I love my work. I own the magician’s magic and uncanniness, the surgeon’s artistry and dexterity, the butcher’s rapaciousness. It’s about skill, fearlessness, muscle, a sparkling eye, a shining knife. Be systematic, it’s also about control.
This is how it is done. Smack the chestbone to rob the heart of its breath, it quietens the voice. Use the Sleeper hold, radius to trachea. She twitches and writhes and when you lift, her legs dance a maniac thrashing until muscles just flutter. The bicep applies torque to hold the dead weight, revealing the protruding white throat, pliant like an opened cockle. This Odelisk moves me, her head tilted back as in a Waltz. Look up close, admire: the moist lip, the wonderful little depression over the labrum and those downy cushions below the conchas. Then clip, clip, slice. Casing rips, tendons recoil, muscles tear like a juicy fig. Undressed and skinned down. Cavity emptied.
The pale sensitive ones, the fragile doves only need a pinch of the heart to wane. I accompany them during their withering, I worm into the abyss of those black discs, down into their lambent beacon. I swallow the faint cry: “Oh Murder!”
These women are my flesh and blood. Their cries live somewhere inside me. We are as one.
A frightful catena of slaughter, they say. It is true that each individual deliverance builds my personal theology. I am no ghoulish necrophile. You can show the cold meat – I prefer mine piping hot.
This is my adieu. I let my artistic ardour take over. My last production should have been my masterpiece, alas it was a distasteful monstrosity. Yet I will be legend. Why? We are all Jack or Jill the Ripper. I am the violence latent in each one of you.