AN:I don't really know where this came from, but come it did. It's a bit gory, so be warned. And don't neglect to review.
This story has nothing to do with Kurt Vonnegut, despite the title. And I don't own the character.
He stepped out of his car and out into the street, inhaling deeply as the crisp air of late autumn greeted him. Staring up at the stars in the dark void above, he shut the door and set off, walking down the street at a leisurely pace, gazing at each wonderful little suburban house he passed.
His shoes produced a quiet and comforting rhythm as he moved and his clothes made rustling noises as the cold wind gently licked at him. He shivered, partly of cold, partly of excitement.
Two streets later and he reached the right one. He looked up at the street sign. Mellow Lane, it read. A pretty name for a pretty street with pretty people. He walked on, passing houses 1 and 3 before stopping in front of Mellow Lane 5. He stood motionless for a moment, then walked to the door, letting his fist hover inches from the wood.
He lowered his fist and walked to the right, following the wall, glancing through each successive window until he found himself in the garden, staring into a guest room. He took off his shoes and slowly opened the window before climbing inside. He knew from earlier visits that the couple living in the house rarely entered the room. He'd made sure to disable the burglar alarm and leave the window unlocked the night before, making entry much easier than usual.
He also knew that the couple had gone to sleep half an hour earlier, so he was free to roam the house. As usual he took the time to admire the family photos once again. He picked up a photo from their wedding and studied it closely, taking in their happy faces.
He returned the photo and went to the kitchen, as silent as the house itself. Noting that nothing had changed, he walked over to the sink and slowly turned the faucet, just enough for a tiny but steady drip to escape. Satisfied, he moved silently into the bathroom, the room right beside the bedroom.
Sure enough, 5 minutes later a groggy woman emerged from the bedroom. She rubbed her eyes lazily as she walked into the kitchen. He followed her silently, mere inches behind her, breathing as quietly as he could.
She came to the sink and turned the faucet, muttering dirty words under her breath. His hands snapped forth, one resting over her mouth to muffle her scream, the other moving the blade fast across her neck. He could almost feel what the knife felt, taste what it felt, as it sliced through her.
Blood spurted forth and she struggled, kicking into the kitchen's cupboards. He bent her forward to keep the blood from going anywhere but the sink. The liquid kept on pouring and he put his knife down, freeing one hand to put the plug in the drain. He felt tears sliding on the hand over her mouth, felt her tremble in fear. He held her in his arms as her life drained out, rocked her gently while they waited.
Soon it was over and he let her go, watching her slide to the floor. He turned around and saw her husband in the kitchen's doorway, a look of fear and surprise on his face. His paralysis lasted a bit too long, his body had just started to react when the blade punctured his side.
The visitor stared into his wide eyes as it ended, listening to his gasps of surprise and pain. Soon he too slid to the ground, blood smearing the lovely kitchen floor. The visitor went to the bathroom and washed the gore off his weapon.
He disappeared into another room for a minute before returning with nails and a hammer. He promptly got to work, fastening the woman to the cupboards under the sink by her clothes, then nailing her hands to either side of the sink.
He moved on to the man of the house, kneeling down by his head, brandishing another sharp object. He rested the sharp blade on the corpse's neck and started sawing. Through flesh, through the windpipe, through bone and through flesh again.
He lifted the torso and carefully positioned it in a seating position on a bench by the kitchen table. He then put the head in its original position, reuniting the two parts by tying them together with a scarf. He put yesterday's newspaper in the corpse's lap.
He turned around to look at the woman. The sink was filled with blood, two dishes underneath the liquid. Dozens of nails in her nightgown kept her stuck to the cupboards and nails kept her hands likewise stuck to the sides of the sink. Thus her hip and downwards were fairly straight, but her upper torso slanted a bit from the sink. Then came the gaping neck and the gaping mouth, hanging backwards at an unnatural angle.
Tired of the constant cleaning and other demeaning tasks her boorish husband gave her, it looked like she had simply snapped.
He looked over at the man. He lay limply against the wall behind the bench and from afar he might even look alive. The fact that neck and body weren't really connected was hidden, although the blood seeping through the scarf might be a give-away. A look of horror adorned his face and an open newspaper was in his lap.
Depressed by the state of the world, horrified by the terrible news he just read, it looked like he had simply burst.
The visitor raised his knife again and carefully cut once, twice, making two new tally marks in his skin. He fetched the wedding photo, then walked over to the sink and dipped one finger in. He signed the photo and put it on the kitchen table to show that this was indeed his work. Victor Zsasz
He walked through the front door and out into the fresh autumn air and set off towards his car. Art, duty, he didn't know what to call it. All he knew was that it felt right.