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Psycho Gizmo
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Posted: Fri Sep 29th, 2006 08:46 am |
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I am the one who killed Oliver Stone the film maker, the schizophrenic. The mother-raper, the father-humper, the homosexual drunken manic depressive. I killed him because he was so miserable and he was just making everyone else miserable. Especially himself. So I killed him and I'm not sorry. Not even a little.
Want to know how I did it? Simple. See, Oliver was an arrogant dumb-ass who thought of himself as a wolf among sheep. It never crossed his mind that anyone with the brains to actually do it - would actually take his life. He should have thought more about his own security than those conspiracy theories. If he had, he might still be alive. But he's not. Because I assassinated him in cold, cold blood. And I'm not sorry. He is at peace and so am I. I will never be caught and I sleep like a baby at night.
Here's how I did it. I have connections at several major studios because of my work. I know people who know people. I know all types of people and I never, never , never talk about politics at work. Many of my best friends are liberals and they do not have a clue that I hate them. They do not know that I hate them with an abiding, patient, uncompromising enmity that is sickening. If they knew, they would recoil in horror and run like Hell every time they saw me. But I was not interested in the small fish. My task in life is to annihilate only the most miserable, useless, irredeemably insane specimens of lowlife that exist.
I don't hate bums. I feel sorry for them. I don't any poor person, whatever their political beliefs, because they are suffering from a handicap that makes them insane. I don't trust them, but I have no intention of ever harming a single hair on their head. But I masturbate thinking of the suffering that I inflicted on Oliver Stone before he died. I take pride in the memory of his last gasping please s for mercy. I shudder with pleasure when I see his weeping shattered face in his last minutes of life, doling out whatever remaining particles of dignity he possessed in exchange for his worthless existence. At the end, I must say that he knew. He knew me at last. Poor Oliver knew that he had been dead from the minute a person like myself (truly one-in-a-million) decided that he would be the one person whom I would kill so many years ago, and that I knew that I would get away with it and never, never, never be caught.
"Murder by numbers, one two three..."
So why am I writing this? To share my joy at Oliver Stone's extermination and to brag about how I got away with it.
First I tacked his activities. Not difficult when you know people in the entertainment industry and the financial services field and what type of liquor people like. God, It was soooo easy to find him and discover his patterns of living. Depressed, drunk people follow rigid patterns- even when they are unaware of them.
And I waited. I waited for that one break that would give me the information I needed to execute my plans and know that I would not be caught. It happened one day when I was not looking for it. I met someone who was a jilted lover. A female, who knew a male who had been used and discarded by Oliver Stone and was not happy about it. I befriended him. I got him drunk. I took him to gay bars along Ventura Blvd. and made sure that he had a good time with more than one or two young chickens. I made him think that I was some crazy rich boy and kept him drunk enough not to notice that I never swallowed a drop of any of the drinks that were placed before me, but instead dumped them over an over again. The I found the phone numbers, and the gay bars that Oliver Stone liked to go to, and then I set about doing dry runs.
But the phone number was the kicker. See, I have a friend who knows how to ... discover things about people that they do not even know about themselves. Patterns. Oliver Stone had patterns that followed him around everywhere, even when he was trying to be deliberately deceptive. I used that information (paid for with lots of cash, by the way) and then I started the run.
The run. Photos. Long range, and fixed. Each time he lingered long enough for me to snap a shot of his body dead center, I prinited the picture and placed a red "X" over his face. Got you that time. And that. And that.
"God", " I thought, "The arrogance." He thinks that he is untouchable. They always do, don't they? Until it's too late. Then they know. When it's too late. They know that they were the sheep and the wolf was always a step ahead of them. They know. Too late.
Then the equipment was easy. A few street drugs, some wood. Some little friendly critters. Noisemakers.Even gun silencers are easy to procure if you don't care about money or breaking laws. It's truly amazing how many crooked gun smiths there are in the world who develop tunnel vision and a faulty memory when they see a stack of one hundred dollar bills an inch thick. There are a lot of sick people who will kill their grandma for a nickle. Imagine what people will do for ten thousand dollars!
So the Final Run began. Friends at several T.V. studios with talk shows helped. They didn't know that they were helping. But they did. The ones I liked, I paid. Even though they never met me. The ones I disliked, I ignored. I used and discarded them. Fools kill themselves with adequate efficiency and speed anyway. There is no need to expend energy to kill the already dead. I have learned, you see, to detect souls that have expired before the body. I have learned to perceive the walking dead. Making them suffer adequately is what takes ability.
So I had a change of heart as soon as I noticed how painfully easy it would be to simply shoot him and walk away. New ideas sprang within. Ambition. And the joy of creation - of misery.
