[Previously in Those I’ve Killed So Far…
After suffering from a temporary crisis of the spirit, the streetcar is ready
to begin his killing spree in earnest–but has discovered some competition from
an unlikely source…–Eds.]
Chapter 3: MURDER, SHE RODE
Life, it is good. I have regained my taste for blood,
and I revel in the sweet saltiness dripping from my grill. Today I amputated
the foot of a woman, simply because I found displeasure in her choice of shoe.
Yesterday, I crushed the weak body of a bicyclist foolish enough to believe
he could cross my tracks. The sound of bones crushing and metal bending as bicycle
and owner turned beneath my steel wheels fills me with a… oh. I don’t know…
JOY. A joy akin to hearing the strains of Wagner. Scream, you pitiless victims.
Play the song again and again.
One might think someone… anyone… would attempt to
stop my cruel tasks. Happily, I have friends… how you say? “In high places.”
The city fathers are all too happy to brush my misdeeds underneath the carpet
of bureaucracy. Settling out of court rather than having their complicity face
the light of day. They close their ears to the blood gurgling in my throat.
However, a troubling thought surfaces. After crushing
the trembling hands of an aged citizen in my doors, a crimson-drenched newspaper
fell to the ground. Its headline read, “New Air-Tram Considered for OHSU.” I
know of this tram. He is a butcher. “The Butcher of Switzerland” they call him.
Responsible for the grisly deaths of thousands of foppish skiers blessed in
this world’s gold. Though a butcher, he is also an amateur. Merely dropping
his passengers from great heights to fuel his glory, rather than savoring the
ecstasy of a slow, grinding kill.
You shall not rob me of my pleasure, butcher. For I
shall cut a swath of gore so meticulous and precise, there will be no one left
to enter your plebeian trap. The blood of Portland shall be tasted by me. And
me, alone.
**[Next
week: It’s streetcar vs. tram– in the final fight for Portland’s blood.]**