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divagonzo · 3 years

Text

Little bit of Ace History***

... for those who are doing headcanons for Pride month.

*** History being from the last generation. So... recent history.

***************

While Asexual was in the grad school text books, it was, as a queer orientation, on the fringes for considerably longer than Gay/Lesbian/Bi/Trans. It wasn’t spoken of except in queer spaces and even then, it was more of an after-thought. Like the Mesopotamians (and Mayans independently) - people couldn’t and, somewhat, can’t fathom those who don’t feel sexual attraction (or those who don’t feel romantic attraction or some who have no attraction romantically or sexually.)

Since society is built on populations, the presumption that everyone wants sex or engages in it and those who don’t are aberrant - is a hindrance to those of us who don’t feel it (or, like some, like the idea in theory but not in practice, or those who it’s once in a lifetime (my spouse) or those who have to know someone for a long period of time before thinking, “Would I consider getting physical with them?” (aka Me!) or those who have sexual repulsion - and they are as valid as anyone else under the Asexual spectrum umbrella.)

Asexual was, originally, under the Bisexual umbrella - and like many Bi people of the earlier eras (and sadly still happening) being told they aren’t queer enough for A) The community and B) not Gay enough to be included. (Hence my absolute loathing to gatekeepers for having gone through it back in the early 90s!) Toss in the derision towards bi/pan people who “are selfish/greedy/can’t make up their mind / teases / etc” and you have a boiling pot of potential gatekeeping, especially for those who could really use some informational resources so they know that they aren’t broken & nothing is wrong with how they are.

Yes, Asexual was listed on the fringes but it wasn’t until the early Naughts that the word even made it to notice - much less being more accepted openly. But the biggest kicker is that while being Gay was removed from the Diagnostic and Statistical Model (what is used by American Psychiatry for diagnosing not normal behavior) in 1973..... being Asexual wasn’t removed until 2013.

Yes, you read that right. 2013. The first published college text on Asexuality wasn’t published until 2012 - and written from a heterosexual white male perspective (and it’s a bit rubbish by comparison to casual anecdotes from those in the community and on AVEN. I know. I bought the book and read it.) While the elderly spinster dowager is more socially acceptable, being a man/male and being Ace in a society that says that men have to be hypersexual.... is harmful to them, too, especially when they are too hindered to be able to come out and say, “I don’t feel sexual attraction to anyone.”

Having no sexual attraction to others was considered aberrant behaviors. And for some, it still is, especially those who think that Ace people (and Aros too, y’all aren’t being forgotten!) should be sexually available to anyone and everyone - and some sods think that the attitude of “You’ve not met the right one” or “I’ll f* you to fix you” is helpful and not actively oppressive or harmful.

Obviously (insert professional quality eyeroll here) people need medications because they don’t want to f* every walking human who passes by - which is toxic even in a hypersexual society. There must be something wrong with them if they aren’t out at a bar looking for a casual hook-up / one night stand.

Why do I bring this up?

I read a posting and it mentioned a fictional character being out as AroAce in 1994.

Jessica Rabbit was a thing back in 1988. But the terms for her besides the negative ones weren’t there ‘til a decade later, if not longer.

While I love the idea that this knowledge was available in the era, I have to take Umbridge (while not detracting from their post) that this is vastly incorrect and harmful to those of us who lived through this era and struggled for decades (yes, I said decades) to know that being Ace is fine and dandy. It’s hard to research harder when you don’t even know a starting point to go look this information up - especially when it was mostly limited to just blooming Queer studies courses in colleges and everything was either published journals or hidden inside academic speak of graduate schools. (I took a couple of undergrad psychology classes and I went back and looked and the terms weren’t even in the books. This was 1995, for those in Rio Linda and Blackpool.)

There’s plenty of my peers who are just now coming to understand that the feelings of dissociation, loathing, guilt, apathy aren’t because they are with the wrong person. It’s performative behavior towards others and personally harmful. It’s letting people f* you so they are content when it’s personally harmful (especially if consent isn’t completely clear.

What would have been said in 1994 was that “he must be gay” even if he was dating a girl and nothing was happening physically. “She must be his beard” would have been said too if performative behaviors weren’t happening. Why? Because being Asexual wasn’t a thing in the era AT ALL. It wasn’t even considered.

Hell, even now there are people*** who will not believe you when you say that you don’t want to have sex - as men or women or non-binary. No, they must fix you by non-consenting means & their warped logic for the resultant trauma will magically make you want to have sex with people.

