I Murdered Love-- Confessions of a King Killer

True! Hateful- Frightfully, dreadfully hateful I was and still am, but why will you call me mad? King Love had heightened my sensitivities, not dulled or destroyed them. Especially my loathing of normals. I hated the pinks in heaven and Earth. I hated them in hell as well... How then am I mad? Hearken! And observe how healthily-- how calmly I tell you the whole story.

 

It is impossible to say how the idea first entered my brain, but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old bum. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult (except when he called me a "cheap skate" for not putting money in his bucket). For his spot on the corner of Tennessee and Monroe, I had no desire. I think it was THE SMELL. Yes! It was this! He had a rotten, fowl odor that stank of ripe beer and piss. Whenever he was near, THE SMELL would seek me out in the crowd, like cigarette smoke does in a restaurant, and assault my nostrils! And so, but degrees-- very gradually-- I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus, rid the world of his terrible stench forever.

 

Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have see ME. You should have seen how wisely and cautious I proceeded and with such foresight. I was never kinder to the old man than I was in the months before his death. I went out of my way to greet him on the street and drop a dollar into his "booze bank". I engaged him in conversation, and discovered his real name was Kamal Abou Yousseff. He was originally an Arab, who, like so many other towel heads, moved to America to live off the fat of our land. I also learned he was "bipolar", a fancy name for "stark raving crazy". But most of all, I learned he stank. How truly horrible and disgusting he could smell I would never have dreamed in my worst nightmares. Yet, this was not a dream. It was real- God have mercy, it was real! Hell hath no sulfur pit more foul smelling than the arm pits of King Love, nor does the rankest cess pool compare to the stench of the King's cape and garments. I fancied that I could almost "see" THE SMELL. It distorted the air around him, shimmering in the light, like heat bouncing off the ground of the desert. I knew then what had to be done.

 

I became the trusted friend of King Love. I not only gave him money, but advice as well. I suggested he give up begging for money and waving his wand at passing cars. I recommended he stop shouting at people and set down his sign and megaphone. Instead, I urged him to move up the welfare ladder. I said he should become a ward not only of The State, but of The Church as well...

 

Within a week, I had "deposed" King Love. He had surrendered his crown and royal rags to become a new member of a local Baptist Church. Impossible you say? Ah, but you are wrong! For I had tempted King Love with two things he could not resist: A warm place to sleep and a loose share of booze. Yes! I had invited him to live in my house, as my guest, and as such, provided easy access to all he could eat and drink. (Especially drink.) All I demanded in return was that he be sober every Sunday morning to attend Church.

 

You laugh. Still you fancy me mad! But you fail to see the genius in my plan. By taking him to Church and improving his life, I removed myself from the pool of suspects were he to die. Indeed, I would pretend to be his best and only friend! True-- I had to endure his presence more than ever before, but knowing that I would soon destroy the origin of the odor made enduring it all the more possible, perhaps even essential! I had also taken the precaution of sticking wax plugs in my nose to block the stench from my brain. Certainly a mad man would not have thought of this! It worked so well, that if it had not been for the slight distortion of light that THE SMELL caused around his fat framework, I might have forgotten about the smell altogether!

 

Weeks passed. He continued to drink day and night, yet his health would not falter. His only sober moments appeared to be the required hour in church every Sunday. He would sit and stare, never saying a word, counting the seconds until he was free to drown in an endless supply of liquid slack. As he counted booze bottles, I counted bills. The expenses for his room, board and alcohol continued to escalate. I realized that I did not have the time and money necessary to allow nature to take its course. His demise required a little help. I would have to kill the old man myself.

 

Oddly, such a realization did not come hard upon my soul. If anything, it seemed to liberate my spirit! Perhaps it had been my plan all along? Perhaps my subconscious had hidden the truth from myself until that very moment. Michealangelo believed a statue pre-existed in every rock, but it was up to an artist to discover it. He was right! For I had finally uncovered what would be my masterpiece!

