#like minded

“-and did you see his show last- oh, I suppose none of you did really. Must’ve forgot to turn the tv on when I left you guys here. Oh it’s the generator! Shit, the fucking fridge!” Dropping the bucket, Murdock scrambles towards the decrepit fridge tucked into the corner of the warehouse. Ripping the door open and shoving his hand in, finding it uncomfortably lukewarm. A series of human hearts, all stitched and ripped together to form a larger, more cartoonishly shaped one. The muscles have gone slightly grey in the heat, the outer flesh slightly wrinkled as bacteria begins to eat into it.

Smashing the fridge against the wall, screaming and ripping it apart. Ruined, it’s all ruined. Murdock smashes the Petri dish on the ground, kicking the glass over towards the half a dozen tv hosts tied up on the opposite side of the room. His most precious heart trophies are in a state of decay, unfixable. Formaldehyde permeates into his brain, the sharp chemical scent burning through his lungs to relax him.

Chucking the frankensteined heart onto the ground, he begins to pace between the rows of hosts. Each from rivalling networks, vocal critics to the theatrics and tone of Warfstache Tonight. Wilford never seemed to let the accusations get to him. “How can they say I’m a murderer, I’ve never killed a single person! It’s just a big ‘ol gag for the show! They get up, go home and enjoy the royalties!” One of them, the people who look like him and Wil but aren’t, seemed to take care of it all. But it wouldn’t stop nagging away at him, scrolling through the various posts of outcry against him.

They hadn’t seen each other in a long time, what if something happened? What if Wil didnt like him anymore? So he has to prove it.

Crowding up against one of the hosts, slicked back hair and a garish red suit, he reaches out to start throttling the rat-faced man. Thumbs digging into his esophagus, stamping on the man’s foot. “It’s all because of you, all of you fucking imbeciles! Couldn’t keep any of your mouths shut, bury your heads and accept that you’d never be him!” As the cries beneath him become, well, strangled, he pulls away.

“You had to dig and dig and fucking dig into him! Disgusting, worthless little people who couldn’t fathom being beat. You’re all heartless! All of you,” he pauses, a hideous laugh clawing out of his throat “are heartless! Soon enough I suppose.”

—

Usually, he’d already have killed them before starting to remove major organs. There’s a limit to blood splatter Murdock could handle. He wasn’t looking to make a world record. After setting them all in position, digging a series of fishing hook into their arms and necks to connect to the platform above, he starts crudely carving into their chests. Stripping down into a white undershirt, he starts digging and ripping out there hearts, like a vaguely appropriated ritual.

Perfect. Staggering back to stare at his newest scene, blood soaking him from his hands to his shoulders. There’s still a little bit of blood dripping from around his mouth (one of the men who looked like him did so too. They must’ve been uncomfortably connected). It looks just like the set, aside from the star of the show. An interviewer leaning towards the celebrities on the couch, three members of the crew surrounding them. A bucket of blood has become his makeshift paint, smeared across the wall and dripping into a puddle on the floor. ‘Warfstache Tonight: Dead Line Addition’. A bloodied telephone sits on the floor, off the hook. Sat comfortably in the puddle is the freshly stitched heart.

If the police even bothered to check through the heart, they’d find the letter.