Pilot

One, he pushed himself off the ground, feeling the cold cement against his sweaty palms. The constant buzzing sound of the prison doors opening and closing coming like an annoying song, an annoying song he knew far too well.

Lowering himself so his face was but a mere inches off the ground and holding that place for ten seconds lifted himself again, two. The row was different, he was in the section where they kept their dangerous animals, and he was the most dangerous of them all.

Three, they had tried to take advantage of him at the start, seeming like a weak little white boy, white trash, pig. He was not remarkably muscular or tall, standing a normal 5,11 feet tall with medium build he did not seem threatening in the lease. With his serene blue eyes and wavy blond hair going down to his neck, he was the perfect candidate for most prisoners.

Four, he was not racist but he couldn’t help but notice most here were immigrants, Mexicans, African Americans, not many whites. Of course most whites managed to get nice cells, hang out in the yard, it was still a mostly white majority, it was unfair but that’s how it was.

Five, he had a cellmate once, fellow white man who tried to rape him. He never lived to see another day however, guards finding him the next day strangled with his own belt, and when they looked at him it was as though nothing had happened.

Six, the door slid open, as he lifted himself up he received a kick in the ribs, sending him crashing against the wall. He did not show anger however, looking up to meet the eyes of the guard he asked, “ What is it now? Did I insult your fat mother? Did I make a move on your fat ass? Or did I steal your fat free crackers?”

It was a new guard, it always was a new guard but they all came for the same reason. They wanted to take a crack at the notorious serial killer that had taken over two hundred lives; he had once been in the DA’s office, the best of the best.

But he was a pathological killer; he first killed at the age of eight. Of course he began with animals, grabbing cats from the streets and killing them in various manners, burning them alive and listening to them howl in their whiny screams of pain, sometimes pulling their tails off and hanging the little felines with them. To him they were but toys, and little boys have a reputation of breaking their toys.

Despite this behaviour he was very social, unlike most profiled serial killers he was a very popular kid, high grades, good with girls although he was a gentleman. He never tried to take advantage of girls, not because he was a good person, and he wasn’t gay, he simply found no thrill in the concept of affection in general.

His parents were military, distant from him they put food in the cupboards and he had to put it on the table for his family of five, three sisters and two brothers. He graduated top of his class, flew through high school with ease and took interest in law. By then he hadn’t killed a human yet.

The guard kicked him in the groin, although he did not show it on his face he was now bent on killing this guard, of all the things to do that was the lowest of lows. But he would bide his time, he found that patience was a virtue. It was a corny phrase but it was one of the three he lived upon.

With patience he did everything, got his meal, sifted through cryptic information in the DA and made a case of nothing, and in this case, to kill the guard called Murhpy. He may have been a tall and fat one but that fell into his second corny bases of life, the bigger they are, the harder they fall.

In prison that applied to many things, watching as the guard walked away, whistling the famous yellow submarine song as he walked into the washroom. Smiling at this he knew he would have to move fast, pulling out the smuggled lock pick he quickly opened his cell.

The guards would be on their way now to put him back in his cell, it would take at least five minutes. Walking to the washroom other prisoners laughed with anticipation, they had all seen him in action, one yelling in a husky voice, “ Malcolm go psycho again!”

Ignoring them he walked in, guard sitting at the end stall in the washroom Malcolm approached with great anticipation. Facing the door he kicked the door down, Murphy looked up in complete surprise, being in the middle of a crap he had not expected to get interrupted, even more so by Malcolm, an inmate that had been behind bars less than a minute ago.

Having no mercy he yanked the fat man off the toilet seat, he grasped in fear, crap falling on the ground in random splotches on the ground as Malcolm dragged him by the collar. He began to cry for mercy, either he was crapping out of fear or because he was in the middle of getting rid of a turkey casserole that had been made for the prisoners.

Kicking him in the gut he smiled, pulling his baton out of his belt he then untied the belt itself. Knocking him out with the baton he looked up at the vent, reaching up he pulled the loose cover off where a rope with a noose at the end was found, courtesy of one of his other more suicidal cellmates who had never gotten the chance to use it.

The guard began to mumble back to consciousness, only two minutes left before the guards got to his cell. Pulling the bars in front of the window off he bashed the window in with the baton; tying the noose around the guard’s neck he tied the other end in a double timer knot around the urinal nearest the window.