 

From that night on, at the stroke of twelve, I would visit the King's room. I would open the door carefully-- VERY carefully-- (for the hinges creaked)-- and I would stick my head into the room. I would shine a small pen light toward his bed, to assure he was present, and always, he was there: Drunk and strewn out unconscious upon the bed. I would quietly return the small light to my pocket and then stealthily remove the nose blocks to sniff the air. Surprisingly, THE SMELL was always absent; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old bum who vexed me but THE SMELL.

 

Was it possible the old man was cured? Had taking him off the street and providing him a bath, clean clothes, and decent food completely eliminated THE SMELL? Part of me wished to believe it was so, yet my wiser half refused to consider such nonsense. Had I not SEEN the stench every day, shimmer about the obese man as he lay on my couch and drank himself into a stupor? Could I not see the effects his smell had on other people? How the others moved down the pew as he shuffled in to church? Where was THE SMELL hiding now? It was a mystery that tugged at my sanity, and one I was determined to solve.

 

Every morning, when day broke, I would boldly enter the room and greet him courageously, and offer him his first drink. I would inquire about his night's sleep, and ask if he wished anything else for breakfast. He always seemed quite satisfied with his situation, totally oblivious to the invisible sword that dangled precariously above his royal head every night at midnight. He would happily carry on, with his eyes gleaming, telling me the bizarre dreams he experienced in his slumber. His free hand would make wild gestures, while his other hand -- though trembling-- jealously gripped the cup of Orange juice and Vodka. All the while I would look at him smiling, knodding my head in agreement to whatever he blathered on about, while carefully studying the faint glimmer of THE SMELL floating upward from his head.

 

Had I been more daring, I would have torn out the nose plugs and finished him off then and there. But for whatever reason, my dark deed required darkness to carry it out, in addition to the presence of THE SMELL. And so I waited.

 

It was a hot night in early August when the sword above the King's head finally fell. It was ten minutes after midnight, to be exact. I had misplaced my pen light and was running a bit late. Perhaps my impatience had caused me to be careless, for the door made a loud creak as I opened it, and I thought I heard a stirring from within. I waited in darkness, afraid to activate my tiny light. It seemed like hours, but in truth, only minutes passed as I stood there, waiting for any noise whatsoever. Carefully I listened, like a cat for a mouse, but the only noise I heard was the beating of my own quickened heart. I quietly pulled the blocks from my nose and whiffed the air. THE SMELL was not present. I should have turned and left the room that very moment, but I had to confirm that he was indeed in his bed, and that THE SMELL was not hiding SOMEWHERE ELSE. Slowly, I reached for the pen light within my pocket. I pulled it out very gingerly, and held it at arm's length, preparing to turn it on. I must have been nervous and the perspiration caused my thumb to slip, for the pen light fell upon the floor and made considerable noise. The King bolted up in bed and shouted, "Who's there!"

 

I remained calm. It was pitch black, and I knelt quietly to the floor to feel around for my light, but it had rolled out of reach. I decided to inch my way out through the door and worry about everything in the morning. But suddenly... I noticed THE SMELL. It was present in ALL its gory glory! The foul, rotten egg, pig swill stench that one can never forget having smelled it. THE SMELL of death--not fresh kill-- but old decaying death with relaxed bowels of shit tainting the air. I stood up in terror, but my knees gave way and I fell backward against the wall. A pointed object jabbed my back. It was the light switch. I lifted myself against the wall and the room turned white with light. There before me sat the half naked King, his eyes wide open in terror, the sheet held firmly by the flab of his waist. "What do you want?!" He bellowed.

 

As he spoke, THE SMELL hit me again, but this time I was braced against the wall. I stood in amazement, watching in disbelief as a cone of distortion emanated from the top of his thick white beard. THAT'S IT! I thought: That's the hiding place of THE SMELL! It's his BREATH, the breath of a rotten, drunken SOT!

