We’re not too different you and I, we like our home comforts, a cup washed down with a biscuit or two, a nice book, the classics.
However, we differ in that I can proudly admit to being the notorious Salthaven Slicer serial killer prophet-man for almost 20 years… and you cannot.
As God’s chosen one, I embarked upon a mission of biblical proportions to redeem the souls of sinners, come rain or shine or hellhail. Not to brag but I’ve nailed about 78 sinner so far, which is, I’m sure you will agree, is a completely selfless act deserving of a knighthood, a sainthood and innumerable riches.
My childhood acquaintances followed different paths, some became company directors, lawyers, doctors, parents and more, I stayed loyal to my roots, keeping clean my little slice of heaven… Salthaven.
Now however, I write this memoir to document my legacy, the years of grinding away at vice has taking its toll upon my mortal vessel and I fear, my path has come to an end.
*FLASHBACK HARP NOISE*
After I grant eternal salvation to a lost soul with a bit of murdering I typically scatter a handful of clues about the scene of the ascension… sometimes it’s literally a hand.
For years, I yearned to be captured and gain recognition from police, do a stint in prison, write a book, appear on Celebrity Big Brother… the basics. It was my dream. But, no matter how many clues I left behind, a clipped fingernail here, some head hair there… a full web of my ejaculate left within the wound of a sinner suspended from the ceiling of a church — the inept, scaled-down police force lacked the resources to decipher my genius.
Denied my recognition, salvation and place in heaven as the right hand of god, I really became depressed, REALLY DEPRESSED. I was denied the third act I deserve. Depressing. At the ripe old age of 86, it’s getting harder and harder to up my game, harder and harder to get out of bed. Harder to remain relevant.
Still I reflect kindly upon my greatest hits, like the time I squeezed a disemboweled man into a flight suit and flew him through the window of the town hall during the May Day dance. 89. It was. A good year. I painted the hall with his innards and terror rattled the community for years.
But now. The kids of today care nothing for gruesome murders. They’re all on their video games committing their own atrocities. Its disheartening. How can an artist like me get noticed?
I’m not as young as I once was either. These old bones are finding it harder to swing an axe, pour an acid both… or dangle twins from a tree.
And people, they just don’t give a shit anymore. Back when I started this gig, folk cared. There was a real sense of community, togetherness, family. Things I could target with my campaign of righteous terror. But now these folk are all too caught up in themselves. So much change. The kids are truly irredeemable.
Teens take selfies with the dead now, a fucking corpse selfie they call it. It’s a sick desecration of my work. And it’s becoming more and more frequent. Like any good craftsman I tried to turn the situation to my advantage. For a while I carved the hashtag #fear onto my victims.
I thought I could start a social media campaign of terror to bring my acts of justice into the modern era… but the kids quickly lost interest although I can report I saw great reach and engagements with my work. That was until Cecil the Lion and Harambe’s deaths desensitised millennials in the way the Lion King’s Mufasa did the previous generation.
My dead were quickly blotted out by the white noise of the web. Cats, cake and minion memes endured.
The people of Salthaven, as it turns out, are really mean. They just get on with life, ignoring all the death. They’re psychopaths. Really. Do they not value human life? And by extension human death? Had I desensitised them? Mortality? The afterlife? Had my flock fallen to the wolves, the all-encompassing darkness? Was it I that pushed them away from God?
Anyway, it was really demoralising to be honest but my dog helped get me through the toughest days, often I would reward her with a bone from my collection. Little Popo the Pomeranian. I don’t know what I would do without her to be honest. My little bundle of joy.
Well kids, have a happy Halloween. I’m jumping the fuck off this bridge. I’m done. One final death. And a confession letter left by the sidewalk next to my wallet, keys and ID. A way to document my crimes so I can get the place in history I deserve…
Fear will rattle the foundations of Salthaven bringing forth the righteous love of the lord I have been heralding from the start.
EPILOGUE — OR JUST THE NEXT BIT WITH A DRAMATIC PAUSE
Fog settled in on the bridge, dim lights etched the scene with contrast as a malicious hooded figure dressed all in black crept up behind the Salthaven Slicer and bear-hugged him from behind. His tongue flickered in the Slicer’s ear: ‘You will be remembered as my first… my pretty.’
Wielding a pair of knuckle-dusters, each inscribed with a golden hashtag, The Tweeter Beater started his legendary rampage beating the slicer into a mincey pulp that was discovered hours later by a distracted jogger who waded into the puddle with his fresh new sneakers.
The world would only know the victim, the unquestionably wicked Christopher Higginbottom as one of the many people to fall at the hands of a mass murderer. The local newspaper, The Salthaven Journal, described how Higginbottom often attended church and participated in fundraisers for the community — he was survived only by his dog.
Everyone soon forgot Christopher Higginbottom, ‘that nice man who lived down the street’ existed.
His confession memoir was pocketed by The Tweeter Beater. Three months later it was found in his apartment during a police raid and as a result, the Tweeter Beater went down in history as the UK’s prolific and social-media savvy murderer.
Higginbottom watched the scenes from his comfy corner in heaven with sadness, bereft as his fallen legacy.