Episodes of Violence by Ben Frischer

Man: So what did you dream about last night?

Woman:I don’t know.

Man:C’mon, I told you.

Woman:I can’t remember.

Man:Liar.

Woman:It’s all hazy, really.

Man:That’s so unfair; I told you my dream.

Woman:Yes, I know. Everyone in your family was skiing naked in Aspen.

Man:Yeah, and my Great Aunt Rosie had a tattoo on her butt. See, you can’t get worse than that. I mean what’s more embarrassing than dreaming about your great aunt’s ass?:

Woman:I don’t know, what?

Man:You know what I meant. C’mon, tell me.

Woman:It’s not even embarrassing like that.

Man.:Ah Ha! So you admit to remembering your dream.

Woman:Ok, you win, I remember. Can we stop this now?

Man:No, I want to know.

Woman:Roll over.

Man:What do you mean roll over, your taking up all of the bed.

Woman:Fine.

Man:Don’t turn your back to me like this is just over. We’re having a conversation here.

Woman:I want to go back to sleep.

Man:And I want to know what your goddamn dream was about.

Woman:What does it matter?

Man:It matters because your making it matter.

Woman:How am I making it matter to you?

Man:Aww fuck you, you know what I mean. I wouldn’t care so much if just told me. You always get so secretive.

Woman:It’s just a stupid dream.

Man:So fucking tell me.

Woman:Now you’re yelling at me; I’m not going to tell you if you keep yelling.

Man:This is fucking retarded. I just don’t understand. If it’s a stupid dream and all, what is so goddamn important that you have to be so secretive?

Woman:You’re still yelling.

Man:Did you dream about somebody else?

Woman:No, your being ridiculous.

Man:Well then help me out here. Did you have some kind of fucking nightmare?

Woman:No.

Man:Give some of the covers.

Woman:You have most of them.

Man:Just give me some more of the covers.

Woman:Fine.

Man:Your leg is touching mine.

Women:Yes, we sleep in the same bed.

Man:I’m overheating, I need some space.

Woman:You just asked for more covers.

Man:Whatever, I just don’t want your leg touching mine.

Woman:How long are you going to act like this?:

Man:I don’t know what you’re talking about.

Woman:Fine, you want to know what my dream was about.

Man:No, I was just asking before because I like the sound of my own voice.

Woman:Ok, I dreamed you died. I dreamed that we were walking down the street and a car jumped curb and killed you. You flipped over the car and landed in the middle of road, dead. Happy? And you know what; I’ve had dreams like this before. I’ve dreamed your plane has crashed, muggers shot you, sharks ate you on vacation. One time I dreamed that we lived in the middle ages and you died of the plague. Honest to God, I’m not making this up. So there you have it, last night I dreamed a car crushed your bones and you died.

Man:Did you cry?

Woman:I cry every time.

Man:You said it wasn’t a nightmare. How are these not nightmares?

Woman:Because this way, in my dreams, I can love you forever without having to marry you.

***

Some people, I think, are nervous to do their killing in front of everyone else, but I guess I just never had that problem. Maybe its more personal for other people than it is for me. Maybe some people have these deep passionate feelings that they need to communicate in their killing. Maybe some people feel the process is too intimate to share with others. I don’t know. Sure, sometimes I include that stuff; you know, connect emotionally with a particular aspect of how exactly I kill somebody, but most of the time I don’t think about it like that. Most of the time I’m just having fun.

Now, I don’t want anyone to get the wrong idea about me, I don’t want people thinking I am some kind of weekend warrior type who says they murder people all the time, but in reality just likes the way it sounds. I’ve studied things. I’ve taken classes. This, of course, doesn’t mean I am a professional killer. I just take a little pride in what I do, that’s it.