Ewwww. Hell no.

I have someone I know who has been repeatedly subjected to their consent being violated when they said no - because they are Ace and people (both of the binary for this person) refused to take No for an answer and.... well, you can fill in the blanks.

Or the not funny bits of “Oh you must be a potato” and other derision of you not being potentially sexually available for other people. This especially goes for those who are Heteroromantic Ace people - like family I have.

I was the first one they came out to, because I’ve been pretty loud about it in SM spaces. They felt safe to say such to me, especially with an, “OK. Cool” reply to it.

I didn’t want them to struggle mentally and emotionally (when they were already neurodivergent) thinking something was wrong with them by not wanting to have icky squicky physical relationships. But by being there, armed with knowledge now it saved them decades of grief and emotional turmoil.

My radical kindness is being the space the baby aces need so they can have a human resource for them, so they know they aren’t broken, that they are valid and accepted, and that they don’t have to behave in certain ways to feel accepted - especially in the queer community.

So yeah, sex might be cool but how about acceptance of people who lived in the era who didn't have the world at their fingertips to know themselves, much less the language to even have a label that fit.

#Ace discourse #Ace History #cw:#cw: generic mentions of non-consenting behaviors #I didn't wish to detract from the Cho post #but I couldn't let it slide either #it rankles me that some think that the knowledge has always been widely know #and accepted #when that's a load of rubbish

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takerfoxx · 7 years

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Work on Subconscious is going well, so how’s about one last preview?

It rained on the day I got the call again.

Despite being on the shore, Carlton's Well is a pretty dry city, where the temperatures never dip past sweater weather and having access to a pool is less of a luxury and more of a government-sanctioned necessity. The sun was our constant companion, and clouds were suspicious outsiders that could not be trusted. So of course, when the wispy troublemakers did decide to get together and organize, they had a lot of frustration that they needed to burn off, and they did it by doing their damnedest to drown the whole city.

Normally when that happened I preferred to stay at home and wait it out, as did most everyone else. Unfortunately, trouble always brings a friend, so I wasn't too surprised when I got a call from the police, saying that some kind of crime scene had just been discovered and they needed my help. I naturally assumed that a murder had taken place, some back alley stabbing or a drunk loser getting suspicious of their spouse again and finally taking things too far.

Unfortunately it was none of those run-of-the-mill atrocities. They told me, and my blood ran cold. A third lair for the Scarab Killer had been uncovered, and they needed me to come down and help sort out the carnage.

Sometimes I wondered what had possessed me to become a forensics investigator, I really did.

Anyway, thanks to the rain, getting there took more than three times as long as it would have under our usual sunshine and dry roads. Despite the number of closed businesses meaning that there should be fewer cars on the streets than normal, the whole way was packed with vehicles inching along as slow as they could possibly go. Meanwhile, my windshield wipers weren't so much clearing water off my windshield as they were just sloshing it around and my headlights could barely make out the license plate of whatever car so happened to be in front of me.

It's weird, being prevented from going somewhere that you didn't want to go. Theo knows that this wasn't a job that I wanted anything to do with. I had been part of the team that had uncovered lair number two, and that was more than enough of having anything to do with that psycho for one lifetime. But as irony would have it, that also made me one of the most qualified to help deal with that grisly mess. So as much as I did not want to ever reach my destination, I really had no choice and was willing to settle for getting there quickly and getting it over with, but even that was denied me. I'll spare you the detail and the profanity, but needless to say, in the time that it took me to get from my home to the site, I almost completely lost my mind.

My destination was the Lawton's Slaughterhouse over on Crypt Dr. and 4th St., or rather the L-to Lau-ous, if the remaining letters from the damp-rotted sign were to be believed. The slaughterhouse had been closed down decades ago, something to do with how unsanitary their storage methods were, coupled with inhumane working conditions. Of course it had been open for over thirty years without anyone complaining. Well, anyone who mattered that is. It wasn't until some congressman's kid took a bite from the wrong hotdog that the hammer finally came down. Of course, the ensuing investigation had turned up all sorts of disreputable activities going on after closing, and that was that.

Despite being prime real estate so close to the docks, no one had ever bothered to buy the place out, so it was left to rot. That didn't surprise me one bit, considering how much bad juju that sort of thing would build up. You really had to expect that sort of thing in a Nightmare city. For some reason, our stains just set deeper than anywhere else.