The Final Run. Oliver likes to be admired. He likes it just about as much as he likes to have his **** sucked by young, handsome boys. More actually. I know that Oliver has turned down sex occasionally, but never turned down a chance to be in the spotlight. Predictable. So predictable. Then the part that I am most proud of. I let him know he was being stalked. I let him know by leaving little signs and sending third party messages. He got hang-up phone calls. He got letters with no paper inside. And he got threats. Then I left him alone. For weeks.Then I started up again. Each time he changed his habits, I noted it and backed off long enough to make him think that he had out foxed me. I noted with satisfaction that his liquor bills began to get higher. I sent him some once, just to make him feel the hate. I sent him liquor that might have been poisoned. But it wasn't. Then, I sent him a message that let him know that I could kill him any time. I still do not know whether he understood that message or even if he received it. I deliberately sent several messages to his publicist and agent that I knew they would not give him. And I knew that he would find about about them. God, I played that little fag like a piano.
Artists are such easy prey. They only think tough when writing dialogue. When confronted by real threat or overt danger, sensitive artists just collapse into a sort of panicked stupor and defiant bravado that does not serve them well strategically. They try to pretend that they are brave and unafraid by acting foolish and careless. Like a piano.
Then the day finally came. Oliver was going to an appearance on a major talk show. I had walked the route he would walk. I knew where the VIPs came in when they were afraid they were bing stalked. I knew the very person that would be meeting him. See, I have a friend who is a police officer who hates Oliver just about as much as I. And he was my ace in the hole. There are only so many ways to enter a stage, and I knew them better than the people who built the place, most of whom were dead. I knew the head of security. I knew the executives who were responsible for his safety and I knew that they were fools.
So when Oliver Stone came out of the bathroom after taking a crap,feeling great, no doubt as folks always do after taking a huge crap, thinking he was safe, smirking in satisfaction and no doubt feeling smug that he had shown "no fear" to his stalker, he was happy. Oliver strode out of the bathroom of his dressing room with a satisfied sighing grunt of relief. The sort of sound men sometimes make when they believe they are alone. He looked up and saw me. I allowed him to see me only long enough to understand who I was. I smiled and watched his face, for maybe a second or two. Then the sap came down silently several times and the trunk opened to receive his unconscious body. Then I rolled him out of the room in a trashcan. I wore a janitor's uniform and had done this fifty times at least before. Never stopped once by anyone. The trashcan was heavy. "God, what fat pig", I thought. Too many filet mignons. Too much pasta-primavera with lobster sauce, and far too, too much booze. Down to the basement unseen by anyone but people too arrogant to even notice or later, to even recall that they had seen me to private investigators. Through a tunnel and hallway, again unnoticed by a soul and up the elevator into the waiting van. Three minutes tops. Nobody would even notice that he was gone for another half hour. He is known to sit in his dressing room drinking and smoking pot prior to going on stage.
When Oliver awoke I was not there to greet him. He was in a coffin. Just like an episode of CSI. As he awoke, harsh blistering light came on right in his face, and a fan. Then I released the ants. Now, there is a type of screaming that many cannot stand to hear. The shrill almost-feminine scream that a full grown man will make when he is in utter despair and terrified, "out of his wits". Men decline into pre-adolescence when they know they are about to die horribly. They plead. Oh, yes. They cry. Umhmm. They sob and whimper. Yes. And they try to make a deal. God, it was perfect.
OS: (sobbing like a school girl) What do you want... AGGHHH!!! OHH!OH!OH!OHHHH! NO! What!?!
Voice in speaker : (Calmy) I want you to suffer.
OS: ( pitifully) Why???? What have I... ( the blast of an air horn directly next to his head cuts off his statement and nearly deafens him) ARAGHHH!!!OOOh!Oh! OH My God, Help, help, help...ARGHH( the ants are biting now all over him, in his pants, his hair his ears and nose).
Voice: (emotionless) Why not?
OS: Please. Please. Stop....( the airhorn again) ARGHHH!!! OHGOD STOP!!! ARghhh...
Voice: Why should I stop? You wouldn't stop!
OS: (He tries to respond but is cut off immediately by the airhorn)ARGGHH!!!
Voice: Hey, Oliver.
OS : (quiet sobbing and moaning and grunting in pain as the ants do their work, does not reply, then the air horn blast again)
Voice: Answer me Oliver! Or I'll give you the horn again. Do you want me to give you the horn again Oliver?
OS: (sobbing like a child) No!! Oh...no...please, I...yes. I hear you. I want my mommy.(said like a small child, sobbing)
Voice: Hey Oliver. Would you like something to drink?
