15. [Chapter Fifteen: The Aesthetics of Violence]
"To Rain." "To the rainstorm."
“Ray,” Lawrence said, “we should kill Durren.”
I said, "Okay."
Actually, I've disliked Durand for a long time. I really don't have a good impression of him. Just as he doesn't like me, I don't like him either. At that time, according to my investigation, this editor had a very good relationship with his great writer, and the thought that Warner Essack might be Lawrence made my paranoia flare up again. No wonder Cain killed his own brother Abel in a fit of rage; jealousy is a terrible power.
Lawrence actually disliked him quite a bit too. Years ago, when he first entered the writing profession, his first editor was Durren. Durren had no sense of boundaries and even had a paternalistic controlling nature towards Lawrence. That day at the club, if Durren hadn't barged into Lawrence's room without permission, I almost would have thought I had the wrong person. Predators are extremely averse to others entering their territory, unless they are prey.
Durham continued to influence Lawrence's writing style. Aside from his debut novel, Durham described Lawrence's subsequent works as "like a silent black-and-white film"—logically perfect and with dramatic plots, but lacking the soul-crushing terror of his early works. This assessment was incredibly cruel to Lawrence; his world, as perceived by his antisocial personality, was devoid of light, color, sound, and interest. Besides, he lacked even fear, let alone "soul-crushing terror."
Lawrence was furious. After all, he was such a proud and narcissistic man. He was determined to reach the pinnacle, not wanting to be a second-rate novelist forgotten in a few decades; he wanted to write first-rate world classics. He had even considered killing Durand, just as he had wanted to kill his mother as a child, but ultimately refrained from doing so because it would be detrimental to him. He still needed them then. So he embarked on a road trip of murders, letting others experience "soul-piercing fear" for him, and then recording it. Before meeting me, he had to kill first and then record, by which time much of his inspiration had already been lost. So when he learned that I could shorthand, it was like finding a treasure.
I asked, "Are you going to give me your prey?"
“This is hunting training,” Lawrence said with a smile. “Don’t lionesses bring live rabbits back to their dens so their cubs can practice hunting them?”
"I don't understand... Am I a live rabbit?" This metaphor is so strange, I'm a little confused.
Lawrence pinched the tip of my nose. "No, you're a little lion."
I was flattered and overwhelmed. Lawrence had already included me among his own kind, and I was truly honored. There were countless serial killers in the world, like a herd of beasts, but Lawrence had chosen me alone; only I could share the same lair with him. I was truly very happy.
We began making all sorts of preparations. Before this, I could hardly imagine that the first step to becoming a qualified serial killer would be procurement. Lawrence drove me to an underground black market in East Brooklyn. They sold knives, guns, bullets, drugs, counterfeit medicine, stolen cars, and even tiger organs—if you could think of it, they had it. I'd disposed of the gun I used to kill Rodin and Sutter before going to the airport, so Lawrence bought me a new one, a Colt M1911, a killer's favorite, never jams. The shopkeeper demonstrated it for me on the spot; he fired three shots into the ground, which startled me. Lawrence went to buy the kind of sedative he used in his truck, and it wasn't until I saw the packaging that I was shocked to realize it was exactly the same as the one my parents had tried to use on me. They wanted to drug me so they could sell me for money. In the end, they used it on themselves.
Lawrence also had a New York crime map. It not only marked which boroughs were safe, which were dangerous, which had heavy police presence, and which were rife with gangs, but also marked the best and most popular body dumping sites. Note that "best body dumping site" and "most popular body dumping site" are completely different concepts. Once a body dumping site becomes too popular, it becomes the "worst body dumping site," because the police aren't stupid; they'll lie in wait there. Those who frequently commit murder know that killing is easy, but disposing of the body is difficult. The "best body dumping site" is a strategically scarce resource, requiring murderers to carefully and diligently discover it. It could be anywhere, perhaps a dilapidated underpass where even homeless people wouldn't live; if left there, the body would remain undiscovered until it turned to skeletal remains. It could also be a quiet park pond, seemingly unremarkable at first glance, but where the fish eat human flesh. Of course, killing outside of towns eliminates this effort, which is why Lawrence chose to kill on highways. Given the right time, place, and circumstances, he didn't need to worry about disposing of the body; he could simply enjoy the thrill of killing and inflicting pain. I admire his wisdom and foresight once again.
