This gallery contains 14 photos.
This gallery contains 14 photos.
I’ve always been so very careful… Covering my tracks, leaving no loose ends for others to stumble across my work… Clearing the scene of anything that could lead the authorities to my door… I’ve made an art form of juggling my night time activities with my daytime life… How the fuck was there a witness? Maybe the police are using the media to try and rattle me, get me to make a mistake, that’s got to be it… I don’t make mistakes, I survey, I stalk and I plan before I even think of making my move. I even account for variables and deviations, there’s no way there could have been a witness, they’re fucking with me… They have to be…
Like most serial killers, I have my rituals and routines and no doubt my fair share of delusional beliefs that help me justify my actions in the bigger picture, yadder, yadder, yadder, bing, bang boff… I can’t even keep a straight face spouting that bullshit… It is what is, I’m a fucking hero… I’m an artist… I don’t give a toss about M.O.’s, Modus Operandi, Methods of Operation or any of the other crap they try to spoon feed you in crime dramas and CSI bollocks…
Hi, my name is Donnie and yeah, I’ve had my share of Donnie Darko jokes but I’m cool with that, I loved the movie. Just not Donald, never Donald, coz that makes me sound like a twat, thank you mum and dad. As you can imagine, I had my fair share of Donald Duck to Donald Fuck to Fuckwit to fucking weirdo throughout my school life. Not the most inspired progression, I grant you but when dealing with under achieving primates, it’s hard to picture anything with any great wit.
My father was a wife beater, speed/meth addict and a notorious drunk, a real piece of work. We had social services calling twice a week and when things really got out of hand, the police would be banging on the door with complaints of domestic disturbance.
Yep, sweet childhood huh? Topped only by that one defining Christmas when I trotted eagerly down the stairs to see if Santa had left me that Playstation I’d so dearly hoped and wished for. I’d dropped enough hints to sink a fucking ship. But the surprise I’d received was a lot more devastating than I could have ever dreamed of.
He’d finally gone too far, he’d cracked her over the head with his whisky bottle, fracturing her scull before she’d smacked it on the corner of the mantle in her fall and he just fell asleep in the chair as she’d slowly died of the head injuries and progressive loss of blood. Happy fucking Christmas!!! I’d watched them cart her away on a gurney with a blanket pulled up over her face, so surreal in the flashing blue lights, the house a hive of slow motion activity as my father was handcuffed and taken away fighting, the crackle and blarb of police and ambulance radios… And I remember someone putting a blanket around my shoulders as they led me from the house to a waiting car… I was absolutely devastated… And if I’m completely honest, it was probably the last time I ever really truly felt anything… And little did I know that this would be the catalyst for who I would become.
After that I’d stayed with my aunty but she quickly decided she couldn’t cope with me, I think I cramped her style, the selfish cow. And so I was moved around from foster home to foster home, a number in the system, the traumatised little boy that nobody wanted. I began killing animals in an effort to feel something but nothing came and I got good at it. And after once being caught, I quickly learned how to cover my tracks and again I got good at it…
It wasn’t until I was fifteen that I killed my first human and God I felt so alive… Basically, a chav had pulled a knife on me, wrong place, wrong time, wrong man… I’d waited for him to thrust, gripped his wrist and held it in both my hands as he desperately tried to pull it back toward him. I then used his own momentum and pushed, using his upward pull to direct the blade to his throat.
The shock on his face had been priceless, dropping to his knees as his windpipe gurgled around the blade before he slumped forward, driving the blade home to his death as it tore through the vertebrae in his neck. But it had all happened so fast, that there was nothing to savour and I knew I wanted more… God, I wanted more… The thrill of the kill… The power it had made me feel was so intoxicating that it was almost sexual in its nature and I began craving it like nothing before in my life… It was like a moment of clarity, I’d found my purpose…
As time went on, so the craving became so much stronger, and I knew I’d have to be careful… I felt like an addict slaved to my vice…
There’s not much that gets to me, but after my childhood experiences, I have a real rage that rises in the wake of men beating on women. And so this became my focus as first I began taking out pimps in the less savoury, less policed parts of the city. And again, nothing too grandiose, just tailed them, waited for my opportunity and stepped up behind them, swiftly slitting their throats and watching them bleed like the pigs that they are as their eyes bulged and tongues protruded as warm life-blood pumped over their hands as they desperately grasped at their throats. You see, I’m not a monster, I choose my victims well… Sadly it wasn’t long before the police had worked out my pattern as new prostitutes had begun appearing on the street corners. I stalked a few of them to see if my instincts had been right and wasn’t at all surprised to find them making reports to plain clothed operatives in law enforcement. I knew then that it was time to slow down and reign in these urges before they consumed me and I fucked up.
