Below is the introduction to the as of yet unpublished sequel, Duncan’s Diary, Maturation. It is the second book in the trilogy know as Duncan’s Diary. The first book Duncan’s Diary, Birth of a Serial Killer can be found on Amazon, Barne&Noble or wherever books are sold.
The story below contains graphic language and violence so do not proceed if you are not 18 years or older.
You have been warned.
Jesus, the damn faucet never seemed to shut off. What was the issue with valves anyway? Nothing ever seemed to be made as good as it used to be for some reason. It almost seemed like we came across a good idea, perfected it, and then the assholes in their suits saw how quickly they could turn it into shit so it was more profitable.
Our society really did suck when you took in the overall picture. I mean, really, Meg Whitman in a race to be governor of California? Did she have any concept of what it really takes to run a government? Not that I do, but I didn’t run for office, either. The damn woman couldn’t seem to take the time to vote, yet she figured she could be governor. It makes me a little sick to my stomach, thinking how far we’ve sunk.
“Wouldn’t you agree, Veronika? I asked. Hahahaha, yes I realize you cannot talk. That is the irony of asking the question, you see?”
“Holy shit, that damn leak is going to be the death of me. Now you must see the irony in that, my dear, Veronika.”
Maybe now I should take a step back and explain about Veronika. I realize anyone reading this will have no clue what I’m talking about, let alone what had occurred.
I sat on the tile floor, in my bathroom, next to the tub. The tub was filled with water, you see, and Veronika was lying inside on her back with her face directly under the faucet. It was difficult fitting her in the tub, so I actually had to break both of her legs at the knee caps, twist them like a pretzel, and fold them back underneath her. The tricky part was keeping her awake while this occurred.
“No time for taking a nap right now, is there, sweetie?” I said.
I then placed a piece of plywood on top of her that I precut to fit directly over the tub. I put several concrete foundation bricks on top of the plywood to hold everything in place. Not that it mattered much. Veronika’s hands were tied quite firmly behind her back.
At the top of the plywood was a nice, round hole that was just big enough for Veronika to poke her head through. I’m not a cruel man. Being locked up in a confined space with no way to view the outside world gives me the creeps. We all have our limits. Jesus, I guess I can’t say that for sure. Do all of us really have limits?
If boundaries were a thing that most people possessed then how the hell did that girl from Jersey Shore get a book contract? What was her name? Snooki? I won’t even comment on what kind of a name “Snooki” is. Of course, my name is Duncan Moron, what’s up with that? Let’s just stick to the fact that this girl admittedly has read two books in her entire life. TWO shitty books, and she was writing one.
A Shore Thing. It hit bookstores during January supposedly. The sad thing is it will be an instant hit. I am sure of it. If that is not a glaring indicator on how asinine our society is, then nothing else could come close. Can we not look for stimulation that is more challenging, engaging, and worthwhile? Could this girl really have anything to say that anyone really would give a shit about hearing?
Maybe she should’ve run on the ticket with Meg Whitman. Now that would be a pair to vote for. You’d have the bovine, middle-aged housewife who couldn’t even manage to vote and the young, airheaded socialite who probably couldn’t even spell the word vote. Is it just me, or are we regressing as a nation? No wonder the God damn Japanese own most of our cities. We are too stupid and undeserving.
“Anyway,” as they said on Friends, when my favorite character Phoebe opened her mouth and attempted to speak. My intent was to inform you of who Veronika was. Now I have spent most of my time describing her current precarious situation.
Veronika attended San Mateo Community College. Not to say that she wasn’t smart. I’m sure there are a lot of our brightest young minds attending community colleges. I wonder how many graduates from community colleges actually amount to anything more than clerks, or accountants, or some other mid-level workers. Not that my collegiate career was anything to brag about. I’m an idiot when it comes to books.
“Jesus, you do look sad, Veronika. It’s difficult for me to tell if you’re crying with most of your face submerged in water, but your eyes look so mournful. Are you sorry, Veronika? Are you now wishing you had made other choices? Maybe not getting into the car with your boyfriend wasn’t such a good idea,” I mockingly said to her.