Oh, right. Be careful of fishermen when disposing of bodies in the park. They might catch your body right after you throw it in, forcing you to deal with another corpse. And they get up very early, even earlier than the most diligent serial killers. Although fishing in parks is illegal, it's best not to report them, especially if you have someone in your car trunk.
Before the actual killing, we needed a rehearsal. Lawrence drove his red Shelby Super Snake convertible on a suburban highway, and I sat in the passenger seat, my arm resting on the door, practicing shooting at the road signs along the way. Although it was close range, shooting while moving was still difficult, and Lawrence was always playing tricks, suddenly speeding from 50 mph to 100 mph. I missed every single time, terribly. So Lawrence would "punish" me, and after each "punishment," my hand would become even weaker and I couldn't hold the gun anymore. Lawrence had no choice but to switch to "rewards," making verbal promises that he would fulfill that night, and my performance improved considerably. After a week of extremely intensive practice, as long as the speed was steady enough, I rarely missed.
The New York Times article caused considerable controversy. Although there are now gay rights marches everywhere, many people still call us disgusting. They can insult me, but not Lawrence. If anyone points at us in the street, I give them the middle finger and say "fuck you." However, Lawrence only cares about whether his work becomes legendary; how he is judged is completely irrelevant to him. People die, but art is immortal. Besides, he's already a "highway butcher," so why would he be afraid of being called a "devil" by conservative members of the evangelical church? That would be too kind.
However, Durren was unaware of his great writer's dual identity. Ever since we went public with our relationship, Durren had been incessantly nagging Lawrence, saying that these rumors would not only severely impact his future writing career but also the publisher's profits, and of course, his own reputation as an editor. Lawrence ignored him, so Durren came to me again, saying that I was so young and must have been deceived by Lawrence, "That guy has been a womanizer ever since." Regarding the question of whether Lawrence had deceived me, my answer was, "I don't care." I am only free when Lawrence tightens his grip on the chains around my neck. I only want freedom; I'd rather die than be unfree. If he really doesn't want me anymore, I'll die. Taking him with me.
As for "Warner Essack's future writing career," that won't happen. Initially, Lawrence's dream was indeed to become a great writer; after all, growing up in that environment, he wanted a respected profession. But later, by a twist of fate, he discovered that being a serial killer was his calling. He was born a beast, wanting only to return to nature. Yet, he was also stubborn, unwilling to give up halfway. His way of leaving the writing profession was like climbing a snow-capped mountain: first, reach the summit, plant a flag, then leave to climb the next peak. He had to relinquish some burdens, such as wealth and social status, but now those were all external things to him. Besides, if we really needed money, we could just rob someone. After all, the top spot meant the death penalty; we'd kill the other person before being arrested.
In conclusion, Lawrence and I agree that we should no longer tolerate Durren's meddling.
That day, the weather forecast predicted a heavy downpour later in the day. "The Highway Butcher" loved heavy rain. Durren was going on a business trip; his plane would be taking off from Newark Airport. We followed his Chevrolet in our sports car, driving one after the other on the highway.
It was dusk, the sky a golden-orange hue, much like the fiery inferno we had charged out that day. Vast, thick, dark clouds churned like raging waves in the gale, spreading across the vibrant sky like smoke from battle. I had never seen such an ominous yet magnificent apocalyptic spectacle. After a while, the fiery clouds slowly subsided, and the sky darkened. The dark clouds blotted out the sun, like a gigantic, overwhelming hand; only the fury of nature could possess such a terrifying sense of oppression. Suddenly, the sky brightened, and a massive bolt of lightning exploded like an atomic bomb, followed by utter darkness, as if at the dawn of creation. In an instant, more than a dozen bolts of lightning pierced through the clouds simultaneously, as if the sky had split open, as if the scourge of God had struck. Strangely, despite Jehovah's wrath, not a drop of rain fell; instead, the sky brightened once more. A rainbow of lightning appeared between the dark clouds, like a ladder to heaven. Perhaps it was from there that the fallen angels who committed the seven deadly sins were cast out of heaven. At least Asmodeus, the ruler of lust, is sitting next to me now in his red convertible.
