Now this is a long one, so strap yourself in. This happened back in the 2000’s, and I believe that I have murdered 21 people. Back then I worked for a highly secretive taxi company for the ultra-rich. They gave me a Rolls-Royce and a list of clients to drop off wherever they wanted to go. It was a pretty well paying job, but I never needed the money. I already had everything I wanted, I was in a pretty depressed state back then, I never felt like I deserved anything more. I took the money and would write checks on it to nobody in particular, then drop them off to random people on the street for them to put their name on.
My first victim was my father. He owned a shipping company and got rich off of it, I think it was something like $80 million worth (this was back in the 1950’s, I never bothered to adjust it for inflation, that would only make it worse). He was an asshole. He yelled at my mother for the slightest of infractions and kept her locked up inside our house, and while it was a large house, a house you could be lost in, staying in one place for years at a time is like driving an active power drill through your brain. He also didn’t allow her to do any household work, like cooking or cleaning (which she actively enjoyed doing, it was a break from routine) because he had hired staff dedicated to doing that. One day I came home from school to find my mother had hanged herself on the stair’s guardrail, and she was wearing the prettiest dress. Even back then, I suspected my father killed her. She was a very happy and optimistic woman, always looking forward to the future and seeing the light side in everything. They discovered a suicide note, saying she had gotten bored of life and had grown to hate me, and my father, and that house, she felt like it was suffocating her. I knew, though, that those weren’t her own words, she would never say that, and the note wasn’t her handwriting. Not that the police cared. There were legitimate tears shed at her funeral.
Around 1984, my father was diagnosed with lung cancer, not surprising, he was a smoker all his life. He even smoked while confined to his bed from the cancer, it got really bad. In his final days, his true inner self was revealed, and it was even worse than usual. He didn’t pay his staff a dime and expected them to still work, but naturally, they all left. I decided to stay by his side, I wanted to watch him rot away until he was nothing but a husk, a shell, of a man, not that he wasn’t one all his life. Near the end, his eyes were sunken in, with bags under them, he looked sad and tired. His skin was pale and gray, he always wanted the curtains closed, and so became Vitamin D deficient. His insomnia was really showing at that point. One day, he started ranting to me, as usual. It was barely coherent most of the time, but I could occasionally make out single words, but as it became more clear, I began to get angry. “Bitch” “murder” “her”. Eventually, he became completely coherent. I remember, to this day, exactly what he said.
“Your mother was a bitch. She would always rattle on and on about bullshit that didn’t even make sense. Her role was to stay home and take care of you, but she was always whining and complaining about something. Even when I explained it to her, clear as day, she didn’t understand. She didn’t understand the stress that job put me under, it was like dragging an anchor across the ocean floor. Now that I’m dying, it’s not like they can put me in prison. I’ll be dead in a week, a murder trial takes much longer. My colleagues think I killed her, and ostracized me, you think I killed her, and you hate me, well guess what? Nothing matters anymore, I’m just living pure routine now, so you know what? I did kill her. I put my hands around that little bitch’s throat and squeezed until she stopped screaming. Then I wrote a note, and that was all the feds needed to call it suicide. I tied a noose around her neck, and tied the other end to the guardrail, and I left her corpse dangling there while I went to work. While I was there, I didn’t feel a thing.”
I wanted to scream, but no sounds came out. I looked around, trying to see if there was anything I could take my stress out on, so I started kicking his drawer. I wanted to kill him, but the other, moral side of me wanted to not be a murderer. I eventually realized that if I did kill him, I wouldn’t be a murderer, for he was not human. No human being could ever do what he did. So I walked over to him, grabbed the pillow he was lying on, and placed it over his head. Then, using both hands, I pushed down on it. I held it there for another 10 minutes until he stopped flailing around. He was in his eighties and his strength was nothing compared to that of a man in his mid-thirties. I lifted the pillow away to see his lifeless face, his eyes and mouth wide open. I half-suspected him to get up and lunge at me, beating me and calling me just a “stupid, useless piece of shit, why the fuck did I not give you up the moment I saw your face?” but of course, he didn’t. He was dead, and that reality was setting in. Not just that he was dead, but that I killed him, and that I kind of enjoyed it. I liked watching him squirm and flail as he died a slow, miserable death, kind of ironic, he died the way he lived.
