Kill the Fucker



Glenn’s only desire in life was to kill someone. It didn’t matter who, anyone would do. Why was he so desperate to take a life? He didn’t know. Within everyone he saw some undesirable trait which he’d like to eliminate. Even people he thought he liked he eventually grew to hate. There was no one who could stay on his good side for very long. Senseless acts of violence were a way of life for him, and he liked it just fine. What’s wrong with violence if the recipient is deserving?

When he was young it wasn’t so bad. In school he’d sit and work. Then free time would rear its ugly head. That’s when the thoughts came. Thoughts so violent that they were obscene. Raping old ladies, killing babies, ripping apart fellow students, all violent, all would give pleasure. At times Glenn wondered exactly why he had these thoughts. Wasn't killing wrong? Should he have these thoughts? He couldn't find an answer to satisfy these questions, so he carried them into adulthood.

As Glenn grew to be a man, things didn’t get better, they got worse. At times, as he thought about some senseless slaughter of human life, he would find himself digging his fingernails into his legs. He kept his nails long; he liked the image that it portrayed. It hurt. The pain didn’t really bother him; he actually liked it in a strange way. Now the thought crossed through his head. Did others find such pleasure in pain? He was dying to find out.

The irony of the situation was that Glenn really disliked violence. He loved to think about it, but the sight of blood made him quite ill. He could easily imagine slashing someone else to thin shards of flesh, but when the time came to have blood taken, he balked. This puzzled him even more than his thoughts of violence. How could he spend the day thinking about the most violent way to kill somebody, yet get nauseated at the sight of a friend bleeding? The same friend he dreamed of killing the day before. He didn’t talk of violence to portray an image, he seriously wanted to kill somebody. A few days after his 23rd birthday, Glenn had his chance. After leaving Stone Cold Crazy, the bar his band played at Friday nights, he decided to go for a walk. The wind was blowing through his long black hair, it was warm out, but not so warm that it made a person sweat, the kind of night Glenn loved. Smoking a Marlboro he made his way down the street. It was a well-lighted boulevard in a populated section of the city, so he wasn’t really afraid about being attacked. Not that a guy built like a bear and carrying a knife has much to worry about. Feeling pretty good, his thoughts clear, he decided to turn back. That’s when the car pulled over and stopped behind him.


"What the fuck is this?" Glenn wondered to himself as he placed his hand reassuringly on his 8-inch blade.

As he stood and waited, he sized up the situation. The car was a GTO with blackened windows, much like his own. The only difference was that this car was red unlike his, which was jet black. Being 2am there wasn't a person to be seen; it was very quiet for the city. It was warm enough to go without a jacket, but a jacket would have been more comfortable. Glenn didn't have his on, but for some reason he had unconsciously taken his knife out of his jacket, and had placed it in his back pocket. Now he knew why he did this. Wearing blue Levi's, a sleeveless t-shirt, sneakers, and a sneer, Glenn looked like a most formidable opponent. He wasn't very worried.

As he watched and waited, the GTO's passenger door slowly opened. Slowly, and quite cautiously, a chubby-looking, short guy stepped out of the car. The man squinted and rubbed his eyes as he tried to adjust to the light of the streetlights. Glenn realized that this was Doyle, an ex-band member whom Glenn had fired just two weeks before the Misfits got their record deal.

"It's too bad you're not gonna be alive to make money off that deal," Doyle half-shouted, half-mumbled.

"What the hell are you talking about?!? I'm alive, and well, as you can surely see.

"What I mean, you stupid motherfuck, is that I am going to kill you!"

This last remark greatly amused Glenn. In his opinion Doyle was nothing more than a fat, greasy, lazy, slob. The Misfits had fired him because he was too lazy to do his share of the work, and more often than not, he didn't bother showing at rehearsals. "You weren't doing your shit, you lazy bastard. You deserved what you got. Now fuck off and leave me the hell alone!"

As Glenn finished uttering this last remark, someone in the GTO stepped on the gas and peeled out. It was heading straight for Glenn.


The moment the car took off, Glenn decided that he was going to kill this asshole. Instead of running away, as Doyle had hoped he would, Glenn pulled out his knife and jumped on the curb. He ran straight at Doyle, screaming all the way.

This action greatly startled Doyle, and he immediately took flight. But, he was fat, and not at all in any shape to be running, and Glenn very easily overtook him. Being an excellent fighter, and a very strong guy, Glenn kicked downward and in to Doyle's knee, bending his leg inward, and snapping it quite painfully. All that Doyle could do was scream.

"You're going to kill me? I think it'll be the other way around buddy," Glenn

whispered, a slight smile coming to his face. "I think you need a little lesson in pain 101."

With that remark he slashed at Doyle's face, cutting down and across, slicing the end of his nose off. The blood came instantly, the screams even sooner. Glenn was already going for the next cut. Twisting him around, Glenn jumped on Doyle's broken knee, driving the knife into the back of his leg. He twisted the knife around and yanked it out, bringing a marshmallow-sized chunk of flesh with it. Shock had set in and the screaming had stopped, Doyle was only sobbing now. Feeling sorry for him, Glenn slit his throat, and let the limp body settle to the pavement.

As Glenn stood, licking the blood from his hands, he remembered the GTO. He quickly scanned all around him. It was no where to be found. Whoever was driving must have got scared and left, Glenn figured, and walked back to the club, smiling.


The next morning, after Glenn awoke, he looked in the mirror to find himself grinning from ear to ear. The bathroom smelled of stale vomit, but he hadn't felt so good in years. He knew that he must kill again. He knew that it must be soon.


1998, John Kinne, All rights reserved