Chapter one: Liar Liar, Flower Boy

Shellville, which was really more of a large town for that matter. A little piece of butt-fuck nowhere in the midst of glamorous Californiacations just out of San Diego's reach, but which luckily had a beach front.

And like many cities or towns or even all, Shellville held a common atmosphere on the best of nights.

It was cold, bitter and yet beautiful all the same.

Minus the people...

Night seemed to be the only time a man could quench his thirsts and never look back in regret until later the very next day. Men and women alike, throwing a couple of pennies or paper rolls as well as hours at each other for sex or for drugs all in good neighbourhoods.

Being the world we live in now or rather, the world that has always been a current and fashionable norm as cycles turn in order to try and stop it.

And one could be, although shouldn't be fooled by the Emerald city atmosphere in day time's delouse. For, it was the night time that which most people are skeptic of, that many come to show their true colours. As the real things that go bump in the the darkness of night; and in a town like Shellville, or as the youth claim it to be named "Hellville" after the vacuumus hole in the earth they saw it to be, around midnight...things would always start to get...rowdy in it's vast and eerie ambiance of buzzing streetlights and melancholy night owls. They each had their story...

And as Oliver knocks off of his day job, later than usual as the middle manager of a corner café near the town square called "Locale" - which on most days was filled with college students.

For some reason, Oliver believed that he had it (in some way) made; he didn't have to buy for more than one person in his house hold so the disposition of minimum wage didn't bother him, especially as his parents - who were tired of secretly locking their bedroom door at night; threw him into a fully furnished apartment at age eighteen, rather than a room with padded walls. That which was bought for a handsome amount of money in order to pay off the rent and to overcompensate for their silent hoorahs of ridding themselves of him, but with not so much a view to die for of the dark blue empty ocean far off into the distance since his apartment was built inland. Not to mention that they also gave him a car just so that one: Oliver couldn't complain about being kicked out and two; he wouldn't notice the joy in their faces when they did so.

Oliver's parents were never fond of his almost compulsive behaviorisms although, they did their best to except him as he was and tried to in some ways give him some kind of guidance, but Oliver never seemed to be interested; this made them usually suffer in silence and become rather conscious of his appearance in social gatherings and family events.

They went so far at times as to be very cautious not to stand in his way when he threw one of his many tantrums, it sometimes seemed better not to intervene.

It got so bad to a point of which they didn't even have the guts to tell him he was actually in fact adopted...

They were sweet, they didn't think that he needed to know, they were hopping that it would be much easier to love him all the same.

But that did not bother Oliver all that much, because he always in some way knew...It was either that or his mother had an affair, seeing as he was the only one in the house hold to have speckled green eyes and a scalp caked with wild curly strawberry blond hair.

He shaved his head to spite his appearance and identity once he ran away from home in the midst of one of his silent crises and it gave him a morose and anaemic light; this made his mother furious, that is after they had finally found him with the police. But she knew that there was very little she could do without finding a rat's head in her coffee or some other vicious consequence to that degree.

And dare she ever mention a therapist...

They had bought him a few of his favorite things in advance in fear that he would do something much worse if they simply kicked him to the curb and pretended as if it were the best gift any parent could ever give their already spoilt rotten ankle biter, for nothing ever seemed like enough.

And on his birthday, they had basically celebrated their new life without him and he was out by the next morning; with his parents believing that the days of mangled puppies, mutilated birds and squished bees along with the haphazard yelps from crying siblings now estranged were finally behind them.

Which led to his simple life here, as he continued to "peacefully" sweep after he told a fellow green eyed peer that he would helpfully take over the duty (even though he was practically done), pretending that he didn't notice that their shifts had ended about two hours ago in order to get his boss to pay him overtime.

"Hey, what are you still doing here? Your shift ended two hours ago, and where's Row? ", Oliver's boss - Mr. Moloi said as his jolly Fatman figure stopped and turned in front of him, blocking his seemingly bleak view of the inky space beyond the glass door and windows and even furthermore past the street lamp lights.

"Oh, I told him I would help out and that he could leave. I hardly noticed time fly by, sir.", Oliver lied.

"Come come, I've got to wake up early tomorrow.", Mr. Moloi spoke up.

"Taking the misers out to brunch again, sir?", he asked as he leaned on the broom stick.

"Why yes I am."

"I tell you, you spoil her, sir.", Oliver joked with a blank yet joyous smile.

