stood by the back door, which was a simple screen door. I saw her waddle into the kitchen, then look up to see me with my horrible face. I heard her scream, but then with a terrible voice I shouted to her.

“WAIT.”
She screamed. They always screamed.
“WAIT.”
“Wha…. What do you want?”
“You are going to die.” I said, then vanished into the bushes.

She quit her job in the midst of a panic attack, and I watched her drive away towards her house. I beat her there, and waited in the bushes with the mask again. This time, however, I had a few little toys I had brought.

I saw her pull into her driveway, just a few feet away from me, and waddle out. I suddenly jumped out, and pulled that old revolver on her, the revolver given to me for the purpose of justice.

“Don’t make a noise.” I said.
She screamed, so I rushed her and with a single swipe from the pistol, she was on the ground. With another deft action, I had some duct tape out and had it over her mouth. I then proceeded to kick her in the gut a few times, just to make sure she wasn’t getting up.

“You are Deborah Nitt. You are responsible for the death of Tom Harris, a student who killed himself after failing your class. You must now die for your sins.”

I looked into her eyes, and she was scared, terrified, and hateful… But not remorseful. If she had shown remorse in her eyes, she would have lived. But… People never do. They are so set in their evil ways that there is no other way to see the world, therefore the only logical option for them is to die.

An appropriate death for her had already been set in my mind.

According to the police report, she was found with a sharpened pencil stuck into her eye, then shoved into her brain where she was given a severe lobotomy. Then, several pencils were shoved into her jugular, leaving her to bleed to death.

Justice was served.

I must confess I received no real pleasure out of this. There is a rush at the sight of blood, yes, but it is a grueling activity, killing an individual. It exhausts you, and it is often amazing how much one can take before they die. Even so, this death was rewarding, as this person deserved it.

I knew a fair amount of forensic science at this point, and was able to cover my tracks. I made my way out, and went to work the next day like nothing had happened.

While at work, I heard some complaints about a certain doctor at a hospital. He would diagnose people with disorders they obviously didn’t have so he could make more money off them, and was a pervert, insisting that any teenager that came to him, male or female, have a full pelvic exam. From talking to people, it became clear that this guy was a scumbag and regularly ripped people off, and sexually harassed most of his patients under the guise of ‘I just need to check this out.’

I decided that I would go visit him… And I was right, the man was sick. At first he was uninterested in seeing me, but I told him that I needed a physical for work, and I got one. Not only was he cruel and lousy with needles, he was rough and coarse. No bedside manner at all at all. On top of that, he diagnosed me with some disease I had never heard of, and prescribed me with some antibiotics that nearly killed my medical coverage.

I wasn’t in the mood to wait, so I waited outside the hospital and followed him home. He made a pit stop halfway through to go to a porn store, and after leaving I followed him to his Lexus with my face down, for I was wearing the mask.

Finally, I heard him turn around to face me.

“What do you want? Why are you following me?”

I lifted my face, and swung at him. He caught my fist, but I lifted my other hand, which held the gun, and he got a glimpse of my horrible mask. I then gave him a swift kick to the gut, and then forced him to get into the trunk. He did.

According to the police report, he had been shoved into his trunk, then his Lexus had been driven into the port. His body was recovered bloated and hardly recognizable, but his wallet was still there.

Justice had been served.

The only problem was I had left my car running, and the porn store owner had gotten the license plate. It was the beginning of the end for me.

The last of my work was one of the people in my apartment complex. He was a 30something year old guy who got drunk at strip clubs and then came home and abused his kids and tortured his pets. Every night I would hear screams and cries, or yelping and howling of animals. I had been plotting this bastard’s demise for a long time, as it had become painfully apparent that his death would most likely be the most just of any of them.

I met him by the wash room, and told him about this sweet nightclub I had found. I had figured out that he was into that shit, so I figured he would be cool. The way he looked at me was one of contempt, but I did detect the eagerness in his eyes as I described the things the girls would do there. We agreed to do it, so we got into my car and drove for a while. The conversation was painfully horrible, as he described the shit he had to deal with every day, and I became convinced that he was unredeemable. Finally, we stopped by an abandoned building outside city limits, an old warehouse. He was confused, but I told him it was underground. When he heard that he seemed pleased, so I told him to wait there while I got the keys to the nightclub entrance. Returning to my car, I got my dark robes, the mask, some chains, my revolver, and some little tools. I would make him pay the same way he made his kids and pets pay.

