Jack the Stripper

The Interview

"For legal purposes I must bring to your attention that I have a recorder going on my person as we speak. If you wish at anytime to withhold something from my knowledge due to this factor, you may refuse at any time to divulge information or to refuse to answer a question I may pose to you. Do you understand that, Jack? If it may help ease your mind, I will place it in the middle of the table. That way you don't forget its active." Mr.Dawes, the Reporter, cautiously places the small recorder in the middle of the metal table, his hands quickly retreating to the safety of his pile of papers stacked neatly in front of him. "Now, for the record, state your name, age, and reason of incarceration again, please."

"Jack Ray Stalewski. I am now 37 years old as of 5 months and 6 days ago. Quite a ripe plum, if I must say so myself. I'm locked up in this...this...bland adobe for being a 'serial killer'." My fingers make air quotes to emphasize before I place my hands back on the table for the guard to observe. As if I could raise them very far with these shackles holding me to the table like a lab experiment. "Is that stated well enough for your records, Dawes? Or might I need to add more and be specific?"

"No, that is enough, thank you. Now, let's start from the beginning. I do have a wide range of questions I am wanting to ask within our small time frame today, so we will start with the most obvious. When did you first start experiencing the urges?" His face is pudgy, the eyes mousy behind small glasses. No facial hair, starting to bald prematurely around slicked back hair, and wearing a suit that looks like it was just purchased from a high end retailer specifically for this occasion. How delightful. He stares quizzically my way, one bushy eyebrow arched.

I scoff.

"The urges? You make this sound as if I'd just hit puberty. The urges to what? To eat? To drive? To date? To have s*x? Just saying 'the urges' is pretty vague, Mr.Dawes, especially for a renowned reporter like yourself. You're better than that, I assume." I lean forward onto the table, my upper body propped above my perched elbows. "Either ask another question or rephrase that one so that it doesn't sound so idiotic."

Mr.Dawes clears his throat, picks up his pen, and taps it on the table. His slimy tongue flicks across his lips as his paunch face screws up in thought. His eyes dart around the bare room before settling back on me, determination sharp in his gaze.

"Very well. When did you start experiencing the urge, the want, the desire, to kill? What stirred up this need to spill blood and take innocent lives? Why did you choose humans and not animals, for example? It states here that you've never admitted to openly experimenting on animals or shown psychotic behaviors, for that matter, until a few years ago." Pen touches paper but doesn't move as he stares at me.

"Now, that is more than one question. Did I not tell you your first question was quite vague? I now see why. There were multiple buggers hiding behind that one simple sentence." A light chuckle slides its way free before I lean back and continue. I splay my hands in front of me, the chains clinking against the table in a screeched wail. "When did I start experiencing the urge to kill? I don't think I just up and felt the need, Reporter. I've always felt the need. What stirred up the need to spill blood, and from humans rather than animals? Like I said, I've always felt the need. But from humans, you may ask? Animals have never done me harm. Their purpose on this Earth is clear. To be food. If you don't need food, why would you take the life of an animal, unless for population control? Now humans...oh, they're another story. We were put on this Earth to breed and destroy, and breed and destroy we have succeeded in. So why is it a crime to take a few lives that are overpopulating this ever-growing economy and ever-dwindling Earth? Now, to answer your question on innocence, how are you so sure they were wholly innocent? Is anyone truly innocent, other than a babe fresh from the womb? No, we all commit atrocities that rob our innocence and make us all the same in the end." I raise my brow quizzically back at the pudgy man, smirking inwardly at the light sheen of sweat forming on his brow while my exterior is a mask of calm confidence. "As for a few years ago? I've been killing for much longer than that. I just got sloppy and got caught a few years ago, that's all."

"So, you don't have a specific time frame that you realized you enjoyed killing?"

I shake my head.

"Have you ever attempted to control it?"

I shake my head no again and smile. Mr.Dawes glances down at his paper, averting his eyes briefly. He claims he's a renowned reporter, but I can easily pick that apart. He's a rookie trying to make it big, using me as his big story to accomplish that. I don't mind being used as a promotional piece, truly, but it irks me to no end when they lie about their reasonings or rank. That's quite a stab to my intelligence. Once they question my intelligence, I prefer to repay their ungrateful assessment in a game of ring-around-the-rosy, Stripper style. 

I do quite like that nickname I was graciously dubbed. Jack the Stripper. It has a nice ring to it, and fits my professional and personal tendencies quite nicely. 

"Well, then this next question is going to be somewhat of a guess for you, but I am quite curious as to what you may say. What would it feel like if you were to attempt controlling these compulsions? What has stopped you from controlling them? It's possible, but I'm guessing you don't want to tap into that power of control. Why is that? Is it because you enjoy the act of mercilessly killing someone? You enjoy holding another's life in your hands, feeling the power over their powerlessness?"

Mr.Dawes settles back in his chair after shuffling his papers momentarily. I lean forward, closer, and stare into his face, my cuffs rattling noisily against the metal table as I hike my upper body slightly over the tables mass. A bead of sweat works its way down his forehead, but I give him credit for not flinching away. Definitely a rookie taking on a story much bigger than he will ever be.

"Well, I couldn't quite tell you that truthfully, now could I, Mr.Dawes? I suppose it would feel like controlling the need to breathe or to think, controlling a natural aspect of life. In some cases I suppose it would feel like I was attempting to control the urge to speak my mind in a crowded place full of dimwitted bigots. But, I wouldn't truly know because I've never controlled it, nor have I attempted to control it. It's a natural thing for me, so why should I try to stop it? We all are capable of it. The only difference is I act on my biological impulses rather than impede them with societal views."

