Brush Stroke of Death
The rain hampered his itch. He sat prepared with his brush and blade. His soul desired the withered flesh. The flesh, that, of the youngest of breeds. A blonde, brunette, a redhead, it wouldn't matter. Shit, he'd settle for a bald bitch. The fucking rain hampered his hunger and his needs. Where the fuck is the dryness? His art needs to breathe.
Rain, rain go away, he needs dry land so he can play-
So, he may draw where body lay, the one he'd slay, then take away.
On the 14th of April, the rain did stop. And it was most unfortunate for 19 year old Sara Inetta. As she was leaving her job at a fast food dump, in the Bay Ridge section of Brooklyn. A stalking shadow was the last thing she had expected. As she reached for her car door, latex in the shape of a hand covered her mouth. It was there to prevent her screams, it was there to subdue her struggle.
Trapped in a trunk, Sara knew she was in a shit load of trouble. Wet with her own urine, she laid bound and gagged. Her destination was not important at the moment. Her survival was. She just didn't know that there was no way to survive.
Heading towards industry city, via the Gowanus overpass, Floyd Bennet, Benny, paid close attention to all the traffic laws. With the bitch in the trunk, he didn't want to attract any eyes of the night. He needed this, Oh, so bad. His lust was already dripping. His creative juices were flowing like the falls of Niagara. With his borrowed car, he zipped towards the 39st exit. He started to think about his first taste of being an artist. His motivation had been like a compound fracture. One thing led to another, without his consent. His young mother, that slut, had fucked some punk in Floyd Bennet Field. Hence the name, that dumb cunt. Then the bitch had the balls to leave him to the state. The sperm donor had left right after his deposit. They just let him for the stray dogs of back ally hate. Now at 23 years old Floyd heard his calling. He enrolled in private art classes, his classes. He's his own student. He is the master of his designs. He is the artist of death.
Turning off the exit ramp, he then headed towards 4th avenue, and he thought of his buddy Issy. A nice jewish kid from Boro Park Brooklyn. Israel Peckler, what a name, his dad was a reformed Rabbi who used to pack a straight edge incase of an emergency briss. They worked together as CPA's. That's car parking attendant at a garage at 2nd ave, and 74st in the city. Hence the car. He'd tell Issy that he had a date and took a car for a few hours. Fuck those cheap cocksuckers. Let them deal with the law when all is done. Issy didn't know of Floyds attending art classes, he'd never approve. You know being Jewish and all. Floyd planned on telling him about his bloodstain canvasses at just the right time, but for now he'd keep quiet. Yet Issy was a real pal.
Floyd's face was flush with excitement. It would only last moments. But his brush would soon be in his hand. The taste of his own sweat was a warning sign. His talent was not that of the canvas, his art was of the flesh. His blade was his tool. His brush his signature. When the lawman came, they would look for an MO, or a signature. Floyd would oblige. He did enjoy the outcome of his work, even if it was a decoy. He created each pose, each detail dripped from his burnt brain. On the 14th of April, he would title his work to crucify.
Sara had no choice but to stare at her faith She was was yanked from the trunk and thrown to the cold ground like a sack of shit. She was. The figure in the night swayed around her, she couldn't make out the face, yet she tried. Like it would make a difference. This night held nothing but trouble for Sara. Rape, at this point, was her only friend. Then against the dark sky, the steel waved frantically. This was to be the last sky she would she before she entered it.
Floyd swung his blade with swiftness, pain was not in his plans. No time for torture. Not on a dead end street. Time to create, was more important. The blood splatter provided a nice back drop. He then laid Sara out in a Christ on the cross pose. Hands spread at her sides, palms up. Her feet were place just like in history, waiting for the nails that would never come. He crazy glued them into position, with enough glue to reincarnate a horse. As the glue set, Floyd dipped his brush into Sara's open wound and proceeded to outline her body. Tracing her upon the cobblestone. Stepping back to examine his work, he smiled and then added the finishing touches. Her outline was complete. He then hack away at the hands and feet, removing the rest of the body for the ride home. He'd admire his work for only a moment, for that, was all he needed. His memory would not fail him.