"Well...like all women, she'll complain if I don't.", Mr. Moloi said with such a smile that made him look like the jolly Fatman's spitting image as his round belly shook with laughter, complete with a short greying beard before he turned for the front door which opened with a jingle bell.

"You'll lock up won't you? The spare key is on the hook.", the old rustic-fadora-wearing and slightly tan Santa cooed while he span on his heel as he waved goodbye to Oliver, who smiled and waved his farewell.

Pretending came very easy to Oliver, a talent or rather a game he had mastered years ago, when he could still play innocent when a window would break or when a sibling would suddenly lose their hair after using the shampoo or conditioner, and it seemed as though he was only getting better with time.

For you see, Mr. Moloi has had this quaint diner so to speak for years and practically treats Oliver, if not all his employees like a daughter or son; seeing as he has none that anyone knew of.

That made Oliver personally believe that he put himself in good terms with the elderly gentleman. Oliver seemed to believe that he practicality had him wrapped around his finger, and he would never admit the fact that he actually liked the old man, but if he were to die, then Oliver could quite probably own the café with a bit of elbow grease and shoe licking.

He truly believed he had a reputation to uphold.

And as soon as Mr. Moloi was out of sight, he locked the front door behind himself and immediately turned around to face what he would prefer to be known as trash world, or earth as we know it.

People are strange, but townsend life, am I right?

Shitty cops parading their badges for credit yet only able to think as far as their noses, litters of shitty people who all thought themselves better than one another, with their noses in the air whilst parading around under Oliver's very own as he climbed a nearby gas station kiosk's roof top to his secret hide out. Grabbing a pill and a cigarette.

As he sparks up, he then spots three loud idiots who are either teenagers or were acting like ones; who were - as many have heard people who fit the same description to be known as 'fuckboys' walking towards the rarely used train station as one of them puff on an e-cigarette or something to that effect.

Oliver rolled his eyes and trailed off to the sound of foot steps that came out of the darkness from a rather good example of 'No honer among thieves', as he spots a man not too far from under him flipping through a wallet which the stranger swiped from a busy and slightly deflated-looking mother of two monsters a block down from the station; both tearing her in different directions as she was dragged through the streets from an apartment building, at this hour.

She obviously hadn't known it dropped out by the time she had gotten into her car, tisk tisk.

The night was getting dark as the hours crept towards Midnight, but the people's needs were darker, so dark they appeared unseen, and Oliver was a testament. The man who swiped the wallet called for his undivided attention; walking amongst the few other nocto-freaks who roamed the streets at night with a smug look on his cheap face just before he crossed the road, no one in his shoes would shame this slimy stranger for his current choice, seeing as he got away with a thick and fancy wallet, who wouldn't feel lucky?

Oliver smiled having a knowing feeling that he was going to have fun tonight, starting with him.

But the night was still young,

he figured he might take his time.

He tailed the thief with his eyes to a dinky and rusty yellow lemon of a car, which Oliver figured either belonged to said lowlife or rather a car that he saw fit to steal at some point. He spotted the car ten feet away from the shadows cast by the lamp post as the stranger made his way across from the dodgy alley way as he scattered throughout the dark perpendicular alley way next to the gas station and crossed the road like a mangy cat. He must of come from a bar downtown not far from here as well, Oliver knew for sure, that if he were close enough to the scruffy looking stranger he would probably smell the stench of booze on his pathetic, possibly perverse, putrid persons; he bet on it for kicks.

Letting the now, excitement get the better of him as he makes his way to the car and follows within the shadows of the street he knew too well.

Assuming position in the backseat of the car in which case had questionable security or lack there of, as the layman took a quick detour to relieve himself amongst garbage.

Lying dormant and waiting, what feels like minutes pass in this quiet and dim alley when finally, Oliver's victim comes.

The dark and quiet alleyway in this shaded place alert him with faint foot steps that echo as they inch closer.

And on this dark and starry night, the thief's first mistake in this dodgy alley would be that he didn't check his back seat, to think he was the only danger at night was his biggest mistake, that is if he was a danger at all.

Oliver felt the chilled wind and the weight of the car shift as soon as the thief opened the driver door and got in. The engine sounded ready to give up to the sound of the key turn but soon made way for the comforting sound of functionality.

Oliver then sat up silently behind his oblivious victim as shadows cloak his thin and tall figure, and with a burning gaze of hunger, Oliver slipped on his favorite clown mask and readied himself slowly with his right hand, stashed in his secret gas station hide out and slowly leaned forward. A massive plastic grin was on not only his mask but also his very own face as he smelt the oily stench of beer upon the sticky-fingered crook.