Anyway, it didn't really surprise me to hear that a new lair for our cannibalistic friend had turned up in such a place. That was the way it was with the bad Nightmares. They were attracted to those sorts of places, where the aging concrete was still brown with bloodstains and not a single glass window remained. And given his usual MO, I suppose he had felt right at home in that abandoned house of death.

Sure enough, as my car pulled into the cracked and weed-riddled parking lot, my headlights illuminated a corpse standing by an open door, waiting for me. His face was bloodless, his hair pale yellow and brittle, his eyes bulged out like a pair of soggy egg yolks, and he was nervously smoking a cigarette that he couldn't taste. Wrapped around his neck was a thick bandage, from which trailed two plastic tubes filled with blood to a tank on his back.

Detective Harry Richardson had really drawn the short straw of Nightmares. You think a screaming corpse with an ever-bleeding slashed throat is scary? Well, you'd be right. Now, just try living as that corpse after the dream has ended, to go about your day with a big old gash in your warbler and blood that never ran out spilling all over the thrice-awakened place. Trust me, it get pretty damned problematic after a while.

Fortunately Harry had taken the whole thing in stride, though it wasn't like he had any choice. The tubes helped drain the blood before it even reached the tightly wound gash, and so long as he remembered to keep emptying out the tank twice a day, he was dandy, if a bit inconvenienced. He was a good guy all around, family man and the like. Shame I never got to meet his family, or even just go out for a beer with a guy. It seemed we only ever met over scenes of unspeakable horror.

And this was a bad one. Cigarettes didn't do much for Harry, so he only ever smoked them whenever something had really shaken him and he needed some sort of repetitive action to keep his thoughts focused. Seeing him puff away told me all that I needed to know about what awaited us inside.

The usual gang were already there as well, with police cars already flashing their lights all over the place like a rave concert while paramedics stood ready. They weren't going to be much help though. Anyone inside was long beyond their help.

I parked the car and got out, umbrella first. The rain pounded the tapestry like an angry teenager with a drum set. I made my way over to the commotion and flashed my badge at the officers standing around the police tape. They waved me through.

Harry nodded as I approached. He took the cigarette out and tossed it to the ground to grind it under his shoe.

"Way it's pissing out here, you probably didn't even need to do that," I said.

"Yeah, well, better safe than sorry, am I right?" Harry said in in his strong Scottish brogue. "How you doin', Nate?"

"Wet. Nervous. And really, really don't want to go in there." I was already slipping on my gloves and mask. It was fitting. Forensics was a kind of surgery, after all.

"You and me both, brother," Harry said with a grim smile, though to be fair, he didn't have any other kind. He had suited up as well. "Well then. Once more into the breach, eh?"

The door led to the slaughterhouse's basement, because of course it did. Once upon a time, dozens of slain pigs had hung on hooks down there, waiting for the big truck to show up and take them away. "So, it's the same guy?" I said as I carefully made my way down the rusting steel steps, each of my ten legs taking it a little at a time.

Harry was following close behind, the beams of both our flashlights swinging down through the decay. "Unless there's two cannibalistic freaks with no table manners hiding under abandoned buildings out there. Be just our luck if there was, am I right?"

"How'd anyone even find out about this?"

"Couple of naught dealers," he said. "Thought that this would make a good den, seein' how no one ever comes around here."

"Huh. How'd that turn out for them?"

"They called the police, and were sobbing when they did. How do you think it turned out for them?"

Which was a good point. Naught was a very illegal narcotic, and anyone caught dealing it was considered to be very naughty (see what I did there?) in the sight of the law. Generally speaking, those who peddled it tried to stay as far away from the eye of Justice as they could, and it took something very nasty to drive one of those dealers to actually turn themselves in.

It didn't take long for our flashlights to pick up on what that something was. I stopped at the last step and stared over the macabre scene.

Bones. Piles and piles of bones, all of them picked clean of flesh, all of them lying all over the floor.

"It's him," I said.

…

One week ago…

The city was dull, grey, and dark, devoid of color, devoid of expression, devoid of life. The people that walked the streets were uninteresting blobs, barely distinguishable from one another. The lights of the city were weak and muted, almost helpless against the darkness they resisted. And not a single bit of beauty was to be found. Oh, it certainly appeared otherwise to other eyes, but to one such as myself, it was a drab, dreary wasteland.