Last year I took my first Grand Master’s course. I’ll never forget our first class. We met at six in the morning in an academic building on some college campus. We were there before any of the students got there. The class was about ten people, give or take a few, and the Grand Master. My classmates were all nice enough and I was familiar with some of their killings. All in all, it was a pretty talented group. The Grand Master, though, he just looked the part. He was this little, short, kinda overweight man with real thin hair and coke bottles glasses. You know that classical serial killer look, real meek. I thought to myself, great, what am I gonna learn from this sociopath that I don’t already know. But, you know, people surprise you.

“Everyone, everyone, listen up. We don’t have much time,” he said. “I am really excited about this group and I don’t want my first lecture to take up that much time. It has always been my belief that the best way to learn about how to kill people is to jump right in and start killing people. Sure, I could expound on weaponry and death blows and forensic science, but that’s something that you can pick up in a book. I have always found that the best way to learn about murder is to murder people on your own and critique how other people kill. And that’s exactly what we are going to do. I am going to give each one of you a weapon and your task is to kill someone in this building over the course of the day. Tomorrow, we’ll meet in the warehouse to critique each other’s work.” I got a hammer.

The lecture and the weapon completely threw me off guard. I wasn’t prepared to kill people on the first day; I didn’t even bring a backpack to class. While I was stuck trying to remember all the sweet ideas I had for killing people, everyone else in the class ran off to start working on the assignment. Completely blocked, I decided to hide out and check on other people’s killings.

At about noon I was sitting on a bench outside of a professor’s office, pretending like I was waiting to meet with the professor or something. Classes were getting out and students were rushing out of the classrooms. About ten minutes later there was only one student left, he had been talking with a professor and was just getting ready to leave. As this student was walking out the door, Frank, one of my classmates, snuck up behind and cut his throat with a straight razor. Then he ran away.

I was astounded. It just seemed so cliché to me, like I’d seen that a million times before. He could have dragged him into the bathroom and sliced him up a bit, you know. Maybe cut his hamstrings and slice open his nostrils. There was nothing new or different about the killing. I know I didn’t have good ideas myself, but I won’t lie, it did make me feel better to see that other people were struggling with ideas themselves.

At about two thirty I ran into a body on my way to the vending machine, when I’m feeling pressure to be creative I eat sometimes. As I go to get some money out of my wallet I notice that there is a foot sticking out from under the machine. The foot is completely bare and all the toes had been cut off except for the middle one. It was just hilarious. I pulled the rest of the body and saw this masterpiece of bodywork. The torso was all cut up, the eyes were popped out and placed in the mouth, the body had been scalped. It was really stunning to look at, but I wasn’t really sure I got it. I mean, the imagery was truly breathtaking, but I didn’t really understand the import. Humbled a little by the skill of the killing, I decided I had better get a kill of my own.

At four o’clock I spotted a lone custodial worker mopping the basement. Thinking I better get to it as no one would be around after five thirty or so, I just cracked her right on the skull a couple of times. Then, I found some tape and taped up her nose so it looked like she had a pig’s snout. I replaced the mop in her hand with a hammer and wrote Ham Her on the floor with her blood. I know, I know. It was stupid joke. I thought maybe I could claim that I was thinking about the irony of using blood lettering on the floor the women just mopped in class the next, but to be honest, I didn’t even know if that was irony. I was just too cocky back then. I thought was my lack of insecurity about public killing meant I was really good at it. But, you know, we can all stand to learn something from experience.

***

Charlie loves his brother. He knows that he is eight and Rob is fourteen, he understands that six years is a big difference, but he still thinks he is his brother’s best friend.

Rob and three of his friends are standing in the backyard. They are shooting at things with airsoft rifles, the kind that use pressurized canisters of carbon dioxide. Charlie is sitting on the steps of the back porch, watching Rob and his friends shoot old soda cans, small action figures, pieces of fruit and squirrels.

“Charlie, c’mere,” Rob whispers. “You see that squirrel over there, at the base of that tree?” Charlie goes to stand next to his brother but does not answer. “Right there man. He’s digging in the ground.” Charlies still does not answer.