Leaning in a bit more closely into the dim streetlight's dirty glow, slowly revealing his façade, just enough to get the attention he so believed he deserved in that moment.

But before the crook could scream as he inhaled air for his outburst, his mouth was muffled by a smokey smelling gloveless hand briskly followed by an arm around his neck that which constricted and tightened it's grip around his throat against the car seat as the strange smiling clown whispered numbers counting backwards from thirty, while the panicked and now breathless crook fidgeted and kicked in his seat, making him a drooling mess in twenty seconds flat. It was enough to keep the thief unconscious for the long ride ahead of them. That is unless of coarse he has to knock him out a few more times...

Then slowly, the tall and slender figure named Oliver let go and uncoiled, wiping the hand that had the crook's drool on the back of the seat before he got out and opened the back seat car door. Preparing to carry out the dead weight in the front seat to the back. And once he was done he took the driver's seat, put on the radio and started the engine.

It did take him quite a while to get where he wanted to be in solitude, but it was all well worth it in his excited mind.

Now at his secret location somewhere in the woods, he began humming at the thought of preparing his new but otherwise reluctant guest. Parking behind the dusty shed and getting out, quickly running around as well as in and out the broken down house, laying his tools out; fumbling as he gets too excited.

And when done, he goes on to fetch the entertainment; who is by now strapped to a stolen cargo carrier and gaged - still unconscious.

Oliver, while waiting for his "sleeping beauty" had prepared the walls, the floorspace and the operating table before placing the skinny and limey one's now nude form on it's cold surface and strapping him firmly to it. Before the forceful nap time came to a slow end;

"Oh! Look whose awake.", Oliver said as the crook came-to in a haze of confusion, now only covered by cling wrap and bound by old leather straps.

However Oliver on the other hand, knew very well what was happening and couldn't help but smile.

The crook's body became tense, giving Oliver the impression that he was the flight type and was sweating profusely to Oliver's disgust of this display of fear and desperation as he watched the stranger's otherwise lame and drowsy face contort into a deep-seated and pathetic wide eyed snivel.

Surrounded by campsite lights and furthermore the darkness of nowhere.

"No one can hear you out here...", Oliver said as he waited for that little ray of hope to wither and die within the stranger's pale brown eyes as the life drained from his pink skin, while Oliver spoke dramatically from the shadows purposefully to imitate a super villain. And once he stepped closer into view to reveal to the crook the freckled baby face of death, he then slid his hands around the man's cling wrapped up form; finding the feeling of tightly bound skin in plastic fascinating, running his digits around despite the man's disapproval as he swallowed hard. Oliver then traced up his body from bellow his waist until he reached his face and removed the tape from his mouth, immediately the crook screamed for help, regardless of what Oliver had told him. And to Oliver there has always been something about the sound of screams that which he personally found irritating, a surge of rage that was always triggered by it even if he was the cause, he had no sympathy for it and he hated it when they screamed. He felt that they always took the fun out of his little projects, he thought that they couldn't handle pain and that they were weak. Making it one of the reasons he takes the liberty to tell them that no one can hear them, not merely for his own entertainment.

Although some of their reactions were just that...

He had decided to cut things short as some strange punishment and reached calmly for his slightly rusty cleaver from a display cabinet - along with a few other tools from their compartments near the operating table. He ran the cold stainless steel blade down the nude man's outer thigh, making him flinch as the steel felt so cold, it stung.

"W-what the Fuck is hapPenIng? WhEre are My cLothEs? WHAT Do you fuCking WANT?!", are the things amongst more that the man sobbed and spat as he bared his teeth at Oliver out of fearful rage as if his scared little hisses were enough to ward Oliver off; who naturally ignored him.

The man's nonstop whimpers of confusion made Oliver grow tired of hearing him. And in a wave of frustration, he put the exquisite butcher knife to the man's throat and leaned in closely;

"Ssshhhh sh sh.", he whispered softly, " None of those things are important.", he then straightened himself while still glaring down at this stranger's Hazel eyes and continued:

"Did you know that you can train your brain to not feel pain? Well, it must be true, it rhymes..", he joked.

"Many monks for decades dedicate themselves and their time to experience excruciating challenges with patience in order to gain understanding of where it comes from.", Oliver stated this as he waltzed around the wiggling stranger - running the blunt end of the cleaver down and around his hairy chest that rose and fell quickly with heavy and almost tearful eyes.

Oliver then placed the cleaver on top of him, leaving it there as he silently left to get the ductile tape again and using it to cover the crook's mouth one last time.