I suppose that part of the problem was that I didn't have eyes. Or a nose, for that matter (that detail is unrelated, I admit, but I felt it worth mentioning). That did not mean that I could not see, mind you. It's just that my sight works a bit…differently from that of most people. At its height, I am beholden to a paradise of beauty, with all the world revealing colors and details that everyone else remains blind to. I cannot explain with mere words the ecstasy of seeing the world in such glory, but rest assured that it is an intoxicating experience.

Alas, I am permitted such vision only after I have unloaded my artistic burden and blessed the world with one of my masterpieces, and then only for a short time after. In time, the colors made and the shapes dull, leaving me in a boring world of black and white. And as it had been some time since I had the opportunity to make someone realize their inner beauty, my sight was especially dim that night.

Nevertheless, I swaggered down the street like the dapper gentleman that I was, dressed to the nines and not a thread out of place. Even the flesh mask that I wore (a necessity, after one evening in which I allowed myself to become sloppy and the raw materials escaped after seeing my face) was the best money could buy. Because though the world may seem dreary to my soul, I knew in my heart that it was only a matter of time before the canvas was awash in color and vibrancy. I could feel it in my blood, I could feel it burning in my loins.

There was no mistaking that sweet, sweet siren's call. It was time. Tonight was the night. I was going to create a masterpiece.

…

Now…

"It's the same as last time," I said as I crouched down over the skeletal remains. In this having so many thin legs came in handy, as they allowed me to move among the bones without disturbing them while still providing all the balance I needed. "All of them humanoid."

It may sound redundant, but when you live in a place like Nightmare, it was important to make the distinction. I mean, my regular barista's a crocodile, for Theo's sake.

"So the bastard does have a type," Harry said, lingering behind on the steps.

"Looks like." I gingerly reached down to touch one of the skulls. The jaw was AWOL, which was also not a surprise. The guy wasn't just messy, he went out of the way to make sure his victims' remains were as scattered as possible. I lifted it up, giving it a cursory examination.

"Young female," I said at last, but that I already knew. In both of the other lairs that had been uncovered, the victims had almost exclusively been young humanoid women. Like Harry had said, the guy has a type.

"I'd say about early twenties," I continued. "Decent dental work, has a couple of fillings." It was funny, but the whole way here I had been in a state of perpetual dread, anticipating the horrors that awaited me. But now that I was at the scene with said horrors scattered all about me, it was somehow easier to deal with. Sometimes the training just took over.

"Right, of course," Harry muttered. He seemed a bit more uneasy than me. Not surprising, seeing how he had a daughter. "The…" He coughed a bit. "Their affects should be around here somewhere."

"Right." I gently set the skull back where it was. "Let's go then."

We carefully made our way through the mess, Harry having a harder time than I was. I could hear him muttering and cursing as he did his best not to crush anything underfoot.

From the look of things, our absent friend had been here a while. There were more bones than at the previous two lairs, which meant he was definitely stepping his game up. The guy was long gone though, and I really doubted we would find anything to point us to where he had gone. That was one of the many, many problems with that guy. Most killers really weren't all that smart, and those that were still didn't know the first thing about covering their tracks. This guy was different. All together his kill count probably numbered near the triple digits, and we didn't so much as have a clue as to what he looked like. Hell, we weren't even sure that it even was a he. The bones were the only organic thing he left behind, with everything else having been carefully cleaned away somehow.

Then I paused. "Hey, wait a minute," I said, peering into a crack in the concrete.

"What is it?" Harry said.

"I think I got something here." My fingers were very long and very thin, but not quite thin enough to squeeze into the crack, so I extracted a set of tweezers from the tool kit on my belt and set to work.

…

Then…

I found my materials in a small back alley. Apparently garbage day was looming, as the dumpsters and trash cans were overflowing with filth. That didn't bother me one bit. You'd be surprised at the treasures you can find in the trash.

In this case, the treasure in question was a child if its size and shape were any indication, probably some grubby street urchin. I found them digging through an open dumpster in search of treasures of their own. Little did they know that the greatest treasure was about to find them.

Now, one might think me crass for targeting a child. Indeed, there were many in the business that held to a strict "No Children" policy, as if adopting one set of scruples was enough to save their souls. Not me though. After all, children had the same potential for beauty as adults, even moreso perhaps. To deny them would just be selfish.

My failing senses took in my soon-to-be materials from which I was going to create my newest masterpiece. It was a…boy. A bit of a disappointment. Girls tended to bleed more prettily, I've found, and the colors they create are somehow more alive. Still, needs must when the Devil drives and all that.