“You’re brother is retarded,” says one of the friends.

“Shut up dickweed, you’re mom is retarded. Charlie, it’s an easy shot.”

Charlie loves animals. Out of everybody in the house - Mom, Dad, Rob and Charlie - he loves animals the most. He has two gerbils, a dog that he shares with everyone else and a newt.

“Here take this.” Rob hands Charlie his airsoft rifle.

“It’s like even bigger than he is,” says another friend.

“Just close your left eye and line the squirrel up with point at the end of the barrel,” says Rob. Charlie stands holding the gun, but does not take aim. He is staring at the squirrel.

“Little baby looks scared,” says Rob’s fattest friend.

“It’s just a stupid fucking squirrel. I won’t tell mom,” says Rob.

Charlie looks up at Rob, who is looking back down at him. Charlie pulls the gun up to his shoulder and takes aim. Beyond the fuzzy point at the end of the barrel Charlie can see the squirrel. The squirrel is sitting up now and it looks like he is starring straight at Charlie. Charlie waits until the squirrel starts digging again and then, closing both eyes, he fires two shots.

“Holy Shit,” says the fat friend, “your brother nailed him.” Charlie drops the gun and they all run over to the squirrel.

“That squirrel looks fucked up,” says one of Rob’s slimmer friends.

“Yeah man, got him right in the neck,” the fatty replies.

“What do we do with it Rob,” asks the other slender friend. Rob watches the squirrel wheeze for a moment and then picks a large rock.

“Real men finish the job.” Rob hands the rock to Charlie. It is so big that Charlie has to hold it with two hands.

“That’s some heavy shit,” says the fatty.

“He’s my brother dude, he can handle it.”

Charlie stares at the squirrel, the jagged edges of the rock hurting his hands. He stands there and it feels like he has never stood in one place for as long as this in his whole life. He can’t move; he is thinking. He thinks about the time his first gerbil, Gerbil, broke his leg. About how Mom and Dad rushed Gerbil to the veterinarian’s office that same day and the doctor fixed his leg. He thinks about the time Rob’s fat friend came over for dinner and how he made a huge mess. There was food all over his face and all over his placemat. After the fatty left, Mom and Dad made fun of him for eating with his hands and they told Rob to teach his friend some manners. Charlie thinks about the time he beat Rob in horse a summer ago at camp. All of Rob’s friends were watching and they made fun of him when he lost, but Rob didn’t care. Rob hugged Charlie and then put him a headlock, but it wasn’t the mean kind. He put Charlie in a headlock and gave him a noogie. You better believe that won’t happen again, Rob said. Charlie has all these thoughts at once and for a moment he thinks he is as strong as his brother.

Charlie looks up at his brother, but Rob his trying to show his friends how to put an M88 firecracker into an apple.

“I’m telling you guys, pieces of apple are gonna go everywhere.”

In an awkward motion, Charlie raises the rock as high above his head as he can and then brings it down with all his force. The rock smashes into the head of the squirrel. There is a heavy thud noise followed immediately by a squish. It is the same kind of squish that is made when people push saliva against the back of their teeth with their tongues. Squish. When Charlie picks the rock up again for a second smash he sees a small crack in the squirrel’s skull. Thick red blood slowly drains out of the crack and collects in a pool next to the body of the squirrel. Smash, thud, squish. Charlie crushes the squirrel again. The rock grazes of the majority of the squirrel’s head, but connects cleanly with the jaw. Charlie can see the squirrel’s tongue in its entirety as the jaw hangs a good inch lower than it should, having been dislocated by the previous blow. Charlie has never seen a squirrels’ tongue before. Smash, thud, squish. The rock slams into the squirrel’s body. A sharp edge cuts through the animal’s belly and a small lump of organs slides out. At the same moment Charlie vomits, the apple explodes.

“Weak,” says one of Rob’s friends, “I thought we were getting applesauce.”