Wildlife on the Serengeti by Michael Bruce Blackwell

Author:Michael Bruce Blackwell
Language: eng
Format: epub
Publisher: Down & Out Books

“These children who come to you with their knives, they’re your children. I didn’t teach them, you did.”

—Charles Manson (1934-2017)

FUN FACT: Leonarda Cianciulli, the “Soap-Maker of Corregio,” turned her victims into tea cakes and served them to guests.

After a couple of semesters, I grew tired of Amherst. Sick of it. I felt too constricted. I knew I couldn’t kill there anymore without pushing my luck and drawing undue attention to myself. I felt stifled as an artist. Plus, I was running out of money. Seriously out of money. College is so damned expensive, especially when paid out-of-pocket with no viable source of income.

I decided to drop out and head south to Maryland. See the sights. That’s one of the things that makes me a great serial killer and such a unique one: I stay on the move. Most serial killers are too damned lazy. They choose victims in a limited and well-defined geographical area—a “comfort zone”—and hide in plain sight. They never broaden their horizons and venture far from their usual hunting grounds. Me, I’m from the Henry Lee Lucas school, only without the exaggerated body count: I want to leave my mark on as many states as possible. Spread the fear around. To all fifty of them, if I can swing it.

But even we serial killers can have our bad days and end up as victimized as our victims. Shortly after I arrived in Maryland, some lowlife stole my Beemer and everything I had in it, including my ATM card and every maxed-out credit card I owned. I was stranded in some crappy town whose name I no longer care to remember, however hard it is to forget.

Fortunately, I had my phone with me, though my charger was in my Beemer and my phone was hovering perilously at fourteen percent, so I called Mother post haste to get her to wire me some money. Her phone rang four times. A man’s voice answered.

“Hello?”

“Who is this?” I demanded.

“And who might you be?”

“Don’t give me that shit. Who the hell are you? And where’s Mother? Why are you using her phone? Answer me!”

“Is this Mac?”

“And what if it is?”

“Your mother talks about you all the time. My name’s Rod Johnson. I’m her boyfriend.”

“My mother’s what? Put her on the damned phone, you piece of shit. I want to talk to her.”

“She’s asleep.”

“Well, then, wake her up.”

“I can’t. She’s out of it.”

“Dead drunk, you mean.”

“Well, that’s a bit indelicate, but yes.”

“Where’s Morgan?”

“Upstairs, in her room. Grounded.”

“Put her on. I want to talk to her. In private. No speaker-phone.”

“Just a minute…”

I heard his voice call out, “Morgan! Come down here. There’s someone on the phone who wishes to speak to you.”

A long pause. I heard the thumping of feet going downstairs. Then a tiny voice.

“Hello?”

“Morgan? It’s me, Mac.”

“What the hell do you want?”

“I want to know who that smarmy creep is that answered the phone, for starters.”

The brat’s voice lowered to barely a mumble.

“You mean Rod?”

“Yeah, Rod. What’s he doing in the house? Why is he using Mother’s phone?”

“Mother brought him home three days ago.

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