I went berserk once my mask was on, and began to chase him through the apartment. Again, I do not feel pleasure from this, but I feel it is my duty to make them suffer in the way which they made others suffer. Finally I caught up with him and with a few hits to the gut and a gun pointed at his head, I managed to chain him up to one of the posts.

“Please! Don’t kill me! I have two kids!” He said whimpering loudly.
“Who you abused. Your time is up.” I said, pulling out my little toys.

Suddenly I heard a loud crack as he managed to shatter the beam he was attached to. He kicked me in the face, and despite the mask it still knocked me back. He then started for the door, and I pulled the revolver out, got him in my sights, and shot it.

There was a noise, but no bullet.

I was amazed, this whole time it was a blank gun. Even so, I heard him trying to get into the car. I rushed outside to see him break the window with his fist, which caused a severe amount of bleeding. I then rushed behind him with a sharpened flathead screwdriver and stabbed it into his lower back.

His entire body stiffened, then I pulled it out, causing him to collapse. I stepped over him calmly, and got into my car. I watched as he tried to get up, but was slowed by his blood loss. I then turned the car around, and ran the bastard over.

For some reason in my anger, I had forgotten to clean the car wheels or cover my tracks. I must have thought that they would have covered themselves in a remote place like this, but it didn’t really work out like that. Instead, I just drove home.

When I did, there were four police cars waiting for me. I tried to get out of the parking lot, but they shot out my tired, drug me from the car, and gave me a pretty severe beating.

You know the story of my trial. I admitted to the three murders, but none more due to lack of evidence. My lawyer was pretty damn good, and thanks to him I get to live on, although my killing days are over. They lock me up with chains wherever I go, and I am never out in the open without an escort. My inmates admire me to some extent for what I’ve done, but they also fear me, the same way they fear justice.

But again, I am finished. They took away everything I had, and they’re leaving me here.

So… Why did I do it? The story tells it all, really, but I guess I should explain it a bit more. I came to the realization a long time ago that life is not fair. There are many people who deserve death, but live. There are many other people who deserve life, but are killed, often at the hands of those who deserve death. My purpose, my job, was to help settle the balance. If I asked anyone if the people I killed didn’t deserve it, they would probably say no, and even if they didn’t, they’d definitely pause. It’s well known that I never went after innocents. That knowledge has, from what I was told by my lawyer, has given me a sort of cult fandom as the angel of death. Even so, you are the first fan, if you are indeed a fan, I have gotten a letter from.

I do not kill for rage, or for insanity. I kill for justice, and good. I am sane, and I care about others. I love people, and I was always there for people at the office. I had a lot of good friends, and they all testified that I wasn’t a killer. Alas, I feel horrible that I had to have this side, but I wouldn’t trade it. Justice had to be done, and I was glad I was the one to do it. I believe for these things, I am indeed a good person. I just have a different way of seeing the world, where other who want to do good by helping people who have suffered at the hands of monsters, I slay the monsters. That way, they can’t hurt anyone else, and I know they’ll get their punishment in hell.

As for myself, I do feel a bit guilty, as I know some of these people could have had good sides, if things had gone differently. Even so, I looked into each of their eyes and saw only hatred, fear, and corruption. These people were lost, and could not be salvaged. As for myself, I see it as being over. I have made my peace with God, and I feel that despite my evil deeds, I am going to the good place when I eventually perish.

My only regret is that I can’t continue doing justice.

That’s why I offer this to you now, this mission; be just. Don’t be cruel, be just. Hell, spread this mission around, but be sure that you spread it to only those who are worthy of it. There are people out there who would be corrupted by this dark mission, but there are also some people who are good people, and would be better used to cleanse this world.

I am aware that killing people who are evil seems somewhat oxymoronic, but you must understand that it really isn’t. Sometimes, you have to fight fire with fire, but it is also important to not give into rage. Stay calm and peaceful, and you will become not a serial killer, but an angel of death.

Goodbye, and good luck with this mission. Carry on my work, and spread my word, and soon this world will be cleansed of evil.

-Simon Futcher