KILLER ADDICTION: When Murder Becomes A Habit

Chapter 33

Chapter 33

RYAN CONTINUED TO BE delighted at the letters from Leonard. His pen-pal was yet to let him down with his imaginings. Leonard’s high intelligence and active imagination were proving an intoxicating combination to assist Ryan with his nocturnal activities, violent urges, and bloodlust. Preparing for The Gambler killing had been challenging, but Ryan knew it would be worth it and was looking forward to it with eager anticipation.

Ryan parked his Harley at the kill site and then caught the bus to the casino. He spotted The Gambler’s car in the carpark and waited outside to avoid the cameras. He took up position close to the tired and faded old Chevrolet Impala, waiting patiently. Finally, Ryan spotted The Gambler coming out of the building, with her shiny, frizzy, bright blue hair glistening in the moonlight and her oversized yellow handbag glowing like a beacon. Ryan moved quickly across to the car and ducked down on the front passenger side, waiting quietly.

The woman clicked the remote central locking, climbed into the driver’s seat, then inserted the key in the ignition. Ryan quickly climbed in the passenger side and before the woman could react, had the cruel ten-inch blade of his hunting knife pressing at her throat.

The old woman’s eyes widened in shock and her mouth opened into a terrified, silent scream. Ryan said nothing, raised his forefinger to his lips, breathed a menacingly quiet, ‘Shh,’ then pressed his knife even harder against the thin, saggy turkey neck. The woman responded by closing her mouth and staying silent.

‘Hello there. Another long night racking up losses on the slot machines, I assume?’ said Ryan in a smoothly sinister tone. The woman nodded silently in response. ‘Start the car and drive slowly out of the carpark, then turn left,’ he instructed.

The Gambler followed orders, hands shaking on the steering wheel as they headed out onto the street, then the highway. She drove the car with unsteady hands and occasionally weaved right and left as they went.

‘Take this exit,’ said Ryan, then directed her down a side street off the main road and down a deserted back alley.

The woman opened her mouth as if to speak for the first time on the entire journey, but Ryan quickly gagged her, ensuring her silence for the brief trip from the car to the back door of the deserted old bar. Ryan had already broken in previously and made his preparations. The place was empty, had been vacant for months, with nobody around. He had set up temporary power from a large truck battery fitted with a power invertor and had staged the place with flashing lights and a big old slot machine right in the middle of the floor. The slot machine was lit up by a spotlight and had a low chair and a high bar stool in front of it.

‘Well, you’re about to play the most important slot machine of your life,’ snarled Ryan, his voice no longer silky smooth, but rough and raspy as the anger rose in him like bile. The old woman knew there was no point protesting—she had accepted her fate and understood that her life would soon be over. She looked around at the dingy and deserted old bar and at the brightly lit old-fashioned slot machine in front of her, and she wondered what the payoff for this gamble might be.

Ryan removed the gag and sat the woman down on the low chair, facing the machine and said, ‘Before you try your luck on this classic old slot machine, I’d like you to reflect on what your gambling addiction has done to your life. You seem like a bitter and twisted old woman. Were you always like that?’

The poor woman hung her head in shame, shaking it from side to side and said, ‘No, I wasn’t always like this. I used to have a husband and a family who loved me, a house of my own and savings in the bank. But now it’s all gone!’ she sobbed in reply. ‘My husband divorced me, my kids won’t talk to me and I lost my house. All I’ve got left are my slot machines. Sometimes I wish it would just all be over.’

‘Well, maybe I can help you with that,’ said Ryan with a smile. ‘It’s good to know that you can see what your gambling addiction has cost you, the price you’ve paid for your weakness. Now, just in case something happens to you, give me your ex-husband’s name and number so I can get in touch with him if I need to.’

The Gambler looked up at Ryan quizzically, shrugged her shoulders and gave him the information, figuring she had nothing more left to lose. From her position down on the low chair, Ryan leaned The Gambler over and placed her head ear-down on the seat of the high wooden bar stool. He grabbed some rope and tied her head lying sideways onto the bar stool. The hard wood and rough ropes made the woman grimace and cry out in pain. Ryan bound her legs to the chair and her left arm to her body, then stepped back to admire his handiwork with a satisfied nod.

Ryan could feel the tension and excitement rising in him like a flood. As the adrenaline pulsed through his system, he thrust his hands in the air and roared, ‘Okay Gambler, now you really are a one-arm bandit—let’s see what you got!’

