12 Feb

It’s such a shame they didn’t present my current occupation as an option in my early years. I studied in school and University, before eventually becoming a Project Manager. 

Not what I dreamed of as a child. I yearned to create, make magic and blare my way through life in loud joyous multicolour, but ended up trapped in a black and white still, managing people and projects I couldn’t give two fucks about.

Then something happened, an idea. Well, more a waking dream really where two words floated into my mind upon my eyes fluttering open one morning. Stark and true those two words, resonated instantly. 

‘Murder Management.’

That was it, the words flopped out of my mouth moments later. I loved the sound as they wove and echoed their way around each other. It felt like an uttered truth somehow.  A certainty.

‘Murder Management.’

Those two words kept coming back into view as I tramped to work with the growing desire to murder several meaningless projects and the empty fuck sticks administering them. In the evenings, I took to watching murder documentaries and those cheap specials on sexy killers, although one isn’t supposed to acknowledge that it’s sexy, out loud at least. You know the stories I’m talking about; a cheated or cheating spouse murdering their partner with a stiletto, crimes of passion, a little strangulation here and there, or some alluring alpha male having his way before doing the deed.

I got off on these programmes and started to enjoy the idea of murdering a few of my project administrators. Especially Samuel, a nerd (I’m something of one too) who I could use as a toothpick, or perhaps a tampon.
Samuel was insanely jealous of me. He hated having to report to a woman but one who he doubtless fancied? Such turmoil.

I used to catch his confused looks, seething one moment after I'd picked holes in his latest work offering, the next perving at my ass. Sometimes I’d ask him, "Something catch your eye, Sam?" He would stutter, stare at the floor (I liked that), snort, then waddle off like a sweat-drenched egg.

In the evenings the idea of killing Sam grew until I could take it no more. It became an irrepressible compulsion and I’d spend my nights plotting and planning. The plans became real, my desire absolute. I could barely breathe.

Eventually I caved in to temptation. I asked Samuel if he’d like to spend an evening with me, in secret, of course. Our colleagues couldn’t know, and as a subordinate he was sworn to secrecy. Not that he’d be able to speak after date night.
He came back to mine after an insufferable evening at the cinema. We sat at the back, incognito. I thought the cinema made for an ideal venue for the actual date, the film had been panned by the critics already. Audiences had almost ceased to exist, just like the lighting.

When I got him home, I spiked his drink and laid down some plastic sheeting as he gurgled and fought heavy eyes after collapsing onto the sofa (Which annoyed me; his weight really dented the seat cushions). He slurred an apology. Finally, he dropped off, the sofa that is and rolled neatly onto the sheeting. He was still awake but off his face and practically paralysed. As he lay there looking confused and helpless, I popped on my gloves and wrapped a belt around his neck and watched the life gradually fade from his eyes.
I mean, it wasn’t so quick. He, in spite of the drugs, fought hard. Arms flailing, a few scratches to my face, trying to roll away as I lugged him back again...and again. Eventually, he conceded to death while I felt the tremors, hints, of an orgasm. 

Well, what do you know? I was just as surprised as you.

Now, I learned valuable lessons in my first and only direct murder to date. It’s fucking exhausting. It really is. Physically speaking I was knackered and ached for days after. I didn’t stiffen up like this after intensive boot camps. But let me tell you; the after murder aches are significant. Although I did win slimmer of the month shortly after, which was a real bonus. I pinned my certificate to the fridge. Thank you Samuel!

Anyway, you have to dispose of the body. Once the deed was done, I couldn’t have Samuel rigid on my sofa or stretched out on the floor, slowly rotting and stinking the place out. So I had to get rid of the corpse. I was efficient; no trails or signs, nobody liked the loner and when it became clear in the proceeding weeks that he was missing, nobody cared. The police gave up their token attempts and I was in the clear, not that I was ever a suspect.

So I learned that it was too much like hard work, but also incredibly arousing, while I was skilled at hiding my crime. I wanted to take part in more murders, get my secret little kicks on, but I really couldn’t get into the idea of putting myself through such strenuous activity so often. It wouldn’t be practical or sustainable.

I wanted to see life taken but I preferred to supervise. That is when those two words popped back into my mind.

'Murder management.'

Of course! I could replace projects with murder in the whole management gambit. People were always murdering away and not too efficiently. They needed management, planning, organisation both pre and post the act.

And so I set up my dark business on the dark web and other places of similar seedy sounding strands where you could find such services. I charged a fortune too. Lives are not cheap and nor is my advice! 

I rapidly developed a fearsome reputation in this life ending business and quickly became known as MM. My calling card.

