How to Be a Serial Killer: Rise Up With Fists
Title: Rise Up With Fists
Fandom: How to Be a Serial Killer
Rating: Teen
Words: 1000
Characters: Mike, Bart
Summary: The student/teacher relationship isn't without its pitfalls.
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Notes: Written for the picfor1000 challenge, Year Ate (assigned picture).
Mike had learned early that tone was everything: embrace an upbeat attitude, speak as though everything you say is encouraging and maybe slightly humorous, and you can discuss the darkest of deeds in the most public of places.
Bart, on the other hand, still tended to hunch his shoulders and whisper, and was currently unnerving the lovely lady behind the counter.
"Make that to go," Mike told her, with his most charming smile.
"My place is being fumigated, I told you, and you said-" Bart was still whispering, and Mike took his arm and steered him to a table to wait for their food.
"I know what I said." Abigail had expressed a certain discomfort after Bart's last visit and Mike thought it best to limit their interaction for a while. "There's a park not far from here, we can take our dinner with us. Al fresco."
Bart nodded, the peculiar bobbing nod that meant confusion and reluctant acceptance. Mike saw that nod a lot, but he knew Bart wouldn't object to the change in plan. He so rarely objected to anything.
Mike collected their order and led Bart into the park, in such good spirits he almost felt like whistling. Bart took his seat at the far end of the bench and they laid the food out between them, cartons of lo mein and rice, styrofoam boxes containing their appetizers. Mike had ordered a lot; it had been a productive day and he'd worked up an appetite.
Bart balanced the sweet and sour sauce on one knee and dipped his battered shrimp into it. "So, have you ever stabbed anyone?"
"Sure I have! You know that, Bart."
"No, I mean like-" The little tub began to slide, Bart caught it with the edge of his wrist and set it on the bench. "Not cutting the throat or the- like right in the heart."
Bart peered at him through his bangs. Mike should probably have a chat with him about grooming, emphasize the importance of leaving nothing behind at a scene: no fibers, no prints, no stray hairs.
"Well, proper targeting is an issue. A heart is about the size of your fist, and if you miss your first try you've sort of blown the impact, right?" Bart nodded eagerly. "Then there's the ribcage to deal with. It takes more force than you'd think to penetrate, you've got to really give it some oomph. Like so."
Mike fisted a hand around his chopsticks and stabbed them through a steamed dumpling hard enough to pin it, punching a pair of neat holes through the bottom of the box.
Bart flinched, and let out a little gasp. He looked up from the ruined dumpling and Mike saw it again, that glimmer of interest in his eyes, that spark that was the reason Mike had taken him on in the first place.
Bart would make a hell of a killer one day.
"Have you done it?" Bart's voice dropped to a whisper again, though there was no one close enough to overhear them. Mike suspected sometimes Bart whispered to try to hide the yearning underneath his words.
"Actually, no. Not that I couldn't," Mike grinned, and Bart answered with a smile of his own. "I've just never felt the urge. Stabbing someone in the heart is more than just a simple act of murder, Bart, it's... personal. I've never had a reason to take it to that level."
"But, if you had a reason. Like if it was someone you really hated."
Mike bit the end off an eggroll and chewed, considering whether hatred had ever entered into his decision process. Dislike, yes. Annoyance. Cold anger when he slit Tom's throat and left him to bleed out in the motel room bathtub. But even then, Mike hadn't hated him.
"Nope, hasn't happened. At least not yet."
Bart blinked rapidly, puzzled.
"Hatred is the dark twin of love, after all," Mike added. "You have to care an awful lot about someone to truly hate them."
"Yeah... yeah, I guess so. I guess that's right." Bart's gaze slid to the right, down to where the pigeons had begun to gather on the sidewalk.
Mike reclaimed his chopsticks, yanked them free of the styrofoam and shook off the slaughtered dumpling. "Of course I'm right. You want that one?"
"No, 'm good." Bart dug the last shrimp out of the bottom of its carton, and eyed the pigeons like he was thinking of tossing it to them.
Mike took another bite of his lo mein and watched Bart watching the birds. For all his awkwardness he could be remarkably opaque at times; Mike suspected Bart's question had more behind it than simple curiousity.
"Eat. You can never tell what an evening might hold, young Bart."
Bart nodded agreement and dunked the shrimp in its sauce, and they ate in silence.
Mike had a strong feeling that Bart's notebook would be making an appearance later. It felt like a night for lessons. Bart dug into the fried rice and Mike considered the turn their conversation had taken.
Would he grow to hate Bart, one day? It wasn't out of the question. He had grown rather fond of him, and the peculiar bond that came of sharing a dangerous secret could certainly become... something else.
The more interesting question was whether Bart could hate him.
'Every time I see you, I see a guy who's not happy with his life.'
When Mike had looked into Bart's eyes in the video store and decided to teach him the craft of a killer, he'd made him happier and he'd made him stronger. But he had also made Bart a dangerous man. At the time it had seemed a worthy risk, and he decided that it still was. If Bart did murder him one day -- whether by gun, by garrotte, or with a knife in the heart -- Mike would have succeeded in training the next serial killer.