His body shape was a little unorthodox, but that also was no surprise. We were in a Nightmare city, and one had to expect a little peculiarity. Like myself for instance. If one were to see me without my mask, they might take note of my lack of eyes or a nose, or by bone-white skin, or my oversized ears, or my exceptionally large mouth with its sharp teeth and black tongue. I do not apologize for how I look though. We are all beautiful in our own little ways.

The child didn't react to my approach, the sounds of his scrounging masking my footsteps. In fact, I was nearly all the way up to the dumpster before he finally sensed that he was not alone. Pausing, he looked up, head tilted in curiosity toward me.

I smiled and said my customary greeting. "Hello. Would you like to become beautiful?"

…

Now…

It took some wiggling, but I finally managed to pull the rectangular plastic card from the crevice. "Yeah, that's what I thought," I said, shining my light down on it. Harry leaned in close, peering over my shoulder. "Driver's license."

The license was for one Tanya Lexington. Her face smirked up at me, a pretty Nightmare girl with short, dark hair and dimpled cheeks. "You recognize her?" I said to Harry, handing him the card.

"Can't say that I do," he said, squinting down at it. "Bet you anything she's been reported missing though."

"Yeah, I'm not taking that bet." That was another one of our guy's MO's. He liked to hide the personal identification of his victims around his lairs; no doubt we'd be finding many more driver's licenses, school ID's, employee ID's, credit cards, passports, green cards, and the like. It was also probably why he mixed up the bones so thoroughly, just to taunt their families. "Yeah, your daughter/sister/wife/girlfriend is definitely here, but you'll never find all of her. Have fun with the funeral."

I hated this guy, I really did.

"Let's keep moving," I said.

It didn't take long to find another one. A moldy black purse with its strap half torn off rested against a ribcage. Inside I found a broken cell phone, loose change, a few candy bars, tangled headphones, a scattering of ticket stubs, spare tampons, and, of course, the wallet. The money and cards were all undisturbed. The college ID said that it was a Desio girl named Patricia Nottingham.

"This one's pretty far from home," I noted.

"Studying abroad, I guess."

It wasn't unusual. We Nightmares may not have the best reputation in the wider world, but thanks to Lord Eric of Thorns and his reformative policies, our education system was second to none, something even the notoriously stuffy Desios admitted to. So it really wasn't unheard of for ambitious students to get a green card and come our way in hopes of a more prestigious degree.

There was an especially grim look on Harry's face though, and I had a feeling that I knew why. Alice, his daughter, was about Patricia and Tanya's age, and was also away from home attending college. No doubt the poor guy was seeing her face on those dirty ID cards.

I could hear poor Patricia arguing with her parents in my head. "Mom, it's really the best choice," she might have said. "The Nightmares aren't like that anymore! I'll be fine, there's no reason to worry!"

I wondered how long it had been since they had spoken to her last. I wondered if they even suspected what had happened. I wondered which of these bones were hers.

…

Then…

The boy did not react how I had expected. I had expected fear. I had expected confusion. I had expected him to immediately retreat, to put as much distance between himself and I. It was a common reaction, unfortunately enough. Paint never really comprehends its destiny until you dipped the brush.

I got none of that. In fact, the boy did not react much at all. Instead, he remained exactly where he was, crouched on the side of the dumpster, hands on his knees, face towards me.

Thanks to my soon-to-be-corrected limited sight, I couldn't make out much in the way of his features, but it did seem like he was studying me.

"Beautiful?" he said. "I'm literally digging through the garbage here. You think I care about beauty?"

My ears twitched. His voice sounded…wrong. It was very soft, yes, but there was a certain sinister quality to it, like a velvet sheathe over a poisoned dagger. And his inflections were rather odd, with a notable singsong quality to them.

I had been wrong. Despite his small size, this was no child. A disappointment, but not a deal-breaker. My masterpiece would be completed regardless.

"Is beauty not what we all strive for?" I said. "Beauty. Perfection. Realization of what we are meant to be."

"You have a grandiose way of speaking," he said. "But you have my attention. What exactly are you proposing?"

Another surprise. It was so rare that the materials actually listened while I imparted wisdom upon them. "Is it not obvious? Are we all not born with unlimited potential? The chance and ability to transcend beyond our fleshy burdens and become fully realized? How many among us actually see that potential fulfilled? How many downtrodden souls walk these streets every day, trapped in their ugly existences due to circumstance, misfortune, and a lack of ambition?"