Compared to our usual pace, Durren was driving way too slowly. I was almost losing patience, but Lawrence remained unhurried, his foot barely on the accelerator, maintaining a steady 80 mph, following the Chevrolet about 200 meters ahead. Before hunting, lions always lie in wait, patiently anticipating the moment their prey lowers its guard. Their hunting methods are varied; they can suddenly pounce and devour their prey in one gulp, or they can fully enjoy the chase before slowly and methodically eating it. Most of the time, Lawrence preferred the former, but when with acquaintances, he seemed to prefer the latter.
However, as he said before, this was my "hunting training." The one hunting live rabbits was a fledgling lion cub, not a seasoned adult predator. Being Lawrence's "Jack" wasn't enough; "Jack" wasn't a first-rate serial killer; "Jack" wasn't mature, just like Lawrence himself when he wrote that book. But he's different now. He's no longer the "Jack" of his debut novel, but the "Lawrence" of his swan song. He wants me to become "Lawrence" too. That suits me perfectly. Anyway, if we get married, I'll most likely take his last name.
Dark clouds loomed over the city, and the first raindrop fell. Lawrence said, "Are you ready, little lion?"
I cocked the pistol with a click and replied, "Yes." In my mind, I called him a "lioness." I didn't say it aloud. I was afraid he'd fuck me to death.
Lawrence suddenly changed lanes and slammed on the gas. The top-performance red supercar accelerated to 100 mph in three seconds, roaring off and instantly closing in on the Chevrolet ahead. Durand was startled, turning to look at us with the eyes of someone who'd gone mad, and was astonished to find that the one who had overtaken him was "Warner Essack," and "Ian Lemley" was holding a gleaming silver pistol, the muzzle pointed directly at his head.
In that split second between the passing trains, we were practically touching. Time stretched endlessly; the spent cartridge ejected with a "ding," the bullet spinning as it left the barrel. The gunpowder created a small mushroom cloud at the muzzle, like a miniature hydrogen bomb explosion. The heat instantly distorted the air; I could even feel the searing flames on my fingers, yet I didn't tremble in the slightest. It was meant to take a life, yet the bullet was as beautiful as a golden butterfly rising from the ashes, the sparks like pollen falling gently into those incredulous eyes. The bullet pierced Durand's temple, blooming into a blood-red flower on the other side—so tragically beautiful and breathtaking. It was truly a magnificent visual feast.
In that instant, the brutal rain god received my offering and generously bestowed upon me a torrential downpour. Lawrence laughed and shouted "Bravo!" The supercar instantly accelerated to 200 mph, roaring arrogantly and violently, like a blood-red lightning bolt, overtaking all the cars on the road in the blink of an eye. The devastating rain was like a grand finale, with rolling thunder screaming and cheering for us. We laughed and drove away amidst the angry honking of horns, quickly exiting the section of road shrouded in rain clouds. Looking up, there were golden, fiery clouds again, a setting sun hanging on the horizon ahead, and a vast, majestic mountain range in the distance, like the open arms of heaven and earth, welcoming us once more towards freedom.
We each opened a can of ice-cold beer. Lawrence and I clinked cans together, "To Rain."
I smiled and greeted him, "To the rainstorm."
A note from the author:
I'd like to recommend Ryuichi Sakamoto's "Rain" again. It's not just a light drizzle; it's the soundtrack to the movie "The Last Emperor." Also, "Highway Butcher" (a nickname for a popular Chinese singer) loves torrential rain.
This is roughly the kind of weather we'll see:
I'll be starting to update the side stories soon! I've already come up with several, so there's sure to be plenty! If there's anything you'd like to see, let me know in the comments!
Continue read on readnovelmtl.com