I had ventured over to the college one weekend for the farmer’s market that is held in the parking lot. Some of the most succulent, freshest fruit can be purchased there.
As I was reaching for a plump, ripe tomato, the kind of tomato that erupts with a cry for you to reach out and shove it in your mouth because it’s so fresh, I saw her. I lost track of myself so quickly a lady next to me actually tugged on my shirt sleeve and pointed out I had crushed the vegetable in my hand as my unbridled exuberance overwhelmed me.
Holy shit, that noise was driving me crazy. It probably had the same effect on Veronika, who, at that point, had been lying naked in this tub for 16 hours and 25 minutes. She looked like on over-ripe prune, with her skin folding up in flaps and her face turning blue from the cold, sterile liquid engulfing her wrinkled body.
Jesus, I wondered if she has relieved herself in the water, as well.
It was her happy-go-lucky cheeks that first attracted me. Or maybe it was her smile and her way of greeting people. She was one of those personalities that everyone brightens up around.
“Hey, how are you doing? Can I try a taste of the broccoli-basil bread, please? Oh, thank you.”
It was the kind of talk that normally makes me sick to my stomach, but with her, it just made me smile.
Her black hair was hanging down just past her shoulders, wavy and full, but not too overwhelming. A cacophony of colors seemed to erupt from her eyes, almost to the point you couldn’t quite see what her dominant color was. It seemed odd for a girl from the Philippines, I guessed. Don’t most Filipinos have brown eyes?
She had a bubble butt that oozed curves as her True Religion’s were tasked to the limit, attempting to keep it contained. Women and their innate need to show off their ass. What would most women do if they had a perfectly formed set of butt cheeks that looked half as good as mine?
I slammed my fist down on the plywood is it curved in slightly at the middle and launched a spray of water up from Veronika’s portal of light.
“SHUT THE HELL UP WITH THE WHINING. I AM TRYING TO THINK, YOU LITTLE BITCH!” I screamed at her as the whimpering quickly subsided.
It was too late, though, as took my hand, wrapping my fingers around her head and shoved it fully under the water. The surprising thing was how strong somebody can kick, even when both of their legs are broken and knotted into a ball. The plywood lid to her inevitable coffin bucked and jumped, but it didn’t give as she fought with all of her remaining strength for a paltry ounce of oxygen.
The concrete blocks popped up and down like little ants when you roast them in an iron skillet over an open flame. It’s funny how those little bugs can jump when their feet are burning from the searing heat. I used to love to do that when I was a kid.
We all take breathing for granted, don’t we? Nobody cares about the pollution filling the air on a daily basis, yet once it’s denied, the inner sanctum of our souls realizes how precious this invisible sustenance really is.
Luckily for her, I was not quite ready to say goodbye yet, so I released her and watched her nostrils flare as she sucked in the precious substance. The grey duct tape on her mouth had started to curl on the sides as the moisture seeped in, but that didn’t really matter. It wouldn’t need to hold much longer, her time amongst the living was quickly coming to a conclusion.
A little smile formed on my lips as I thought of watching her die. She was beautiful, if not a little more rounded than I normally liked. This was the same thought I had when I saw her only a few days ago. Nothing like being randomly picked out of a crowd, one of the hundreds of people that attended the market that day. Talk about some bad luck.
I laughed out loud at the thought, and now I was sure I saw some tears running down her mascara-matted eyes. It’s so funny how the black streaks form such a hideous picture when the make-up loosens its grip of vanity. The very material that is used to beautify the painted women of our world, rebels against them at the first chance when things turn south and the waterworks begin.
I had followed her that day. It was too easy with the crowded market and her self-absorbed personality. She was nice on the surface, I could tell, but that was all an act. All women have an innate ability of deception built into their psyche. They’re all adroit liars, and telling falsehoods is nothing more than another way to qualify the very essence of what defines who a woman is.