"Well, you might have a point there," the material murmured. "I have to admit, that is something that's been keeping me up at night. I mean, think about it: we Nightmares are pretty much the most emasculated people in all of Nod. We have everything that makes us us ripped out of us on birth. They take out our souls and call it rehabilitation. And don't get me started on all the ass-kissing we have to do just to get the tiniest bit of respect."

I knew well what he was complaining about, and to be honest it sort of disappointed me. It was a common complaint among the younger generation, to rail against rehabilitation and our admittedly degrading relationship with the rest of Nod, especially when it came to the grip that the Marauders had around our necks. I understood their discontent, but had always felt it to be a little short-sided.

"There is an argument to be made there," I allowed. "But I was speaking of personal realization, not that of society. To rise above such unfortunate circumstances and achieve true perfection, true beauty."

"Oh, really now? Okay, I'm going to go out on a limb and say that you're probably not talking about getting a makeover and a haircut."

I tsked. "Ever so focused on the superficial. No, my young friend. True beauty cannot be found in chemicals and cutting. True beauty is found within."

"I'm sorry, but did is suddenly become a children's cartoon?" he said dryly.

I scowled. "I'll forgive you your misunderstanding. No, no, no, you are still getting it wrong. I speak not of such…childish concepts."

"Then by all means. Enlighten me."

In that, I would gladly comply. "Consider our skin," I said, holding up my arm and pulling down the sleeve to expose the flesh of my wrist beneath my glove. "Our flesh. Our hair and fingernails. It is the only piece we see, and so we mistakenly consider this out covering to be our true selves. So we play with it. We dress it up, make it lovely to look upon. But is our visible flesh really our true selves? No, it most definitely is not. Rather, it is our armor, designed to protect that which really matters."

"Our guts then," he said. "The blood and viscera. Brain, lungs, and liver."

"Exactly! That which is truly necessary for life, that allows us to breathe, speak, think, and feel. Our internal workings are a miracle of creation, and yet, what do we do whenever it is exposed?" I shook my head in sad regret. "We draw back in revulsion. We are disgusted. But why? I ask you, why do we do this? Should we not be transfixed by their loveliness, these wonderful works of art? Why are we not fascinated by them, why do not embrace them, why do we not strive to bless our eyes with their majesty at every available opportunity?"

"Well, there is the small problem of us expiring once those beautiful babies leave their armor," he said. "That's something of a deterrent."

"Fear of death? Of pain?" I sniffed. "Small price to pay for beauty."

"Interesting, interesting," he murmured. "And as it so happens, I do believe that this conversation has helped me to see the light. To be specific, I now know who you are."

I froze. "Oh, do you?"

"I do. You're the Masterpiece Killer, aren't you?"

…

Now…

The beam of my flashlight fell upon something interesting. "Hey, come and take a look at this," I said.

It was a door, a steel mesh door set into the wall. The handle had been removed, but a chain was looped through the empty hole to wrap around a bar set in the wall, held together with a padlock.

"What's in there?" Harry said, shining his beam through. On the other side, the ground was free from bones, but I would bet good money that our friend had left something in there for us.

"Only one way to find out," I said, wrapping my fingers around the chain.

"Huh, wait," he said, pressing himself closer to the door. "I think…I think there's something on the wall."

"I don't doubt it," I grunted, giving the chain a hard shake. "See if you can call for some bolt cutters to be sent down here so-"

The padlock slipped open, and the chain fell loose in my hand.

"-or not. This works too."

"You'd think he'd know better not to leave his door unlocked," Harry said, pushing the door open.

I slowly moved into the room beyond, grateful that, for the moment at least, I didn't need to wade through the dead to do so. "Yeah, well, if I move out of a place, the last thing I care about is-"

My flashlight beam then fell upon something on the wall.

"-holy fuck!"

…

Then…

And just like that, our pleasant conversation had gone sour. "Do not call me that," I growled.

"Why not? It's your name, isn't it?"

"The newspapers gave me that name," I corrected. "I never, ever once called myself that! 'Masterpiece Killer,' phah! It implies that I kill masterpieces! Nothing is further from the truth! I don't kill masterpieces, I create them!"

"My apologies. May I call you Masterpiece then?"

"NO!" I roared. I reached up with one hand and tore the damned mask off. "I am not a masterpiece, not yet! That gift is not for me! I am the artist, not the artwork!"

"Ah. I understand. Now, you weren't planning on turning me into one of your masterpieces, were you? Because if so, then thanks, but no thanks. I'm not interested in dying."

