Bad Games

8



Arty and Jim sat across from one another at a diner not far from their mother’s house.

“So what did you think?” Arty said.

Jim shoveled a scoop of mashed potatoes into his mouth and spoke with it full. “She’s f*cking nice. I can’t believe she squeezed two kids out of that body.”

Arty sipped his iced tea and smiled. “Those kids are going to make everything so much better. You wait and see.”

The two brothers sat silent after that, hardly blinking, each one lost in a world they loved. Controlled, practiced breathing teased the exquisite sensations they shared like a man capable of orgasm without ejaculation so that he may savor the erotic dance again and again. Control was everything.

In their eyes, they were not serial killers, although they had certainly murdered enough to be officially labeled as such, and they were not kidnappers or thieves with simple financial motives. Sex, or more appropriately, rape, sometimes occurred, but that too was no primary motive, at least not for Arty. Jim was often guilty of indulging more often than necessary with their female captives, but Arty understood and forgave him for that, it was just his younger brother’s way.

Their primary motive for what they did was summed up best by Arty years back when a previous female captive asked the all-too common question:

“Why are you doing this to me?”

Arty had thought hard for several moments after the question; he was searching for something clever that would define it all with swift decisiveness. And when the perfect response had finally hit him all at once, and his eyes had settled contently with an odd mix of pride and foreboding, he leaned in close to the female captive and did not give an answer, but instead asked a question.

“When you see someone trip and fall, what do you do?”

The female captive had looked at Arty through swollen red eyes that were still capable of projecting confusion.

“I’ll ask again. When you watch someone slip, trip, or fall in everyday life, what do you often do?”

When the answer had appeared on the woman’s face, it was obvious. Those swollen red eyes had discarded confusion in order to project shame. Arty wondered if she would tell the truth.

“I guess I sometimes laugh,” the woman admitted, looking away.

Arty had been pleased with her honesty; it allowed him to continue with his perfect response.

“Thank you for being honest. We laugh too. We just raise the bar a little in order to keep laughing.” Arty then stood, smiled, and added, “I hope that helps you understand. And I hope I don’t disappoint when I say…it really is as simple as that.”