Tuesday, May 17, 2011

Why Psychopath Mindy Is So Fascinating

Mindy pretended to look for someone for a few seconds, then spotted Hammond at the bar on his usual stool. She’d seen him there before, when she was a redhead and wore four times the clothing she did tonight. The others had seen him there, too. The man was incredibly predictable.

Now that she was here and it was time, her fingers started to itch, but it was a mild itch. Had Griffith not relieved some of her tension earlier in the van, it would’ve been all she could do not to cut his head off right here in the bar in front of everyone.

Instead, Mindy followed the plan, stuck to the script, and let the pig think he was picking her up. He disgusted her, with his big chin and shiny Rolex, but she warmed to the part, knowing how it would end for him.

The fool kept the drinks coming, thinking he was getting her drunk. What an idiot. The last man who thought he could out drink her wound up in the hospital getting his stomach pumped. She drank Hammond’s wine, had a little buzz but acted drunk, slurring her words and stumbling when she went to the restroom as she’d been coached.

The food, though, was wonderful. When Hammond suggested the fish and chips, she’d fought the urge to jab him in the eye with her fork. She ordered her cheeseburger medium rare, ate every crumb and soaked up every drop of juice on the plate. For those few minutes, she hadn’t even minded Hammond, who droned on about himself, how important he was. What a great man he was.

The waiter took her plate and Hammond poured more wine. She feigned interest in his blathering, and noticed his glossy eyes and slurred speech: he was smashed. It was time.

She rubbed his leg with her foot, moved it to his groin—this she enjoyed. She entertained the idea that it might be fun to play with him a little before she stuck him.

When they left the bar, she quickly scanned the street and surrounding businesses for cops, or anyone else looking her way. Seeing no one, she let Hammond walk her across the street to the park.

He was talking but she wasn’t listening: the itch had grown. No need to resist it now. He beeped his car unlocked. She stumbled against the car and let him kiss her on the mouth. He stuck his tongue down her throat and she pulled his hips against her.

Inside, she had him start the engine and turn on the air; she wanted the windows up and the moonroof closed in case he screamed. She cranked the radio and unzipped his pants. He moaned and reclined his seat. 
“Just a little something first, to take the edge off.” She reached down and slipped the knife out of her boot, extended the blade. 

Mindy is a psychopathic killer and member of John Lightfoot’s gang of terrorists. You’ll discover in her brief back story, about chapter six, how she came to be a killer. If you’re guessing Lightfoot had something to do with, you’re on the right track. She already had the raw material, she just needed a little guidance.

It’s difficult for an author to get carried away writing a psychopathic serial killer (Is that redundant?). As bad as you can write a character, there’s always a real person who was worse. How could you outdo a Ted Bundy?

Why are people fascinated by serial killers? Their stories sell more newspapers and fill more air time than all others, except perhaps royal weddings. They’re so profitable media outlets run follow-ups until the public finally gets bored and moves on to the next sensational story.

Mindy had a particularly nasty fondness for...
Mindy and Griffith were going at it in the VW van, the only semi-private place other than the steel shed, which smelled like gas. Mindy liked it rough, rougher than Griffith cared for, and always had to be on top, in control. When she climaxed, he saw something in her eyes that spooked him. He always saw it, which is why he never let her bring her knife.
Later, a man named Stu wasn’t as observant as Griffith, and paid for his lust with his life. 

My guess is, we’re attracted to their stories because we can’t believe there are people who’d actually do horrible things to as many of their fellow beings as possible. After all, we’re not like that; how could they?

Mindy was such a juicy character, I just couldn’t let her go.


  1. Maybe nasty characters make us normal people feel glad we are not like that or maybe even let's us feel superior??

  2. I'm no sociologist but I think we're just attracted to the bizarre and the outrageous; serial killers are both. I was at the gym once years ago, on the treadmill, when a Jerry Springer show was on the TV. Everyone was either watching the show or trying hard NOT to watch it. Trashy people were fighting on stage, of course (does anything else happen on a Springer show?). I found my eyes kept returning to the TV. What was happening was just so... bizarre.