"'Pain is but a message that the mind can master...' But we are so blind that we remain completely consumable...", Oliver said as the stranger's wild eyes widened to the horror of unexpected or rather unwanted pain. Oliver then gently patted down the tape on the stranger's lips before he leaned in close and kissed them while still covered as the stranger dry heaved.

Turning away on his heel with a content smile;

"Don't worry though, I didn't bring you all this way to torture you. You mean too little to me for that...", Oliver leaned in again and whispered, "You wanna know why you're really here?", the man shook his head no like a scared child as Oliver combated his refusal with a perverse nod and smile. He then took the cleaver and ever so slightly jammed it into the crook's thigh, causing him to cry muffled screams and thrash against his restraints.

His feet quivered as he soiled himself.

"You're special, you know that..? And yet somehow, there are so many like you.", Oliver said condescendingly over the panicked whimpers of a man twice his age;

"Sh sh sh, what makes you special was inside you all a long.", Oliver grins as he bit his lip, the fun for him has just started.

3:30

'That didn't last as long as I wanted it to...' , Oliver thought having done his work or rather his art, he expected someone of this stranger's size to put up more of a fight with life rather than to just give in to shock, this made way for disappointment as the buzz was gone.

So he popped a pill and it slowly made him feel better.

He cleaned the scene of blood and viscera and dumped what was left of the body in a bath of hydrochloric acid that he let breath like decanted wine and had prepared earlier within a bath tub. Cleaning up and off as well as clearing out while he waited for the meat to fall off the bone like chicken in stew water if it were left too long, and cleaning out the brain with a rusty spoon.

And once the body was done, he put on his hazmat suit and washed the corrosive liquid off of the now clean skeleton along with any viscera that clung. Having left the other room as it was before... Dusty and seemingly untouched. Only to enter another room filled with skeletons in chairs and in poses that even a rational artist would find aesthetic and visually pleasing.

But would leave them questioning their own sanity.

Dried roses of many kinds and an assortment of other lovely smelling flowers flooded the room both dead and nearly alive, the scent filled Oliver's nostrils along with dust follicles as it reminded him of why he really does this, walking in with his new companion piece by piece; now stripped of his radioactive attire.

Oliver then placed the skelington on a broken vintage dinning room chair in a masculine position with it's rib cage resting on the broken back of the seat, taking a step back to reflect on the bony gentlemen's arrangement of seating, slightly tilting his head as he examines the slouching of the now headless corpse. Preparing himself to get to work as he rolls up his sleeves, taking another look at his exquisite new model and pulled another chair from seemingly nowhere, placing it next to his silent friend; fiddling in his trusty old tool box before pulling out a glue gun, an electric drill, a screwdriver and a few nine inch screws along with a battery powered drill.

Now prepared to begin, he starts with the pelvis, then spine and works his way towards the skull in peace. Gluing, drilling and screwing things in place to fit the picturesque idea that he had in his mind.

And once done, he takes another step back to examine the new position of the corpse - which sat as if thinking as it gazed upon a temporarily invisible flower that Oliver then replaced with a freshly picked new one from a dirty vase of unchanged flower water, with a somber look etched on the silent one's thin and hollow face that gave the over all impression of it's undead serenity.

"Beautiful...", Oliver whispered to it as he tilted his head in admiration, feeling as though he had done his work.

Oliver finished by gluing dried up baby breaths here and there, intertwining them with bone as if they grew on the corpse and placed his artwork near a cloudy window, not able to take his eyes off of their beauty. He sometimes thought it a shame that he couldn't show off his work, knowing very well that the police would spoil his fun and peace, Oliver didn't want a pig tail. He figured that some day someone would find this place and do the tattle tale thing for him, he was too proud to boast, he knew they were breathtakingly beautiful...

Thirteen in all.

He then got up to leave taking the clothes of the forgotten stranger with him and on his way out, he felt the heaviness and the sound of something like a chain in the left pocket of the crook's tattered jacket and he reached into find the lady's wallet and the source of the sound.

Apparently after all, the car was in fact the crook's, but he took them as he stuffed the rest of the money and credit cards into his very own pocket; walking to the back of the house where he then gas lit and burned the clothes in an old metal drum that was once filled with acid which brought thick black smoke and bad body odor. And with the flame before him he lit a cigarette, took the keys and drove the lemon back to town, parking back in that dark place where he had found it before walking on home.

All in a good day's work.

Now, it can not only be that idle hands do the devils work...

But townsend life am I right?