Eighteen months had passed by in the interim and I’d successfully kept a lid on these dark cravings. Until eventually news had reached me via my aunty that my dad would soon be released from prison, having served his sentence for the events of that fateful night. Like I said before, I don’t feel much in the way of emotion, I have to fake it for the most part to blend in. But that night, I had a wave of devastating emotion wash over me as I relived the night my mum died in an idol, reflective fantasy, born of remembrance. And I cried, weeping like the child I left behind on that fateful night…
And I knew I had to make him pay for what he had done to me… For what he’d done to my mum… What he had made me become… And so I planned and schemed of how this was going to go down, forgiveness was never an option, I really couldn’t let it go… I needed closure…
And so I began to buy in supplies; bleach, plastic sheeting, industrial packing tape, a rubber diving suit, latex gloves, cooking knives, tons of cheap clothes from charity shops and a number of free syringes from the local methadone clinic… God bless the heroin addicts… I then started scoping abandoned warehouses and properties that wouldn’t draw attention until I found one perfect for my needs… Secluded and clearly untouched for a number of years, just on the outskirts of the city and ironically, an abandoned abattoir…
Upon his release, I stalked him for a few months and got to know his routines and hang outs… No surprises that he’d find his way to pubs and bars before finding a taste for prostitutes and bar skanks. Then to discover he was one of those men who needed to choke women to sustain his errection, the man just sickened me… My childhood memories of his lifestyle had always put me off touching the booze, I never wanted to end up like him, ever…
Finally when I was near enough ready to go, I shaved my head and waxed my body… After all, loose, stray hairs have a nasty habit of dropping you in the shit in terms of evidence at crime scenes. And so I was set and found my way to the point where our paths would converge and waited for him to pass by. It was almost too easy and I was angry with him for not being more of a challenge, for not putting up more of a struggle… I hit him once and he was unconscious, damn him… He frightened the life out of me when I was a child, yet now this frail old piss-head just disgusted me… Repulsed me in his weakness… Where was the fire? Where was the rage that had so terrified me and scarred me as a child? He would pay for that too…
Having reached the abattoir, I stripped to my under-ware and donned the skin tight diving suit and put on my latex gloves.
I then laid out a large square of plastic sheeting, stripped him and laid him out on it, using the industrial packing tape to secure his arms and taping his wrists together behind his back. I then taped his ankles and then his knees together to restrict his movement, before slapping him about to wake him up.
His eyes suddenly snapped open, quickly widening as he began to take in his surroundings and finally realisation dawned as he contemplated his situation. A delightfully, delicious ‘Oh Crap’ moment that will stay with me forever and made me grin widely.
‘Where am I? Who are you?’ he asked with a tremble in his voice.
‘Do you not recognise your own son, Father?’ I replied calmly.
‘Donnie? Is that you?’
‘Come now Father, surely you can’t have forgotten me already’
‘I never forgot you Donnie… I am so sorry about everything’
Suddenly rage coursed through me and impulsively I sprang forward and punched him hard in the mouth, his front teeth breaking with the impact of the blow as his mouth filled with blood and he began coughing and spluttering crimson tooth fragments. ‘YOU DON’T GET TO BE SORRY…’ I bellowed at him in fury, before stepping back and turning away from him to compose myself. I took a few deep breaths in an effort to calm myself down. It was then that I noticed the sting in my knuckles and found that his broken teeth had torn through the glove and cut me. I winced and breathed deeply to suppress the rage. I was getting emotional and that was not a good sign. I needed to get myself in check before continuing or I would make a mistake and implicate myself.