"So, you've never tried stopping yourself? Faced regret or guilt in the face of stealing someone's life? Do you even feel remorse, Jack?" I shake my head and offer a smile, feeling the skin stretch over my cheeks to accommodate the exaggerated grin where both my top and bottom row of teeth are visible in a shark's sneer. He blows out a sigh and runs his hand over the top of his head. "Alright, next question then. How did you keep this a secret from friends? Family? Spouses? How did no one near you question your whereabouts and actions? Surely they noticed something different, maybe caught you in bloody clothing a time or two, or noticed your attraction to someone who appeared missing shortly after?"

"I didn't keep it a secret from anyone. I was proud of what I did. If you're proud, why hide it? Why make a secret out of something great? That's just no fun. Those who did come across me never asked specifics when they would ask me a question. I lived alone, so I could do what I pleased. No friends, no relations, nothing. I was a free man living the American dream freely. Why would I tarnish that by bringing in a simpleton who doesn't understand the gravity of this amazing, free life? I was smart in my prideful doings, though. Don't mistake me there."

"With no relations, what was a normal day like for you?"

"What is this, an episode of 'Ellen'? A normal day? There's no such thing as a normal day. Some say their normal day is waking up, drinking coffee, going to work, and coming home to bed with their partner. Others will tell you differently. My normal day was the same as anyone else's, and why shouldn't it be? I'm a normal person as well. An abnormal person's normal day would be a drinking binge. What is a normal day for you, reporter? Such an odd question to ask, and it's frankly quite a personal one."

"I will refrain from answering that question, because this segment is about you, Jack, not me. Jack, did you ever stop and think to yourself that you may want to settle down and start a family? Give up this freelance escapade you've started? Maybe bring new life into this world rather than continuously taking life away? It has to get tiresome to continually take life and bloody your hands."

"Yes. Many times, as do many others. I just chose my path and didn't want to take anyone else with me for the journey. Maybe futuristically speaking, I would settle down, but do you honestly see that happening for me, especially now? I didn't think so. I chose my path, I chose my fate. I will accept my consequences as mine and mine alone. Without the company of a screeching female for companionship, I might add, let alone a bugging child." I lean back in my chair with a sigh, my body lazily draping the chair I'm restrained to while my arms remain chained to the table straight out in front of me. It's hard to get truly comfortable in an executioner chair victims positioning. I was praying the Reporter would catch the hint, but no luck. His watery voice continues to echo about the room in all it's annoying glory and I find myself struggling to contain an eye roll and exaggerated yawn. 

"Did you ever stop and think that what you were doing would affect that? That you could possibly have that dream ripped away for a very long time, possibly forever? Did you ever stop and think about that?"

"You know, I can't say I did. Why should I have to stop and contemplate what I do for a hobby and see if it would, in any way, affect my future wife or family? Why should I have to stop and contemplate changing hobbies when others' hobbies are cars or video gaming?" My body strains against the restraints as I dart forward, my muscles bulging with the effort. Spittle flies from my mouth as rage flickers to life in my core. I was fine with playing this reporter's cat and mouse game, but his annoying disregard for my mental health with his boring, repetitious list of recycled questions is really grating on my nerves. I may be a killer, but how dare he be so presumptuous. My voice is an echoed growl in the room that causes Mr. Dawes to pale. "If I am to settle down, it will be with someone who accepts what I've done and will continue doing. I'm not going to change anything about myself to fit the agenda of another. Those who expect that are the ones who should be gone."

His jowls shiver in place as he sucks in a shaky breath, his fingers drumming out a slow staccato on his papers while his leg ticks out a rough shimmy under the table. I can feel his fight or flight reflexes raging in full force and I smile as I observe him try to work through the burst of adrenaline flooding his system as he realizes hes locked in here with a psychopath. 

"Before we wrap the question portion of this up for today, Jack, I have one last question to ask. The public, as well as myself, are wondering this. How did you choose your victims?"

"I didn't choose them. They chose me."

"I see." His elbows now lean on the table as he presses his stumpy fingers to his lips. Those bushy brows of his settle quizzically above his eyes, his mind settling on fight mode. "How exactly did they choose you, if you don't mind my asking. Sounds like some bull s**t, pardon my french, that they would choose you to kill them. I don't think anyone would do such a thing, and I think you're full of it if you think I'm going to believe that."

"Now, that was more than one last question. Your last question was how I chose my victims. Now you want to add more to the mix? How many more last questions do you have, Mr.Dawes?" His mouth opens, but I cut him off before he can continue with a raise of my palm. I play nonchalance with a wave of my hand. "Oh, it doesn't matter. They chose me based on their circumstances. Are you able to grasp what I just said? I hope so, because I'm not repeating that fact."

He shuffles his papers now, his body leaning back into his chair. I watch as his eyes flick quickly to the door, then to the glass window in the middle of the wall behind me, then back to his papers. He pulls one out and pushes it my way. It's a photograph.

"Do you remember these people by any chance, Jack?"

I chuckle and smile, my eyes riveted to the male and female in the picture.

"Of course I remember them. You can't forget your favorites. And these two were definitely on that list." Albeit annoying, they were fun. Challenging, yet easy. But definitely favorites.

"Why them? You didn't even know them, according to records. So what did they do to deserve to die, to make it onto your favorites list? How did they choose you for their fate?"

I smile openly at the reporter sitting across from me. How clueless he is. He'll see soon enough.

"How about I just tell you? I'll take you into my mind and you do what you do best---sit back and listen while you take notes."