Work Text:
Preparations
by Scribe
"The reason there are so few perfect murders
is the lack of preparation."
Thus went his philosophy,
one he had believed
since his early teens
when he first began to plan.
Now he was twenty, and he was ready.
Family members and friends
had been discarded as victims.
The police always looked at family
and friends first for motive.
And even if he really didn't have
a motive,
he would be questioned
and considered.
Business contacts,
bosses and co-workers
were dismissed for the same reason.
As were neighbors.
That left strangers, someone totally random.
"Randomness does not fit our philosophy."
he argued with himself.
"One cannot prepare for every contingency."
"Not so," he argued back.
"It only takes planning."
And so he prepared.
The car bought under another name,
not too new, not too old,
nondescript color.
The trunk soundproofed and sealed leak proof
by his own hands.
The handcuffs in the glove compartment
explainable because he was
a part time security guard.
The black tape,
because he did electrical work.
The heavy black flashlight,
weighted with batteries,
long handle club-like,
was in case of an accident.
The blanket was,
And at home...
The rec room soundproofed
to spare the neighbors
his stereo.
The hooks in the ceiling,
and the chains,
for his potted plants.
The awl, the pliers, the needles,
the candles, the hammer, the nails...
all household items, easily explained.
He was ready.
He was prepared, at last.
When the moonless night came,
the car was tuned and full of gas.
His work and family believed
he was on vacation, out of town.
His house was stocked with
food and necessities enough
that he would not need to leave
for a week or more.
He was prepared.
The answering machine was on
with a cheerful message.
A door led from the garage
into the house for safe passage.
He was prepared.
He'd chosen the strip of highway
well in advance.
It was dark, and lonely.
There was a rest stop where a car
parked for a few moments
would not draw attention.
He was prepared.
The clothing he wore was dark, and cheap,
disposable.
At home the washer stood ready,
with a fresh gallon of bleach
on the shelf above.
He was prepared.
He left his home after dark,
when the scant few homes
nearby were filled with families
eating dinner or watching
tv, too busy to notice
the comings and goings
of their pleasant neighbor.
He obeyed all traffic regulations,
down to carefully buckling his seatbelt.
He drove steadily, looking like he had a purpose.
He didn't pick up the first one he saw,
though he knew he might not get another chance.
She looked too hard and wary,
with her backpack and boots.
A seasoned hitcher
who might, herself,
be prepared.
The second one,
walking toward him,
was another matter.
A little older, but young enough.
He pulled over, not too close,
not to spook her.
"Hello. Car broke down?"
"Out of gas, back at the rest stop."
"Tsk tsk. You weren't prepared.
Shall I send someone?"
Offer this first, don't seem too eager.
Eagerness can spook them. Be prepared.
"Or say, I have a can in my trunk. I think there's a few drops
left..."
The look of relief on her face makes him smile,
and she smiles back.
"Oh, foolish woman, you are not
prepared for your fate tonight."
he thinks as she climbs inside
and they ride.
"I'm ashamed of myself,
as much as I travel,"
she says.
"Don't worry, tonight will teach you
to plan ahead,"
he says, and laughs.
The car is at the rest stop,
nondescript, not too new, not too old.
As they get out
she says, "I need to go to the ladies' room."
"Something else you didn't plan on?"
She smiles again. "Not exactly." and
goes into the concrete bunker.
"Perfect." he thinks, and opens the trunk.
Tape in his pocket, flashlight in hand.
"I am prepared."
He crunches toward the bunker,
flashlight gripped in white knuckled fist.
He is prepared for shock and surprise
when he enters the female domain.
He is prepared for protests, even screams,
at his appearance.
He is prepared for attempted escape,
ready to block the exit,
speed and stamina for a chase increased
by dedicated exercise.
He is prepared for a fight,
though he doubts she is one of those
who will do more than slap and cry.
He is prepared to rap her,
just so, on the temple.
Hard enough to stun, but not to kill.
Dear me, no, where would be the fun in that?
He is prepared for the quick binding,
and the fast trip to the trunk.
He anticipates what will happen in the rec room,
and he is prepared to spend a very
leisurely few days...
What he is not prepared for
is the cold gleam in the woman's
eyes, under the florescent
light.
The cold flash of her smile,
even when he raises the club
over his head.
And most of all,
he is not prepared
for the glint of cold steel in her hand,
and the burning pain in his gut that follows...