You see, the plan had been to calmly break him down over a few hours until he’d reached regret and then kill him, but he was not giving me the satisfaction and closure that I needed. I couldn’t trust myself not to react emotionally. Like I said before, I haven’t felt anything since that night, I’ve been so numb for so very long and now emotions were sweeping over me like a tsunami and I really didn’t know how to deal with them. I knew I was going to have to cut this short before I did something stupid.
I wanted him to suffer, that was a given… I wanted to really hurt him but I couldn’t trust my own judgement enough to know when to stop. I was going to have to improvise…
I had initially brought the syringe to blow an air bubble into a vein that he may go peacefully after finding remorse for killing my mum. I’m not an animal…
And I’d brought the bleach to clean up any potential evidence in the aftermath of the deed. But now I’d fucked up big time and broken his teeth and despite the thrill of his sobs, I knew that death would be deemed as suspicious, so I couldn’t risk throwing caution to the wind. I would simply make him suffer and watch him die. So I quickly ripped off some tape and covered his mouth, then finding the syringe among my belonging, I used it to suck up a full vial of bleach and injected it directly into a juicy vein in his arm and sat back to watch the show.
I was actually pretty good at biology and chemistry at school, so I was intrigued to see the effects as I ran the theory through my head. It was fascinating and thankfully sated my baser urges to cut him and beat him to a pulp. The extreme pain was almost immediate and his face reddened as his arm began to blister as his agonised screams were muffled through the tape. He looked at me pleadingly through the devastation of the blood vessel as clots formed and travelled to begin blocking and systematically shutting down his vital organs over a number of hours. He writhed like a fish out of water until the shaking began, at which point, I crossed to him and held up his head to look into his eyes. ‘Goodbye Father…’ I said softly and kissed his forehead, before holding him in my arms tightly until finally, the shaking stopped. I wept quietly at first, then sobs turned to roars and I actually felt better after a good cry as I began putting the past behind me and moving on.
That was five years ago, I’m a lot more in control now and have my cravings bridled to necessity. I just kill once a year, it’s like my Christmas treat in remembrance of my mother and father. The media have named me ‘Santa Claws’ which amuses me greatly…
Today’s front page headline reads ‘Santa Claws Strikes Again’ in reference to the guy I took out this year. It has this wonderful cartoon image of a rabid Santa beside the story… LMAO!!!
Basically he was a deadbeat husband who frequently knocked the shit out of his wife after a few too many drinks. Sound familiar? Okay I’ve got an M.O., so sue me… I started tailing him in September, even stopped to chat with him on occasion. The guy was scum, no regrets, no remorse and couldn’t see a thing wrong with his life. Volatile, violent and embraced as a way of life that old joke:
Q. What do you call a woman with two black eyes?
A. Not listening the first time.
I figured ‘Yep, he’s our man alright’ and set about this year’s treat. Like I say, I’d been trailing him since September and I was peeved to realise they were already playing Christmas carols in the shops. His poor wife was taking a regular beating and living in fear of her life, with police and social services regularly visiting the troubled house. But sadly powerless under the law to actually do anything until she pressed charges that in turn formed a vicious circle in that she was too afraid to because of the threats of what he might do.
I took him a day before Christmas Eve, spiked his drink with a mild sedative to slow his reflexes and waited along his route home. It wasn’t long before I saw him lumbering up the road like some tired beast of burden, stooping occasionally to rest before moving on. I simply waited until the street was completely empty, drove up beside him and offered a lift home. He climbed in willingly and slumped in the seat with his eyes closed. Perfect!
I then swiftly drove on to the abattoir. And I still can’t believe the police haven’t thought to check there in previous years, maybe it’s too obvious or so long unused that no one even thinks of it. Either way it suits me fine, I’m not complaining… It’s all good…
I helped him out of the car and brought him inside to the main area, allowing him to drop onto the waiting plastic sheeting as I quickly changed into my diving suit and donned a Santa coat and hat. What can I say? I’m a sucker for media portrayal and front page coverage. They create a myth, so I’ve got to live up to it… I then began stripping him and taping his wrists together. And though he let out a few disgruntled snorts, he didn’t actually begin to stir until I’d strapped his ankles into the overhead shackles they used for pig slaughter and hoisted him into the air as the blood rushed to his head.