Once she finished with her shopping, she strolled back to her little Honda Accord. It was an older vehicle. But the damn things are meant to last forever, so who can really tell the year. I sometimes think the imbecilic Japanese culture doesn’t really comprehend the true nature of a capitalistic environment.
Building cars to last too long does nothing more than enable people to keep them that much longer. Without people buying cars, jobs are lost, and when people lose jobs, they can’t afford to pay their bills. In a way the homeless problem, the infectious plague of America, is caused by the Asian efficiency and higher standards of quality.
I say give me the American-made crap, and let it fall apart. To hell with the Japanese. Then again, I drive a Volvo SUV, so what do I know? And that doesn’t account for the Nissans I’ve owned in the past. I really should buy a Honda and say to hell with it. It’s built in America, anyway. I don’t think anyone even knows what American-made means, or if it even has a true definition.
Veronika, though I wouldn’t find out her name until later, cautiously pulled out of the parking lot, and I fell into place directly behind her. She jumped on the 92 and headed to the El Camino exit. I wondered for a minute if we were neighbors, but she continued on and ended up in Millbrae at a generic set of apartment buildings right off of Millbrae Avenue.
I parked on the street as she entered through her gate, wrote down her license plate number, and headed home. Before I left, I saw her park in the open lot versus heading into the garage, and a middle-aged man walked over to the door and helped her with the bags.
He didn’t kiss her hello or even give her a warm smile, but it appeared that he was her partner of some nature. It was probably sheer panic of loneliness that drove these two together. Women, the older they get, the more like they are to settle for the best guy available instead of somebody they actually love. Pathetic.
Maybe the drive to procreate kicks in so hard they lose track of what love really means. They care about nothing more than dropping onto the next guy that gives them the time of day. Show me a women who is in her late 20s and single, and I will guarantee you’ll find her desperate and afraid of dying alone.
At the God damn age of 25 or 26 I think it starts kicking in.
Over the next few days I sat outside that apartment building, watching, waiting patiently, trying to figure out who this girl was. I followed her to yoga and to her spin class. Figured out she was some kind of office employee for a company in South San Francisco, and she loved dining out for dinner.
Her and her “boyfriend” would go out almost every night. My guess is they weren’t saving much for the future. They didn’t drive nice cars, but from the amount of money they spent at restaurants, they couldn’t possibly have much in the bank.
I smacked the top of the plywood with my hand and then began to laugh.
“I just wanted to see if you were still awake ,Veronika. Hello? Veronika?”
I reached down a ripped off the tape from her protruding, plump limbs in one quick, sweeping motion. I wondered if this could be some kind of service for the rich in lieu of collagen treatments. Being stuck in a tub of water for almost 24 hours really puffs you up. It almost appeared as if I had done this kind of thing before.
“Hahahahahahaha,” I laughed out loud again. “Damn, I know it isn’t normal to laugh at your own jokes, but I sure as hell am a pretty funny dude. Don’t you agree?”
“Please, please let me go,” Veronika said in a cracked, unused voice.
I smacked my hand down through the opening, connecting with her nose and mouth. The blow followed through, pushing her head with such force that the sound reverberated off the walls when her skull hit the porcelain bottom of the tub.
“SHUT THE HELL UP, YOU SLUT,” I screamed. “I will tell you when you can talk. If you say one more word, I swear to God I will kill you now.”
For a second, I was worried that my blow had been a little too resourceful. Veronika’s eyes rolled around in their sockets as if they had a mind of their own, and blood began oozing out of her nostrils from the force of my punch. Just as I began to say the words “oh shit” in my mind, I saw the recognition resurface in her facial features, and she came back around.
“I just need you to be quiet for a few minutes, please,” I said respectfully. “Can you do that?”
Veronika nodded her head up and down. At least, she bobbed it the best she was able to in her confined space.
Women, damn maybe even men, are nothing more than carnival animals if you think about it. Veronika had been with me for less than 24 hours, and she was already subservient to her master’s will. I wonder, if I attempted to train a female with treats and electrical shock for negative feedback, how long it would take me to dominate a subject’s will.