The woman whimpered in response and refused to move, but Ryan whipped out his hunting knife and brutally dug it in deep against her throat, forcing her to act. His helpless victim gingerly reached out and up with her right hand, grabbed the handle and pulled it down towards her. As the handle clicked past its trigger, suddenly it leapt forward and downward, flying out of her hand. The big, bright, hard red ball on the top of the handle smashed down on the side of her face, sandwiching her head in a crushing impact against the hard seat of the bar stool.

‘Jackpot!’ shouted Ryan with delight.

The poor woman spasmed and cried out in pain. The handle immediately flew back up again to its home in the machine's side. Then Ryan’s hot-wired repeater kicked in and the handle hurtled down once, bashing into The Gambler’s open wound. This time she whimpered like a wounded puppy as Ryan gloried in the scene he’d created.

Again, and again, the handle repeated its gruesome task until there was nothing left of the poor woman’s head but a gory mess of blood and bone. Finally, Ryan killed the power to the deadly slot machine and smiled, feeling very satisfied with how his plan had worked out. He went out the back door and down the alley to the payphone on the side street, pulled out the number he had gotten from his victim and dialled it. The sleepy voice of a tired old man answered, and Ryan said, ‘Mister Watson? I’ve just seen your ex-wife and I think she’s in trouble. There’s a bar on Patrick Henry Drive out back of Home Depot. Hurry! And no cops, they’ll just make it worse.’

Suddenly awake, the response came, ‘I’ll be right there.’ Ryan hung up and waited.

At first, the distant sound of police sirens was of no concern to Ryan; they blared often. But as they got closer and closer, Ryan switched to high alert. He raced over to the vacant lot where he had stashed his motorbike and jumped on. Suddenly, the stupidity of bringing such a noisy beast to a kill scene became apparent, but he knew he couldn’t leave it there. ‘Leonard would not approve of this part of the plan,’ he thought suddenly. As he caught his first glimpse of the police lights, he knew he had to get away—The Gambler’s husband had unexpectedly called the cops instead of turning up on his own.

Ryan slowly wheeled the heavy Harley along the flat section of the vacant lot over to the rear exit, then built up speed as the gradient fell away from him—he rolled nearly all the way down to the bottom of the long hill and then just before he hit the trough, cranked the engine and it barked into life. Ryan jammed the throttle full on and roared his way through the gears. ‘f**k! f*****g cops! Jesus Christ! The perfect stage and he killed it for me. Bastard!’ shouted Ryan, his fear of capture now receding and getting taken over by his fury at being robbed of his special thrill that came with the discovery of his victims by a loved one.

Purple with rage, Ryan rode on and on until he came upon a late-night bar with a country and western themed “Howlin’ Dawg” neon sign flashing out the front. Blood still boiling, Ryan knew he needed some release. He slid off the Harley and strode into the bar with a murderous look in his eyes, stormed over to the bar and glared at the tired old barmaid, who recoiled at the dark look he gave her.

‘Give me a whiskey and a beer. Now!’ snapped Ryan. She obliged and handed over a double shot and a pint of beer in a big, heavy glass with a handle. She glanced over and nodded at the bouncer who had eyeballed Ryan at the door as soon as he came in. Ryan immediately chugged half his beer.

The doorman was a big dude, six-foot five-inches and 250 pounds, but unfortunately for him he was all beef and no game. He never stood a chance with Ryan and the mood he was in. Half a head taller than Ryan, the looming bouncer drawled, ‘Hey Mister. You best mind your manners in here.’

Ryan looked up at the bouncer and shouted, ‘Mind THIS, you f*****g asshole!’ and smashed his half-empty glass of beer right into the side of the poor guy’s face, spraying an explosion of glass, beer, and blood across the room. Ryan looked down at the glass handle still in his hand, then at the bouncer on the floor. He slowly turned to the barmaid, who’s eyes were wide and mouth agape in shock at what had happened so quickly on what was an otherwise dull night. Ryan grabbed his double shot of whiskey, downed it in one gulp and slammed it violently back down on the bar. The barmaid flinched instinctively, terrified of what might come next from this psycho who had just stormed into the bar.

‘Thanks for the beer, b***h,’ snarled Ryan as he turned on his heel and marched out of the bar. The whole interaction had lasted less than three minutes. Ryan jumped back on his Harley and headed for home, feeling better but not satisfied with how the night had gone.