Killed like a pig, I love life’s ironies…
‘What the fuck?’ he cried out.
‘Good evening Mr Johnson’ I replied with crisp, bank manager sincerity.
‘Get me the fuck down!!! I’ll fucking kill you!!!’ he roared.
‘Not really much of a motivation, is it now, Mr Johnson?’
‘What do you want?’
‘Ah, straight to the nub of the matter, good for you Sir… I’m afraid you’ve been a very naughty boy, haven’t you?’
‘I’m afraid you made Santa’s naughty list, Mr Johnson’ I said calmly with a mock jutting lip.
‘You’d better get me the fuck down, right now’
‘As much as I respect your bold, can do attitude, I’m afraid I must decline. You see we have a few urgent matters to discuss in regard to your continual spousal abuse’
‘Fuck you, I’ve got rights’
‘I’m afraid you’ve forfeited them Mr Johnson, the only rights you hold right now is your right to make peace with the world’
‘WHAT? I don’t understand’
‘Evidently so, but just to clarify, you are not long to remain in this world… You will die tonight… And I don’t mean that maliciously, it is simply a fact… The world is better off without you…’
‘But you can’t, that’s… That means you’re…’
‘Ah realisation dawns… That’s right Mr Johnson, I’m that Santa… You see, I have no qualms about hurting you and your screams will be like some divine symphony to my ears’
‘Someone will hear me’
‘I’m afraid not, there’s nobody for miles’
‘People will notice I’m gone’
‘And so they will rejoice’
‘They will find me’
‘I’m afraid they’ll not even miss you, nobody likes you, in fact, most say you’re an asshole’ I said in a mock conspiracy tone with a stage whisper, theatrical gesture.
‘Someone will come’
‘Who? Please tell me, Mr Johnson. Who will come?’
‘I don’t know…’
‘Exactly, I think we’re done with denial now, don’t you Mr Johnson. Let’s just get on with the business at hand’
‘You can’t do this…’ he said with an edge of panic in his voice.
‘Oh I think you’ll find I can’ I smiled as I took out a small knife, knelt beside him and stabbed it sharply between two ribs in the right side of his chest and gyrated the blade a number of times. ‘Do you believe me now, Mr Johnson?’ I asked in the same calm, levelled voice as he froze and gasped as the blade slid in, grimacing as it twisted, then minor relief as I pulled it out. ‘Well?’ I pressed ‘Do you believe me now?’
He nodded vigorously, fear creasing his face as his tears ran down his forehead.
‘Jolly good, we’re getting somewhere then… So tell me a bit about your better half, Mr Johnson, why do you beat her?’
‘I’m sorry…’ he sobbed.
‘Uh uuuh’ I mock buzzered ‘Wrong answer’ I replied and pushed my finger into his knife wound, between his ribs and began to wiggle it about as he howled the place down.
‘You know, I could do this all night but I’m afraid I’ve got a schedule to keep, can we skip to your protestations and get straight to the remorse’
‘What? You think just because I’m a serial killer, I don’t have Christmas plans? Really Mr Johnson, that’s blatant stereotyping and if not for the timing, we’d most assuredly be discussing that too’
‘Why are you doing this?’ he sobbed.
‘It’s quite simple… I’m making my list and checking it twice… Well you know the rest…’
‘I’m begging you… oh please don’t kill me’
‘Tra la la la, la la la la… You know the modern connotations of that song amuse me greatly’
‘No honestly, hear me out… There’s that line ‘Gladly don your gay apparel?’ Do you realise that in this day and age, it asks you to wear your skimpiest vest, designer shades and tightest jeans in December. Now that is madness’
‘Please, stop this’
‘You’re quite right Mr Johnson, it shames me to admit that I’m stereotyping now. But don’t worry, you can rest assured that I’ll work on it’ I smiled as I brought up the blade and held it to his throat as his face contorted in terror. ‘I’m afraid we’re wasting time Mr Johnson’
‘You’ll notice that below you is the drain where slaughter blood is washed away, convenient huh?’ I said, gesturing the taped hole in the plastic sheeting.