Guard having enough consciousness left to see what was going on but not nearly enough to react howled in fear as Malcolm lifted him over his shoulders, he was fat and heavy but Malcolm had lifted much heavier. Smiling he said, “ Can’t forget the finishing touch.” Smashing the mirror, one minute left he grabbed a sharp shard and stabbed it in his stomach, cutting down until his intestines came out along with the remainder of his lunch, writing three letters until he was satisfied he launched him over the window and down.

The guard screamed for a second and then went silent as the rope became as solid as steel wires, for a moment he just hung there. Turning blue in the face, hands trying to grasp at the tightening rope around his neck. Then the urinal broke off the wall, Malcolm ducked quickly as it flew over his head and out of the window.

Hearing the sound of a car alarm going off he calmly walked out, opening his cell he knew no one would say it was him, he wore gloves at all times so there would be no prints, and although cameras were posted Malcolm knew they were only there to scare them, the prison didn’t have enough money for real ones.

Going back down on the ground he restarted his push-ups as a guard rushed in, eying him and seeing what he thought had triggered the alarm, a faulty wire that had opened the cell. Looking up he waved with his free hand, now at eight push-ups he had 192 left to go.

***

It was a sunny day, squinting his eyes at the glare he didn’t notice the flailing fat guard above his beautiful Jaguar XK SS. He had endured the life of a prison director for an entire eighteen years, enduring the crap he got from the prisoners complaining about their rights.

They were in jail for a reason, as far as he was concerned they should all be killed on the spot. But Canada had no death penalty, so he was stuck taking care of the scum of the earth. But it had all been for this perfect moment, his limited edition Jaguar XK SS. And limited was not just a sales pitch, only eighteen these European beauties ever came out of the factory.

Savouring the moment he sat in his car, enjoying the perfect moment. The feel of the black leather conforming to his body as he sat on it, his moment was shattered as the roof shattered and a body fell in, blood covering the beautiful leather seats.

As he got out of the car, very angry at what had just happened, car alarm going off a urinal landed hard on the hood of the car, smashing through the weak metal that made the front and smashing the rare engine into uselessness.

He had never even gotten to hear its beautiful purr, but at the moment he was too outraged to think about his car. He ran in the building, “ Call CSI, tell them there’s been a murder, or possibly a suicide! Just get them here!”

***

Forensics officers were busy at work, having found the empty slot that had held the urinal, pipe leaking water like the fountain of the gods, floor covered with filthy roast filled crap, emitting a horrendous stench of shit and blood that would never be washed away, a permanent reminder of what had happened in there.

The car was just as grizzly, this was definitely not a suicide, whoever had done this truly was a savage animal. She supposed that this definitely wasn’t a place lacking of savage animals, humans were the most rampant animals created on earth.

Footprints had been left but all prisoners had the same shoes, same footprints for everyone but at least they had a foot size to work with. No fingerprints had been left behind, not a single hair particle, whoever had done this was probably a known serial killer, judging by the coldness of it, probably pathological.

Not having much else to see up here she gave authority to another forensics as she walked out, heading to the parking lot. They were all dangerous, eying them to see a potential candidate she stopped in front of one very familiar killer, Malcolm Achilles, a very memorable name for the most memorable pathological psycho ever to live in Canada.

He simply lay in his bed, staring at her with a cold demeaning look, he was automatically a suspect as she walked away. Joining the others she looked over the corpse, “ So director, who is this guy?”

She frowned as she noticed three letters engraved in his flesh, SKA, “ Lieutenant Murphy Dackles, I was about to fire him for sleeping on the job, told him to get off his lazy ass and do some work for a change, I guess he’ll get to sleep now”

He laughed at this; she could not tolerate a man that laughed at his own jokes. All the evidence was no being bagged, the car could be salvaged and if the director was lucky he’d find a spare engine among his supposed beautiful car, she preferred more rugged cars, being the proud owner of a Ford Torino Talladega.

People tease her about that, found on road dead, for old retarded drivers, fucking oil ran dry, she had heard them all. She liked her ford nonetheless, knowing she would be of no further use with this obnoxious prison director she excused herself and went to her car. Igniting the engine only one question filled her mind, what was SKA?