As luck would have it, and yes if you are patient enough luck will always find a way, one night the two lovebirds must’ve gotten into an argument. It was probably about something stupid, I’m sure. Maybe he was doing laundry and lost one too many of her socks in the dryer, or maybe he’d been working too late on his computer when he should have been holding her hand.
I didn’t know, but I saw her storm out of the Chinese restaurant I had followed them to with him chasing after her. He was pleading with her to get in the car, but it was apparent she was walking home, and he was on his own. Women, does logic elude all of them or is it just the stupidity of man that drives them to insanity?
She was wearing another pair of tight-fitting jeans, a white tank top T-shirt, and over that a form-fitting, thin blue sweater. I swear to God, even from over a block away, I thought I could see her nipples fighting for their freedom to escape the confines of her clothing. It wasn’t even cold outside, which made me wonder just how large they must be.
Finally, he gave up and headed to the car. You could hear him jam it into gear and the tires squealing as he launched the vehicle from the parking lot and drove away. Now, she was truly on her own.
She was only a couple of miles away from her apartment, but now with him gone, she didn’t seem to be in any hurry to make her way home. She was crying, wiping her hands across her face and cheeks, and it almost broke my heart to see her so sad. How could a girl so beautiful find herself in a situation that was so disturbingly miserable?
I pulled up ahead of her a few blocks and parked the car, waiting. I wasn’t sure what I was waiting for actually. I just watched her, observing her as she reflected on her life, crying. She seemed too sad, and it took me a few minutes to realize I was crying, as well. I wiped my eyes with the back of my hand and felt my stomach turning as I wept for this girl I didn’t really even know.
“Please, don’t hurt………….”
I slammed my hand down on the plywood again.
“I promise you this – if you interrupt me one more time, I will cut out your tongue and shove it down your throat, laughing at you while you choke if you do not shut the fuck up. Do you understand me?”
Veronika nodded her head again. Good little monkey, I thought to myself.
Oh my God, that incessant drip. It was driving me insane. My hands were shaking, and I couldn’t control them. I felt that familiar yearning inside my loins, but I knew full well it was a false crescendo. I was a failure as a man. I lacked the ability to function anymore.
“What the hell is happening to me?” I asked, but there was no response. I would make them pay. I now had my goal. I knew what I had to do.
It had gotten too difficult to watch her as she sat down on a bench less than a block from where I was parked. She was still crying with her face buried in her hands. It was past dusk at that point, and the black of night had begun its inevitable envelopment of our daily lives.
I had already exited my car, wearing my black pants and my black pull-over, long sleeve T-shirt. I put my black leather gloves on slowly as I approached her from behind.
What possesses a woman to sit down on a dilapidated park bench with its back to an alleyway in the middle of the night? It was a questionable-to-bad neighborhood for Christ’s sake. It was not my intention to introduce myself that evening, but the opportunity had been more than I could pass up.
Nobody was around, and no cars were coming down that little side street. Veronika was so distracted, she had no idea where she was or what was happening. What a distinct reflection of life. Just when you think you have everything figured out, some nut in a black outfit drugs you, pulls you to his car, and tortures you for hours on end.
I gently reached around her black, silky hair, placing the drug-infused white cloth over her face. By now I had perfected my dosage. It was just enough to put them under, but not enough to cause them to go catatonic. If a human’s limbs are too loose, they become much more difficult to carry.
I sat down next to her on the bench as her head dropped on my shoulder. My arm was wrapped around her with my hand keeping her propped up next to me. Anyone who saw us would think we were two lovers enjoying the evening, basking in our budding romance that would eventually lead us to marital bliss.
I picked her up and carried her to the car. It was only a block away. I had left it unlocked and gently placed her in the passenger seat. I carefully fastened her seatbelt, latching her into place, protecting her from any possible harm.
The drive home was easy, and I pulled into the garage. I stared at her lustrous black hair, wishing I could have her. But I knew my body was now betraying me. She was so beautiful. Her skin was a silky brown tan that erupted into a smooth, blemish-free creamy complexion.