‘Please, don’t do this’
‘Goodbye Mr Johnson and Merry Christmas’ I smiled as I brought the blade swiftly across his throat and quickly stepped back as he bucked like a fish on a line as his blood pumped from his neck, over his face, filling his mouth and nose, before being swallowed by the waiting drain’s hungry mouth.
Some time later when he’d finished dripping and twitching, I lowered him down onto the plastic sheeting and slitting him from groin to chest, quickly set about removing his organs as I hollowed out his shell like a pumpkin. I then washed him and the organs thoroughly to lose the last remnants of blood before drying and dressing him in a cheap Santa suit. I then patted dry his organs and intestines and hung them up to dry a little more and so the day wore on.
At around 6pm, I briefly borrowed his house keys, headed over to his house in the car. I waited for his wife to retreat to the kitchen at the back of the house, quietly let myself in and crept along the hallway, quickly ducking into the dining room as she came out of the kitchen and went into the toilet.
Seeing my chance, I swiftly headed to the kitchen to see a freshly made cup of tea and spiked it with some sedative to help her sleep as I prepared her Christmas morning surprise. I could feel my excitement building; it made me feel like a kid again.
After quietly letting myself out, I headed back to the abattoir, parked up and nipped in to pick him up, bring him out to the car, put him in the passenger seat and put on his seatbelt to hold him steady… After all, safety first… I then nipped back in, collected all the organs and bagged them up in towels before putting them into refuse sacks and loading them into the boot of the car. I then went back in for the third and final time to clean up and remove any and all traces of my presence and my activities therein. Then bagging up the plastic sheeting and various other paraphernalia, I placed it on the back seat with intention to burn later. Finally, I was able to jump into the driving seat and we were away.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled up outside his house and peeped through the living room window to see her crashed out for the count on the sofa… Aww sweet… So I quickly let myself in and carried her to bed, gently laying her down and putting the duvet over her as she slept on obliviously. Next I nipped out and got him in from the car, bringing him into the house and sitting him in the armchair in the living room, holding a big card that said “Merry Christmas”
Then nipping back out the car again, I got the organs from the boot and brought them into the house, decorating the tree festively with them. His intestines looping around and spiralling it with various organs draped on the branches for balance. Ironic that this was the origin of tree decoration in a Druid sacrifice on Winter Solstice for health and prosperity, so keenly adapted by Christianity for Christmas with tinsel and baubles… But enough of my rambling, I stood back and surveyed my work proudly. Yes, she’ll appreciate this after the initial shock… Maybe not today, but tomorrow she can play the devastated, grieving widow and in time, she can learn to live again… And one day, she may even feel gratitude… My work here is done…
Until next year of course…
as bombs fell all around,
Julia, sweet Julia,
your path in life is bound.
You bring an icon to a world,
who dares to say ‘No more’
Its time we all ‘Give peace a chance’
And all say no to war…
But your life was cut so short,
knocked down by drunken cop,
so lost the child you left behind,
was destined for the top.
‘Please watch over little John,
I know he’ll make you proud,
bestowed to you, his Aunt Mimi,
he’s sure to draw a crowd.’
Uncle George then passed away,
poor devastated child,
who built a rage so deep inside
in acts that bordered wild.
‘John pick up these notes and scraps
or I shall throw them out’
‘And one day you’ll crawl after them’
He said without a doubt.
Teenage years saw many pranks,
and birth of rock and roll.
Johnnie and the Moon-dogs played
to Mimi’s pride of soul.
Next the Quarry Men did play,
The Silver Beetles rise,
John, Paul, George and Stu and Pete,
took Hamburg by surprise.
Until once more as fate stepped in
and took poor Stu away,
John’s best friend collapsed and died,
yet still the Beatles play.
Devastated by their loss,
they pack and leave for home,
Tavern bound to play their tunes,
their place of birth to roam.
Soon, they’re drawing many crowds
who come to hear them play.
Brian Epstein raised their game
to Gods without delay.
Then George Martin took them on
and soon they lost Pete Best,
And so came Ringo to the fold
at George Martin’s request.