I placed the pillow under his head and paced around for another 10 minutes, so many thoughts in my head that I couldn’t finish the thought I had previously before another one turned its ugly head. Eventually, I just started laughing like a madman. I was laughing so hard, I thought I might suffocate to death too. I don’t know why I laughed, it just felt right in the situation. When I finished laughing, I put on a fake sad voice and reached for the telephone by his desk and dialed his private oncologist, and told him that I had just made my father lunch but when I came up to see him, he was already dead. He said that he would send up some people to collect the body and send it to the morgue for autopsy. When the call ended, I went downstairs and made a quick lunch, placed it on a tray and went up, placing it by his bed on his nightstand. I then sat in a fancy chair he had in that room, waiting until the people arrived to remove the body. About a week later, the mortician called me and asked me to come down to the morgue. He said the initial theory was that the cancer had caused internal bleeding, which is what usually killed cancer patients, but that there was no blood in the lungs that shouldn’t be there. He said that there was evidence that he had been suffocated, and asked me if I knew anything about it. I shrugged, said I didn’t, and popped a check in his pocket, saying that if he learned anything, no he didn’t. He eventually realized what I meant and nodded his head, saying that he would “conduct another examination, for his initial cause of death may have been flawed.” I smiled, and went about my day.
There was one, fake tear shed at his funeral.
Since he had never dictated a will and testament, and I was his sole next of kin, his entire net worth was passed down to me. I used that money to pay the mortician, buy myself a house and a car as well as leave myself with around a $200,000 emergencies fund. I sold his company, and his mansion (I couldn’t stand to live another second in that goddamn house, so while I waited for it to be sold, I stayed in a hotel room) and donated the money I had left over to charity anonymously. It was something close to a quarter billion dollars. It made news headlines, and nobody knew who did it.
I was never a morning person, I always preferred to stay up late. I may have had insomnia, like my father, but I don’t know for sure. I decided to pick up a job as a taxi driver, driving late at night around the city. This went on until about 1998 I think. One day, I was driving around, looking for a client like a shark looks for its prey when a man in a fancy suit hailed me. I pulled over, and he got inside. I did my regular thing, asking him where he wanted to go, and then I started driving. On the way, he asked me if I wanted a job. I told him I already had one, and I quite liked in. He then said: “Well you’re in luck my boy, because I’m starting a cab company, one that caters to wealthier clients. You would be one of my first drivers, and I would pay you well.” I thought about it for a moment, recognizing my hatred of the rich, but I realized this was an opportunity to make money that I actually earned. I asked him: “Why would rich people take some unique taxi when they can just get a regular one, those cheap fucks.” He then stated something that would dictate how I looked at life forever. “Rich people are narcissists, I mean how did you think they got there in the first place? They will do anything to make sure other people know that they are rich, no matter the cost. It’s why they buy the biggest houses, the nicest cars and the finest plane tickets, to satisfy their ego. I’m just a businessman who is willing to exploit that fact.” I decided to take his offer, and that’s how I got a job driving around people I now hate. I believed they could be redeemed back then.
About 3 years later, in 2001, I picked up a client in his fancy suit. His suit was unbuttoned and he was drunk. he also brought a girl along with him, she looked no older than 14, and she was terrified. She gave me a look that said everything I needed to know. It said, Help me. I would help her alright, but not in the ordinary way. I locked the doors and drove them out to the top of a parking garage, where there was nobody, the man being drunk hadn’t even told me where to go. By now he was feeling the girl up, sticking a hand up her dress. I was outraged. I ran outside the car, walking over to his door and I pulled him out. He asked me: “Why the fuck did you do that? It was just getting good.” I was seeing red at this point, so I punched him, again and again and again. I punched him until his face was obscured behind a thick coating of blood, and my fingers had been broken. The girl was horrified, leaning against the other end of the car. When I was done beating the man, I lifted him onto my shoulders and tossed him off the side of the building, I watched him plummet until he hit the ground. He landed on his head, which was near obliterated upon impact. I stared down for a moment as a shocked crowd began to develop around the body, and before anyone could look up, I backed away and stepped inside the car. The girl was pale and breathing heavily, even more heavily than I was.