I hoisted her out of the passenger seat and took her to my bedroom. I knew I shouldn’t have brought her home, but I couldn’t stand the thought of not lying with her.
I undressed her slowly, removing her sweater and then her T-shirt. I took care to fold the cloths and put them on the dresser as each layer flittered away, revealing her to be more exquisite that I could have hoped.
Once she was finally naked, I lay down next to her, my head cradled between her breasts as I imagined what it would be like to be happy. What would a world be like where she and I lived in harmony? What would it be like for her to hold my hand as we entered a movie theater, bought popcorn and laughed about some joke I heard at work.
When I looked into her eyes, I saw she was beginning to stir, and then the atrocity hit me like a wrecking ball. There was a huge, brown mole underneath her chin with two long, black hairs protruding out like antennae, grasping for radio waves. I almost threw up.
That had led me…….
“VERONIKA, THE NOISE, YOU HAVE GOT TO MAKE THE NOISE STOP. JESUS, MAKE IT STOP. MOVE YOUR HEAD OR……..”
The room almost erupted as I brought my hand down on the plywood, and I felt a sharp pain shoot up my arm and into my shoulder.
“Shit!” I screamed. I shook my hand back and forth, trying to get feeling back inside. I jumped up, hitting the plywood as I did so, shifting it at an angle. I saw one corner teeter as it moved from its perch, precariously dangling over the edge.
Suddenly, one of the concrete blocks began to slide, and I watched in horror as it gained speed, heading directly for Veronika’s head. The result was immediate as the corner connected with her forehead, driving a deep gash across her otherwise perfect skin.
All I had wanted to do was clean her up. I wanted to wash the mole off her flesh and cut those disgusting hairs. I had just wanted her to be perfect. What is wrong with perfection? By definition, it cannot be wrong. It is perfect.
Now, the water started to turn red. Her head was completely submerged. She wasn’t fighting anymore – she wasn’t really even moving. The rippling of the water had an eerie feeling as if she were translucent in an almost ghostly sort of way. I wondered if this meant she would remain here, in my bathroom, as a spirit somehow with her perfectly rounded breasts and that oddly attractive bulging butt.
I sometimes feel guilty when a murder occurs, but this seemed more like a tragic accident than a preplanned, thought-out criminal act. I hadn’t meant for her to die, at least not in this way. I wasn’t done yet. I wasn’t finished with her. I still needed her that night. I needed to be held. I needed to be told everything would be okay. I needed her, and she left me.
I let the water drain from the tub, washing the blood away as I bandaged over the wound in her head. After I dried her off, I carried her back to my bed and placed her under the covers. I had just recently changed the sheets, and they had that just-washed, wind-blowing-in-the-fields smell. It was so refreshing.
I propped her head up on a pillow and went to the kitchen to get a glass of ice water. I can’t sleep comfortably without a glass of water next to my bed at night. Even if I am not thirsty, just the comfort of knowing it is there somehow helps me rest.
I stripped off my clothes except for my underwear. I have to sleep in my underwear at night. Something about being completely naked makes me feel a little creepy.
Veronika lay next to me. She was naked, of course. It is different for a woman versus a man. A woman’s body is meant to be shown off. Almost in any form, the body of a woman is so much more attractive than a man. Granted it might not always age as well – at least that’s what I hear women say. But women are just so beautiful.
I curled up next to her as I wrapped her arm around my shoulder. I wished she could rub my head. I closed my eyes and imagined her stroking my hair, twisting strands between her fingers as she told me about her day.
“Really, that sounds nice. Are you kidding me? No way, that didn’t really happen did it?”
I seemed to be answering out loud before I realized what was happening. I knew that wasn’t a good sign.
The last thing I remember was playing with her belly button, running my finger across it and listening to her laugh. Wait, she wasn’t really laughing, but it seemed like she would’ve been laughing if she could have. Her smile was so beautiful with those cheeks, perfectly rounded, like a tomato, just waiting to be squeezed, then popped into your mouth and eaten.