I grab the trashcan and rush to the garage before anyone can see. Not even garbage men are up this early, but I am still cautious after the near disaster last week. It’s always a toss-up in the suburbs even though I have their timing worked out pretty well. But patterns can always change, or maybe a neighbor is up early getting the paper, or maybe walking the dog before work.
Regardless I have about 15 minutes to sift through his trash and add anything interesting to his scrapbook. Real stalking is a skill few practice.
I already have 3 weeks worth of personal treasure, phone bills, a short note to his wife, even a couple of porn magazines he buried under the bottom of the trash in newspaper plastic bag. This will be my final collection before I pull the trigger.
I know eventually I’ll get caught and I’m ready for that. But I think I’ll be more famous than infamous. Killing bad poets is my contribution to society.
And finding bad poets is the easiest part, stalking them is the funniest part and killing them is probably the most poetic thing I can do for them.
The guy I’m stalking now is almost begging for me to kill him.
I met Devin where I meet all my victims, at a small mom and pops bookstore. I had just moved to Portland from Texas after killing a horrible poet in Houston. How many poems about hot weather can society take?
Broadway Books had a book signing and reading from two local poets, one of them named Kim I actually liked very much and even had him sign a book for me. I think I’ll put his book on display in my work area back home. I might as well spread some fame when I get caught.
Regardless, the MO of the poor poets is the same. I sit in the back row and just wait for these losers to introduce themselves. And Devin Musser does not disappoint, “Hello my name is Devin Musser”…blah blah blah. His inane question was one of the standard bad poet’s questions along the line of ‘I don’t want to be published or read my poetry out loud so what should I do with the poetry I write’. Kim is very nice and talks of social media, local poetry groups etc. I would have told him to try shoving the shitty verse back up the hole from hence it came. But that would spoil my fun.
I find only one piece of trash worthy of Devin’s scrapbook and that is a notebook full of half written poems he wrote about walking to work. I’ve also googled him and found his poetry blog named ‘notes from the anthill’ or something to that effect. Like most people, I believe ants are for squishing. But this is a good find in that it is hand written poems, I can almost smell the badness of them. I’m guessing the wife threw out. I bet this asshole has a million of these notebooks packed somewhere in this house in a box, maybe in this garage. But I don’t have time to snoop.
Next week is when the shoe will drop. It’s pretty easy and I think attests to their worthless need to die. I write him a simple email saying I’m an editor of a poetry journal and I found one of his poems online and would love to publish it. No matter how adamant these bastards are about not wanting to publish, they always fall hook line and sinker for any chance to receive praise for the shit they write. I’ll tell him to keep it hush hush until we can meet and talk and sign an agreement.
I think I’ll take Devin out to dinner and get him tipsy. I know from my stalking that he hasn’t been getting any at home either. So I’m sure he’ll be open for anything.
I know the perfect bridge for the finale. I’ll get him up against the rails, rub his dick a couple of times through his pants, bend down and give it a final kiss before up and over for poor Devin. I do squats just for this thrill.
And reading his poems, I think he too wants it this way.
It’s a win-win.