“Di-did you just kill that guy?” She asked nervously. “Yes, I did, and you’re safe now.” I responded. I placed my hand on the steering wheel, wincing in pain. Oh yeah, I definitely broke a few fingers. I tried not to focus on my pain and just started driving. Thankfully there was more than one way out of the parking garage, so nobody saw me leave. The place did not even have security cameras, although the next day, I saw a few men installing some. As we left the parking garage, I asked the girl where she wanted to go. She asked me to just drop her off on the sidewalk. I asked her if she was sure she would be safe, and she nodded in response. I handed her a quarter, asking her to go to a nearby payphone and call her parents to pick her up. I said “It’ll be safer for you to drive home with your parents than to walk home in this shithole.” I did as she asked, and dropped her off on the sidewalk, near a payphone. I was confident she would not tell police what I looked like.
When I got home, I cleaned the blood off my hand and clothes. Then, I wrapped a bandage around the broken fingers, praying that they would heal in time. Then, I called in sick, saying “one of the clients must have given me something, but I feel like shit right now, thanks in advance.” I stayed home a whole week. About two days after the incident, I saw on the news that the FBI had released a composite sketch of the suspect, as illustrated by the very girl I had driven around. Sure enough, it looked the exact opposite of how I looked. They said that the girl had not been able to memorize the license plate. She also said that they were in a regular yellow cab, not a Rolls-Royce. That reminded me, I needed to check for blood in the car.
During my sick time off, I stopped at a rock and gem store to purchase a rock hammer, which I then placed in my work suit’s breast pocket. I also made sure to bring along baby wipes to clean myself if needed.
Then I returned to work. By now, I knew I had another job to do. I was placed in close proximity to some of the most powerful people in the country, maybe even the world, and they needed the hammer of justice. I realized when I killed the pedophile, that they were all scumbags who deserved punishment. My father was no different. My purpose, regardless of if I was caught, was to punish those deserving of punishment. I was getting my hands dirty to keep everyone else’s clean. The rock hammer would be my instrument to enact justice to the countless exploiting by them, their greed and their ego. I parked my car across from a nice steakhouse. I watched a couple sitting on the outside deck. They drank more champagne than I have drunk in my entire life. Dish after dish was brought out to their table, for them to eat, but they didn’t even touch it. I watched a homeless man salivate at the thought of eating a sample of their food. They decided to get up and the man tossed a few hundred dollar bills on their table as they walked outside. I pulled up in front of the restaurant, offering them a ride. They recognized the company, so they got in my back seat, still giggling to themselves as they did it. I giggled to myself too as I drove away, locking the doors. I drove outside the city limits and they were too drunk to even notice. I stopped in a field in the middle of nowhere and stepped outside the car, and by now they were growing slightly concerned, but still largely unaware of their fates. I walked to the backseat door and pulled the man out of the car. I grabbed him by the hair and yanked, using the gloves that were a part of my work attire. The woman was screaming, the man was pleading at me not to hurt him. I withdrew the rock hammer from my suit. “Please! Please, I haven’t done anything wrong!”
Liar.
Cheat.
Fraud.
My moral self was calling out, in the back of my mind, saying I still had a chance to not do this, to keep my morality, but it was just in the back of my mind, overpowered by my purpose, and as I sunk my rock hammer into the man’s skull, I killed my moral self as well. His face went still, and his body collapsed on the ground as I withdrew the rock hammer. The woman was horrified, she stared at me, her face more red than a tomato, she tried to scream, but her voice was cracked. She had shed so many tears it looked like she was sweating, and she could not shed any tears anymore. It was like the combined tears of all the people she had fucked over by being so wealthy, and living so little. Table scraps, if anything. She backed away and attempted to open the door, but it was locked. I stepped inside, and realizing that the blood would stain the seats if I used the rock hammer, I locked my hands around her throat and squeezed as tight as I could. She kicked and punched and tried to scream, but the pain was negligible at worst. When she went limp, I withdrew her body out the car. I grabbed the two bodies, lifting them onto my shoulders, and disposed of them in the nearby creek. The water should dispose of any forensic evidence. I closed the door I had opened to kill the man, and stepped inside the driver’s seat. As I drove away from the scene of the crime, I felt nothing. I paid their fare for them.