He would be so proud.
Fandom: How to Be a Serial Killer
Rating: Teen
Words: 1000
Characters: Mike, Bart
Summary: The student/teacher relationship isn't without its pitfalls.
Disclaimer: Nobody here is mine. Dammit.
Notes: Written for the picfor1000 challenge, Year Ate (assigned picture).
Mike had learned early that tone was everything: embrace an upbeat attitude, speak as though everything you say is encouraging and maybe slightly humorous, and you can discuss the darkest of deeds in the most public of places.
Bart, on the other hand, still tended to hunch his shoulders and whisper, and was currently unnerving the lovely lady behind the counter.
"Make that to go," Mike told her, with his most charming smile.
"My place is being fumigated, I told you, and you said-" Bart was still whispering, and Mike took his arm and steered him to a table to wait for their food.
"I know what I said." Abigail had expressed a certain discomfort after Bart's last visit and Mike thought it best to limit their interaction for a while. "There's a park not far from here, we can take our dinner with us. Al fresco."
Bart nodded, the peculiar bobbing nod that meant confusion and reluctant acceptance. Mike saw that nod a lot, but he knew Bart wouldn't object to the change in plan. He so rarely objected to anything.
Mike collected their order and led Bart into the park, in such good spirits he almost felt like whistling. Bart took his seat at the far end of the bench and they laid the food out between them, cartons of lo mein and rice, styrofoam boxes containing their appetizers. Mike had ordered a lot; it had been a productive day and he'd worked up an appetite.
Bart balanced the sweet and sour sauce on one knee and dipped his battered shrimp into it. "So, have you ever stabbed anyone?"
"Sure I have! You know that, Bart."
"No, I mean like-" The little tub began to slide, Bart caught it with the edge of his wrist and set it on the bench. "Not cutting the throat or the- like right in the heart."
Bart peered at him through his bangs. Mike should probably have a chat with him about grooming, emphasize the importance of leaving nothing behind at a scene: no fibers, no prints, no stray hairs.
"Well, proper targeting is an issue. A heart is about the size of your fist, and if you miss your first try you've sort of blown the impact, right?" Bart nodded eagerly. "Then there's the ribcage to deal with. It takes more force than you'd think to penetrate, you've got to really give it some oomph. Like so."
Mike fisted a hand around his chopsticks and stabbed them through a steamed dumpling hard enough to pin it, punching a pair of neat holes through the bottom of the box.
Bart flinched, and let out a little gasp. He looked up from the ruined dumpling and Mike saw it again, that glimmer of interest in his eyes, that spark that was the reason Mike had taken him on in the first place.
Bart would make a hell of a killer one day.
"Have you done it?" Bart's voice dropped to a whisper again, though there was no one close enough to overhear them. Mike suspected sometimes Bart whispered to try to hide the yearning underneath his words.
"Actually, no. Not that I couldn't," Mike grinned, and Bart answered with a smile of his own. "I've just never felt the urge. Stabbing someone in the heart is more than just a simple act of murder, Bart, it's... personal. I've never had a reason to take it to that level."
"But, if you had a reason. Like if it was someone you really hated."
Mike bit the end off an eggroll and chewed, considering whether hatred had ever entered into his decision process. Dislike, yes. Annoyance. Cold anger when he slit Tom's throat and left him to bleed out in the motel room bathtub. But even then, Mike hadn't hated him.
"Nope, hasn't happened. At least not yet."
Bart blinked rapidly, puzzled.
"Hatred is the dark twin of love, after all," Mike added. "You have to care an awful lot about someone to truly hate them."
"Yeah... yeah, I guess so. I guess that's right." Bart's gaze slid to the right, down to where the pigeons had begun to gather on the sidewalk.
Mike reclaimed his chopsticks, yanked them free of the styrofoam and shook off the slaughtered dumpling. "Of course I'm right. You want that one?"
"No, 'm good." Bart dug the last shrimp out of the bottom of its carton, and eyed the pigeons like he was thinking of tossing it to them.
Mike took another bite of his lo mein and watched Bart watching the birds. For all his awkwardness he could be remarkably opaque at times; Mike suspected Bart's question had more behind it than simple curiousity.
"Eat. You can never tell what an evening might hold, young Bart."
Bart nodded agreement and dunked the shrimp in its sauce, and they ate in silence.
Mike had a strong feeling that Bart's notebook would be making an appearance later. It felt like a night for lessons. Bart dug into the fried rice and Mike considered the turn their conversation had taken.
Would he grow to hate Bart, one day? It wasn't out of the question. He had grown rather fond of him, and the peculiar bond that came of sharing a dangerous secret could certainly become... something else.
The more interesting question was whether Bart could hate him.
'Every time I see you, I see a guy who's not happy with his life.'
When Mike had looked into Bart's eyes in the video store and decided to teach him the craft of a killer, he'd made him happier and he'd made him stronger. But he had also made Bart a dangerous man. At the time it had seemed a worthy risk, and he decided that it still was. If Bart did murder him one day -- whether by gun, by garrotte, or with a knife in the heart -- Mike would have succeeded in training the next serial killer.
He would be so proud.