I ground my teeth. Screaming, begging, and weeping I could bear. But for someone of intelligence to fully comprehend what I was offering and still reject my gift? It couldn't be born! "It is not for the paint to question the painter," I said. "Nor for the clay to criticize the sculptor."

"I am neither. With all respect to your artistic vision, you think too small. Now, do you know what my vision is, my bohemian friend? Shall I tell you what I dream?"

"Tell me," I said. "I will make sure to carve it onto your entrails."

For several moments, he didn’t speak, and I almost decided to just get on with it. But then he broke the silence, and when he did, his voice was low, rhythmic, almost a chant.

"I dream of a world where Nightmares exist without shackles, without limitations, and without shame. I dream of a world where we no longer are forced to apologize for who we are, for what we are, where the fears that molded us are realized in all that behold us. I dream of a world where the strong are no longer compelled to kneel before the weak, where the only sins of our fathers is their denial of our birthrights. I dream of a world where are no longer made to hide from our true selves, but all the world must hide from us. I dream of a world where enlightened visionaries such as you and I are not considered aberrations, are not considered freaks, but are instead the norm, and the weak, neutered cattle that walk the streets that our forefathers built are devoured like the prey that they are. I dream of a world in which the Screaming Throne is once again filled by a worthy Monarch, one that will surpass Thelonious the Silent with his majesty, one that will cast down the Marauders' chains from our necks and restore us to our former greatness. That is my dream, my artistic friend. That is my vision."

I paused then. His speech just echoed the sentiments he had said earlier, and it was certainly nothing I had never heard before. However, his conviction was striking, and the way he expressed comradery was telling.

I had made a mistake. This…thing was not raw materials.

"You are…in the business, aren't you?" I said cautiously.

"You speak of the serial killing business?" He inclined his head. "I do have that honor."

"Then you are…" I mentally ran the names of my colleagues. I had never met or corresponded with a single one of them, but I still made a point to keep track of my kin.

"The newspapers have seen fit to dub me the Scarab Killer." He chuckled. "It's a little silly, but inoffensive."

"I see," I murmured. I knew that name, of course. I knew how he operated, the sort of things he did. Oh me oh my, oh me oh my, this was not a situation I wanted to be in.

Slowly bowing at the waist, I said, "Well then, mine Scarab Killer. It seems that I have made a grave error. I apologize for the misunderstanding, and leave you to your work."

"Ah. Well. See, about that." A strange rustling filled my ears, like dry leaves blowing across hard stone. "I make it a personal rule not to let anyone live who's seen my face and heard my name. It's just simple practicality, you understand."

I let out a nervous laugh. "But s-surely you can't believe that I would turn you in! We are kin, in a way! Even if we weren't, it simply wouldn't be prudent for me to go anywhere near the authorities! Why I-"

I stopped. I was talking to a dumpster. Even with my limited sight, I could see that the Scarab Killer was gone.

But the rustling was growing louder.

Well, then. It was time to go. I hastily yanked my mask back over my head and turned to flee.

Then my legs erupted into agony.

I screamed and fell, my hands stopping me before I collapsed onto the foul ground.

The ground was alive.

Dozens…no, hundreds of beetles were crawling all over the alley floor. Cockroaches, goliath beetles, stink bugs, and, yes, scarab beetles. They were everywhere, swarming over the concrete, over the garbage, over me. I felt my bowels freeze while warmth flooded my trousers. It had been their mandibles that had felled me, and now they were going to eat me alive.

No such luck, alas.

Something seized me by the back of my jacket and yanked me up, hauling me up the side of one of the buildings like one of the many bags of trash that now lay below. The ground retreated from me, and I could see that the entire alley was swarming with beetles.

The Scarab Killer was clinging to the wall like one of his tiny brethren. Holding me aloft by the lapels, he held me out over the drop. With his other hand he yanked my mask off.

And then, to my eternal shame, I found myself devolving into the behavior exhibited by all of the raw materials I had used to create my masterpieces. I cried. I had no eyes with which to weep, but nevertheless I cried.

And I begged.

"Please," I said, my hands clutching at his wrist. "Please don't."

He let out a soft chuckle. "I am sorry about this. In a fairer world we would have been friends. But in accordance with your vision, I will ensure that you will be made beautiful." He dropped my mask and held up his hand, the tips of his fingers ending in ripping talons. "Please understand, I hold you in the highest respect."