‘Love me do’ & ‘Please, please me’
went sailing up the charts,
to take the music scene by storm
and touch so many hearts.
Interviews and screaming fans
and so The Beatles soared.
Mop-top hair and Beatle suits
with gigs as crowds applaud.
John then married Cynthia,
alas she was with child.
A secret life he had to live,
amidst the parties wild.
Julian was born to them,
but John would play away
without a thought for family,
so lost in the affray.
But the strain was just too much
and John became so lost,
a king that loathed his fame bestowed,
his mortal life the cost.
Movies came ‘A Hard day’s Night’
and ‘Help!’ a simple plea.
There seemed nowhere that they could hide
where fans would leave them be.
And so as Beatle mania grew
throughout the world of man.
America embraced this band,
the world, their biggest fan.
Filling out Shea Stadium,
a screaming wall of noise,
screeching louder than the tunes
as girls out-screamed the boys.
That fateful day John said ‘We are
more popular than Jesus’
For John had uttered blasphemy,
a Devil who’d deceive us.
America could not forgive,
and burnings then began
of everything of Beatle brand
in flames of hate to fan.
Apologies were not enough
and homeward bound they flew,
unsettled by the hate he’d caused
in words they misconstrue.
But pain and loss would follow them
as Brian Epstein died.
The fifth Beatle, their loving friend,
a life that fate denied
And then the Maharishi came
to open up their eyes,
Sexy Sadie, hypocrite,
made fools with all his lies.
And so escaping from their lives,
Sergeant Pepper’s seeds were sown
in psychedelic glee.
Again they took the world by storm
as Sergeant Pepper reigned,
and ushered in a trippy age
of peace and love campaigned.
And so the world’s first satellite,
broadcast the Beatles live
and told us ‘All you need is Love’
that everyone may thrive.
Sadly that would be their peak
as tensions fought to rise,
resentments building up inside
in words of cold despise.
Yoko Ono stole John’s heart,
a love they shared so free
and so the Beatles tore apart
‘til all said ‘Let it Be’
And so began his protest work,
‘Give Peace A Chance’ his cry.
A week long bed in, in a bag
to sing and just get high.
John and Yoko married
and took the world aback
as drugs became an issue,
from cocaine through to smack,
Then moving on to solo work
and Plastic Ono Band,
working through a life of pain
in haunting songs so grand.
‘Imagine’ was the turning point
of working through the pain
that brought to him a peace of mind
he found hard to maintain.
Many battles fought in court,
that got them to the States,
a ‘Clean up time’ for life and soul
to face what then awaits.
But it wasn’t very long
‘til John’s cruel jokes would wake
as Yoko felt the brunt of it
in lusts that he’d partake.
Womanizing was his game
and cruel in words he’d say
to publicly humiliate
his love from day to day.
Until one day, she’d had enough
and so she kicked him out,
a lost weekend of fourteen months
that left him full of doubt.
Yoko sent May Pang to him
so he’d not lose his way
upon the drunken path he walked
that led him more astray.
Resulting in a short affair
that grounded him to life
and made him truly realize,
he must win back his wife.
So for many months he tried,
a humbled broken star
to try to make amends for all
the games he’d played thus far.
Finally, her heart decreed,
and told him he was ready.
But he must learn to give and take,
embrace her heart so steady.
For now they’d found their inner peace
and soon she was with child.
He devoted time with Sean,
long gone his days so wild.
Yoko worked the business days
and he the doting Dad,
until he started to record
new songs of thoughts he’d had.
And so the songs would tell the tale
of love and fatherhood,
of how his life had changed so much
and all for greater good.
So tragic then that Winter day,
December 8th he’d die,
five bullets that would take his life
by Catcher in the Rye.
I write these words because I must,
your life was such a gift,
you touched so many hearts and minds
and set our souls adrift.
For though you had your many faults,
your flaws were those of man
forgiven in the life you led
before your song began.
You see you’ve touched my life so much,
inspired me to dream,
to look beyond the surface veil
and see the bigger scheme.
Artist, poet, songwriter,
a working class hero.
Thank you John, you’ve shaped my life,
I wanted you to know…
Your friend always,