In no time I was able to broaden my business and reach. I bought up locations all over the country for wannabe murderers to rent, under my supervision. Naturally. I’d always be present to keep an eye on activities. It was like pornographic theatre from a purely selfish angle…and a nice weekend away.

Jilted lovers, vengeful spouses, business rivals, gangsters, amongst others, joined my client list.  The added bonus, if they rented one of my more obscure spacious properties, was not having to worry so much about the mess. They could hack, slice and dice to their hearts content. 

But I must admit, my favourite clients were those who suffered with nerves or doubt. It added an extra edge when I had to give them a push or a good talking to. Once they were in this deep, while paying for my time, there was no turning back. The process of murder had to be completed. 

I remember one soppy young cherub, Toby, wishing to murder his older brother, who had stolen his girlfriend and... "My entire fucking life!" Melodramatic, but that’s boys for you.

So picture the scene: he'd knocked his sibling over the head with a hammer, but his blows were way too soft. His brother lay there bleeding and whining, his bulging eye cocked off to one side before trying to drag himself away. He may have made it too.

"He’s getting away, incredibly slowly, like a tortoise without a shell. He’s quite cute, isn’t he? Perhaps that is why your girlfriend left you for him," I comment.

The boy turned to me all hurt looking.

"Don’t look at me like that. Finish the fucking job. If that brother of yours worms his way out of here, you are fucked. I will simply walk away and vanish. I am MM. I never leave a trace and don’t get caught. Now, either finish the job or I'll have someone else do it on my behalf, before I see to you. Never a loose end, that’s my motto."

Now I had his full focus. His simpering eyes were sharp and alert, "There’s a good boy. Now, try the claw end of the hammer? Hmm?"
He spins the hammer in his grip.
Mm (excuse the pun). That is thrilling. The calm before the storm. I watch his arm flexing, the muscles straining, his breath quickening.

"There we go. You can feel it now. The need to end it all. It’s the right thing to do, Toby. Toby! Look at me! That bully took everything and mocked you. He stole your girl, then did what you couldn’t. The monster. Big brothers are meant to protect, mentor, not steal and abuse. You poor child. Now, you run at him, scream your rage and despair, let it all go. Bring that claw end down. Do it. Be a real man for me. Go on, boy!” I shouted as I slapped his behind.

You should have seen him go, moved like a demented cheetah. He caved that weeping skull in. Bits of bone and brain flying about the place as he roared between sobs.

I had to keep a close eye on him after we had parted company. It was only a matter of time until guilt called his name and he spilled the beans.
It’s fine. Don’t worry, I’m a project manager after all and I deal with all possible consequences based on my client type. I had him followed, found him a friend, a shoulder to cry on, and a voice of reason to reassure him that 'it was fine to choose death after committing such a horrendous crime against his own flesh and blood.'

He leapt to his freedom soon after.

So there it is. I have my dream job and am established in the business. My business.
I changed the game. This is a really positive picture for equality and breaking the glass ceiling so many of us women crouch under.

As I look out now over my ocean view, listening to peaceful waves gently caress the sandy shores, seagulls chiming overhead, I feel a dull ache in my head. A little red ball of restlessness is pulsing right at the front of my temple. I grind my teeth. I know that the ache will expand into a furious throb. It’s a gathering bloodlust, but so much more.

You see, when I started up Murder Management, I felt so alive, invigorated, and real. The threat of getting caught, the raw animal emotions of both murderer and victim, was used to sustain me. I had something so unique and special to die for, making it beautiful to live. But, as is so often the case with success, the wealth and power amassed do not satisfy hunger.

Such is my lofty position, I’ve been outsourcing to keep the MM business moving forward, but that is not why I got into all of this. The business is bigger than me and I feel bored, like I’m about to be trapped in one of those black and white stills again. 

I've got nowhere to turn. It’s all been achieved. I think of that young boy, Toby, the one who butchered his brother, and how he needed a little push to end his own pain. Maybe I need something similar.

As I stare into the ocean, numb and without a hint of moderate fulfilment, something catches my eye. I see two divers who spy me looking at them, then quickly duck under water in response. I scan the beach and spot a few stereotypical looking tourists wandering together.
One has a finger to his ear. I smile.

A chopping sound, subtle and distant, echoes gently towards me. I glance up ahead and see a black dot hovering out at sea, arching its way slowly towards my land.
My heart is quickening, my stomach rolls with something like joy, and I feel giddy. 

They have found me. Whoever they are, I’ve been rumbled. They are coming.

I can’t wait! This is part of murder management after all. Oh the thrill. The game is back on, the risk and reward has returned. Do or die.
I reach under my sun lounger and unclip the safety on my big fucking gun, feeling my smile stretch ear to ear.

I've not personally killed anyone since Sam. It's time to play.

Come and get it.

To be continued…

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