OS : (Sobbing) No...I...oh, no. What do you want? ( he is losing it, his breathing become rapid and shallow, as he hyperventilates).
A spray device squirts syrup into the compartment driving the ants into an even greater frenzy.
Voice: You were wrong, you know.
OS: (Sobbing and screaming) Yes!!! I was wrong... I'm sorry....( air horn)
Voice : No, sorry didn't do it. You did. You're not here because you've been a model citizen, Oliver. You know that don't you?
This went on for some time. I grew bored but my methodical nature would not let me bring the event to a premature close. Suffering bores me. So predictable. I was anxious to end it. Theory is everything- execution of the details is for simple technicians. Besides, I would watch the whole show later on disk. Over and over again. I started the ketamine drip into the I.V. in his arm. Ketamine and stimulants. Sending his heart-rate into overdrive. Then I reduced the oxygen to minimum and watched as the gasping began, the convulsive squirming. The strangled pathetic gurgling sounds of a man both suffocating slowly and losing his mind and being aware of it. He began to babble and drool and scream. I set the air horn to go off at random intervals and left the room.
After an hour. I opened the box and brought the thing inside out into the light. It was unconscious. Was it dead? No. But there was brain damage for sure. Too little oxygen for too long. Not to mention the stress and the formic acid from the bites. Not yet. The Final Run was almost complete.
This is the part that I like the best. See, days before, I had hired an actor. A look-alike actually. And guess who he looked like? Yep. I paid this man a lot of money to be seen fleetingly at several gay bars around town in the hours after Mr. Stone disappeared mysteriously from his dressing room at a major studio. He was seen but never for more than a few minutes. A quick drink, half consumed, then darting out nervously. He was disheveled. I made sure that he was an alcoholic. If he ever tried to tell anyone that someone had paid him ten thousand dollars to stagger around from one gay bar to another, nobody in their right mind would believe him. Not even enough to give him a lie detector test. I made sure he was a suicidal failed actor- like a million others who sniff and suck up to any stinking Hollywood Industry anus that presents itself.
I took the unconscious Stone and gave him a shot to bring him out of his stupor. His eyes snapped open, wide with horror and fear. I began to beat him mercilessly with a ball-pin a hammer and a long leather sap. And I blasted the air horn. I had loosened his fetters. He jerked away from me, and got to his feet. I allowed him to strike me feebly in his terror and desperate fear with his broken arm. Suddenly he kept to his feet and charged out the door that was before him. He launched himself through it in desperation to escape and propelled himself into empty space. He sailed down towards the water below, three-hundred fifty-seven feet. That water would be hard as bricks when he hit. The impact would break every bone in his body, dislocate every joint and the current would take him down and out into the bay to decompose and never, never rise again. I knew how long it would take on the way down to the surface from the bridge. Exactly sixteen seconds. Sixteen seconds to understand what had happened to him. Sixteen seconds to think about everything he had ever done that was wrong that he knew to be wrong. Sixteen seconds to consider how to tell the world what had happened to him while plummeting downwards at 32 feet per-second per-second. Sixteen seconds to realise that he was going to die and that everyone would think that he had killed himself. Sixteen seconds to suffer horribly knowing that he was going to die - or worse. He knew, finally.
I focused the parabolic audio-dish at his falling form and listened to every sound he made on the way down.I was gratified to hear the sounds of his insanity as he descended to his death. He was laughing.I had it on tape. DAT. For later. It was the laughter that one hears in insane asylums or in the lowest levels of prisons liberated by noble armies shattering the gates of concentration camps. Laughter that is shrieking, more than anything joyful or happy.Shrieking in naked horror about how it wished it had never been born. I had succeeded. The Final Run was complete. I had driven Oliver Stone insane before he died, that was the goal all along. Ahhh. The satisfaction. He knew. And I was the one who had taught him. He finally understood. He understood that it was too late. For everybody.
Life is fragile. Cherish it. But remember. Knowledge comes at a price and that price is always paid. Hmm. Time for a drink and nice meal in North Beach. The Golden Gate is so beautiful at night. Even at 3:00 AM on Easter Sunday. And I had a lot of spare time to kill.
Last edited on Fri Sep 29th, 2006 10:48 am by
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*Phil*
Opinionated Interventionist
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Posted: Fri Sep 29th, 2006 01:06 pm |
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According to the latest media reports he was a Christian right propagandist.
Now go, and sin no more.
____________________
Pecca fortiter, sed fortius fide et gaude in Christo!
Galactic Signature: Blue Self-Existing Monkey
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