 

"Enough!" I exclaimed, "Breath no more!" I pounced on the anti-Santa like a determined tiger, and buried his face beneath the pillow. He frantically attempted to pull me off his round chest, but my resolve was too great. I knew if the pillow moved, THE SMELL would return. And so I held fast! And waited... First, I felt his chest sink as the muffled breathing stopped. And then, I felt the faint beating of his heart slow down and eventually... stop. At last: The King was dead...

 

If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the clever precautions I took to conceal the crime. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First, I covered the head with a garbage bag. Then I cut if off and taped the bag shut. I proceeded to gut the dead whale. The innards I shoved in another trash bag. I did the same with the arms and the legs. The entire body fit comfortably beneath six planks in the living room floor. I then replaced the planks so that no one could detect the modification. There was no stain or blood drop of any kind. I was too wise for that. A tub had caught all. Ha!

 

A few days passed without incident. I reported to the police that Kamal Abou Yousseff (AKA King Love) had left my home on a serious drinking binge, and I was concerned for his health. The hot summer weather might harm an alcoholic more than others. If they could find him, they should invite him to return to my home if he so desired.

 

I heard nothing more from the police for several weeks.

 

Ah, distinctly I remember it was humid in September, when two agents of both genders approached my chamber door. "They've come for his things" thought I, "That is it, and nothing more."

 

I bid them enter with light heart, for what had I to fear at this late date? The man was a Sheriff and the woman was a deputy. They were there to report no success in finding King Love, but wished to go though his personal belongings in order to locate his next of kin.

 

I smiled and invited both officers in to search the premises. I explained that I could do more than provide his things. I could provide them details of his past. He was born in Cairo, Egypt 65 years ago. He was a young prodigy pianist who played for the king of Egypt at the Cairo Opera House when he was just 16 years old. He wanted to pursue a career in music, but his father forced him to study medicine instead. The artist formerly known as King Love became a successful pathologist in New York, and was eventually listed in Who's Who. But then the Gulf War occurred, and he tried to stop what he considered a Middle Eastern Massacre of Arabs instigated by Israel and other Jews. And thus, "King Love" was born. He shouted to passing cars while waving his royal scepter and wearing his king's crown and cape. Sometimes he would wave a sign which read "stop racism". Other times he would holler through a cheap megaphone. He slept in his broken down Lincoln Continental and lived off his monthly $450 Social Security check. He would spend some of it to publish "Love declarations". But most of all, he spent it on booze.

 

The police listened intently and sympathetically to everything I had to say. They expressed appreciation for all the help I had given the poor man, and assured me that they would do everything they could to locate him and his relatives. (I chuckled within, for even then they were walking above his tomb!)

 

The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They stood, while I answered cheerfully, and chatted about familiar things. But ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. I became dizzy, and the deputy said my nose was bleeding. They urged me to sit down and I did. She gave me a tissue and suggested I tilt my head back. As I looked at the ceiling and assured them I was fine, I became keenly aware of a fowl smelling odor. I tried to stuff the tissue further up my nose to block the horrible scent, but it mattered not. It was THE SMELL, and it grew worse and worse.

 

No doubt I became VERY pale. I talked more fluently and with a heightened voice. THE SMELL increased. What could I do? It was the same old, rotten smell, much like fermented beer and piss! I gasped for breath, and yet the officers appeared unaware of its presence! I talked more quickly- more vehemently, but THE SMELL became overwhelming! Why would they not be gone? I got up and paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by their presence. Was it possible they still could not smell it? The two chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Oh God! What could I do? I foamed, I raved, I swore! I pushed my chair over the spot were Love lay and started chanting "Long Live the King! Long Live the King!" Yet still they stood there and smiled. Almighty God! It's a trick! They smell it-- they suspect-- they know all! They are making a mockery of my horror! This I thought, and this I still think. But anything was better than that terrible stench. I could bear it no longer. I knew I must scream or die!

 

"Villains!" I shrieked, "Dissemble no more! I admit the deed! Tear up the planks! Look, see! This is the source of that God awful SMELL!"

 

 

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