"But I don't want to be beautiful!" I wailed. "I don't-"

Then, as his talon slid through the fabric of my shirt and into my stomach, a miracle happened. In that single, final moment, everything was awash with color. My drab, black-and-white suddenly became alive. I could see everything in full and living color, every detail becoming clear, the beauty of the world revealed to me. I cried, though not in fear, but in gratitude.

And in that moment of clarity, I saw the face of God. And it was beautiful.

…

Now…

"Holy shit," Harry breathed. "Are you…are you seeing this?"

"I'm seeing it," I said. "Oh man, am I seeing it."

The sight that had transfixed us so was what was upon the wall. Painted in long-dried blood was the form of a scarab beetle the size of a man, facing upward. It sat within four circles, each one broken at a different point: top left in the outmost circle, top right in the one within that, bottom left in the one within that, and bottom right in the innermost circle. Five of the beetle's legs were intact, while the bottom left leg was broken off at the first joint.

It was known as the sign of the Crippled Beetle, the Scarab Killer's calling card. It had been found at both of the other two lairs as well, the surest sign that we had that all of these grisly hideouts all belonged to the same person.

But this one had a little something extra. A grey-skinned man was crucified upon the beetle's form. He was tall, slim, and wore the filthy and tattered remains of a black dress suit. His perfectly bald head was the shape of a cantaloupe, with exceptionally large ears and a gaping mouth that slashed its way across the middle, a swollen black tongue hanging out. He had no eyes or nose. His hands had been nailed into each of the beetle's front legs, while his feet had been nailed into the rear legs.

That was nasty enough, but from the look of things, the poor guy's stomach had been split open, with his intestines yanked out in two directions and likewise nailed into the wall over each of the beetle's middle legs. Beneath him was scrawled the phrase, "HE IS BEAUTIFUL."

"Theo preserve us," Harry murmured. "You're tellin' me that the Scarab Killer and the Masterpiece Killer are the same guy?"

"No, I don't think that's it at all," I said, recalling the rough descriptions given to us from one of the Masterpiece Killer's intended victims. "Harry, I think that guy there…I think that is the Masterpiece Killer!"

Harry was silent for a time as he digested this. Then he slowly said, "So…they're goin’ after each other now?"

"I guess?" I shrugged. "Maybe they knew each other. Maybe he wanted this to happen. Maybe there was some kind of grudge. Or hell, maybe he was just in the wrong place at the wrong time."

"Right then," Harry said, licking his thick lips. He managed a ghastly parody of a smile. "Well, hey. I'm no one to look a gift horse in the mouth. Especially a mouth as ugly as that, am I right?"

I nodded slowly, though I was too deep in thought to say much more.

Who was the Scarab Killer? What did he want? At least with the Masterpiece Killer we knew his motivations and his vision, as twisted as they might be. But with this guy, we knew jack shit.

Was there some purpose to the carnage he kept causing, or was it just simple cruelty? Was he after revenge? And if so, against what? Society, women, I don't know, getting bad grades in college? What was up with this creep?

I didn't have a clue. I had picked through the Scarab Killer's leavings twice already, and I didn't even know where to begin. And in the meantime, he ran free, killing at will. Hell, he was probably torturing some girl at that very moment, and we couldn't do a damned thing to stop him.

…

Later that night…

The rain wasn't showing any sign of letting up, and Alice was getting worried.

She was pacing back and forth beneath the relative safety of a bus stop, phone held to her ear, as she traded between nervously checking the time and the bus schedule that was printed onto one of the stop's plastic walls.

"No, it's still late," she said into the phone. "And the rain's getting worse."

"Well, maybe I should come and get you," said her mother on the other end. "You know, just to be safe."

Alice sighed. "Mom, you're in another city. Even without the traffic, it's a forty minute drive. Even if the bus is held up, there's no way you'd get here first."

"I know, I know, it's just…I'm worried, all right? I'm your mother, I'm entitled. Besides, your father's been on edge so much recently, I think it's rubbing off."

"God, don't tell me he's out working in this," Alice said, peering out into the veil of water.

"No rest for the wicked. Though I'd think that criminals would have the good sense to look out the window and decide to take the night off."

Alice laughed at that "Wait, so you're saying I'm dumber than the average criminal for being out in this mess? Gee, thanks, Mom. That really makes me-"

Something seized her from behind. The phone clattered to the ground of the now-empty bus stop.

"Alice?" it continued to squawk. "Is everything okay?"

Then a clawed hand reached in, coming out from the rain.

"Alice?"

The claw came down, slicing though the phone and silencing it forever.

#subconscious

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