Over the next 20 years, I killed an additional 14 people in roughly the same way. I would return home, I would clean the weapons used, make sure no blood or fingerprints of the victims were on the car, and then then return to work. As I got older, it got more difficult physically speaking, but I got more used to it and even made it systematic to make it even easier for me. However, one day, I was mugged. A group of 3 men, each having a gun, pulled me aside and pointed the weapon at my face, demanding money. I tried to fight them off, but lost easily. I eventually gave up, and just gave them the money. In pain, I sat there, reassured by the cold ground but realized that I was getting older. I was 72 back then, I couldn’t do this forever. I coughed, then got up. I had to go out with some last hurrah, to ensure my job was finished.
The wealthiest family in the city lived in an enormous penthouse towering above us all, it was a regular sight on my daily route and unfortunately for me, the family had private drivers, not relying on taxi cab companies. They owned their own Rolls-Royces. However, and I checked, a rock hammer could easily smash through a lock. So one night, I snuck into the building, and took the elevator up. I made sure to wear a ski mask, I was not as confident I could do this job. I also brought a pistol with me, in case they attempted to charge me. I snuck into their penthouse, and it was fancy. They had old artwork all throughout the house, and intricate detailing on everything. I could hear their laughter echoing through the halls, so I followed the sound, taking small, quiet steps in case any staff hadn’t left yet. I stared around the corner, gazing into their dining room. There they sat, the mother, the father, and a little girl no older than 8 years.
As I stepped into their view, their expressions morphed from that of joy to pure horror. I pointed my gun at the father, and the mother stepped up, as if trying to prevent me from shooting her husband, put I turned it to her and shot her in the head. Her brains coated the expensive wallpaper. The husband backed away, having witnessed his wife’s murder. I pointed the gun to his head, and he attempted to plead with me, offering money if I at least spared the girl. They all did the same thing. I did not need money. I had retired from my career 10 years prior. Of course they didn’t know that, they thought that I was some random hobo who wanted cash, they thought that would be the only person capable of doing such a thing. They couldn’t comprehend the concept that one of their own people, the people who drive them around, who cook their meals, who break their backs to make them live a more luxurious life yet get compensated rather well could do it. I pulled the trigger.
I turned to the little girl. The look on her face indicated she didn’t quite know what she had just seen. She wasn’t terrified, or remotely afraid, just curious. She likely didn’t even know what death was, or that she would die someday. I walked over to her, gun still in hand. She stared at my gun, and then got up. She walked around me, over to her father’s corpse. She started shaking him, saying “Daddy, I’m ready for dessert.” over and over again. I raised the gun, aiming carefully. She continued to say she was ready for dessert, tears beginning to form as she begged him to wake up. I pulled the trigger and the little girl’s body was launched forward, sprawling out on top of her father’s corpse. I heard a staff member gasp and scream as they turned the corner, and I ran. The staff here were not wealthy pricks, and I would never violate my values. I lowered the elevator, and drove back home. I disposed of the gun, burying it under my porch, along with the rock hammer, which served me well. I burned the ski mask in the fireplace and sat down on my couch, knowing my purpose was fulfilled, and I began to look for something to watch.
Now I am 74. I was born in the year 1949 and now I have lung cancer. Like my father, I have one week or so left to live. I had to tell someone of my tale, of how my purpose is now complete. I lived a good life, and it passed me by faster than I could think. I had to have somebody know of the work I put in to make this world a better place, and I feel I accomplished that. If you disagree with my methods, so be it. I’ve learned that most people are repulsed by my actions, but are unaware of how the society we live in and take for granted was born of blood. If you don’t agree with me, you must be a hypocrite. However, I am not interested in a philosophical debate right now, I can count the hours I have left to live in my head, and I am interested in living them. Thankfully, I have no young son to suffocate me with a pillow.