Serial Killer 101

I originally wrote this for the Horror Writers Discussion topic about avoiding cliches, then took it down for some reason. Plus I felt like people might think I was bragging at the end when I was trying to explain the steps I took in creating Brame and trying to make him less of a cliche.
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Since I write a serial killer I guess that's what I'll talk about.

Character development is one way to either fall into cliche or avoid it. With a serial killer it's easy to go the cliched route. The profile of a serial killer is often that of a sociopath. There are all sorts of checklists for characteristics of a sociopath based on the DSM and I've seen there is a tendency for writers to simply pick traits from the list and that's their character. To make matters worse they pick only the traits they see as positives leaving their killers without any weaknesses. So what you have is the stereotypical serial killer who is [or thinks he is] charming and charismatic, ruthless, remorseless, emotionally unattached, narcissistic - and yet they can't really be blamed for their narcissism because they are, after all, perfect, except for that nasty little quirk of killing people. I think the tendency to make the charming, handsome, ruthless killer is an attempt to make a desirable or sympathetic character without doing any work.

It's perfectly all right to be the charming, handsome, ruthless killer if he/she is written well. If the reader really does find them believably charming then the first act of ruthless killing is quite a shock. Or the contrast of a beautiful exterior with a very ugly interior can be compelling, but that requires skill and careful crafting.

Socipathic serial killers can come off as flat, one-dimensional stereotypes without the writer really knowing their character. First, if the serial killer is a socipath, the writer needs to understand more about a sociopath than just a list of traits. How do those traits affect the killer? If he stalks a certain type of victim the writer should know why and let that develop in the story.

If the story is not from the POV of the killer it's still important to know what motivates the killer, how they think, and what others think of him. Show the emotional impact of their violence on victims not just the pain.

Because socipathic serial killers share basic traits a writer really has to dig deep and fully understand their villain to make him unique and not a cookie cutter killer. Why he kills who he kills can make him stand out. His weaknesses, habits, and quirks can also take him out of the mold. I reccomend reading about real life serial killers as well as taking a close look at popular fictional serial killers. Ask yourself what makes them unique, look closely at how the author shows that, then start dissecting your own serial killer.

That said there are other types of serial killers than sociopaths. Before I go any further, do not confuse socipathic with psychotic. Brame is psychotic. His victims are random and he chooses them for different reasons, sometimes simply because they're available. When it comes to having a concept of right and wrong he does and he doesn't. He believes being impolite and using foul language is wrong, but he doesn't believe it's wrong when he kills somebody for committing those infractions. It's simply something that has to be done. Even though I've never stated why he holds this belief, I know why and that helps me write him. I have guidelines for his behavior.I know what motivates him and how he came to be the way he is. Also, he's not perfect- he makes mistakes, gets hurt, loses bodies, can't control his emotions, and his only friend is a box. I hope he comes off as more than just a crazy guy who talks to a box because I took the time to develop his character before writing him. Instead of just deciding to have a crazy guy who hears voices and running with that, I defined who the voices belong to and their relationship to him. I hope that does a little bit to avoid the trope of the demented crazed killer.

That Tater Had A Death Wish

Just some randomness.

My friend Mdme was telling me about preparing Easter dinner at her mom's house. She said all went well except for the sweet potatoes. She had to move them from one oven to another and this one sweet potato rolled off the pan onto the floor. Whatever, she said, she'd eat that one. So she put it back on the tray. Later she realized the taters weren't cooking as fast as she thought, dinner was approaching, so she and her sister-in-law decided to nuke them. Now, she had transferred them to another tray, one with a higher rim, and still a potato took the leap. The same potato. Only this time it bounced off the oven door, rolled back inside beneath the bottom rack, right up against one of the heat rings, and caught on fire. Yep, that tater had a death wish. She said it was actually quite good.

We had storms off and on all weekend. Last night there were seriously strong winds. Sometime during the night this big tall pine tree fell across the parking lot into the courtyard my apartment is at. It managed not to hit or do damage to anything. My roommate Mark and I got my friend Miss Montez's scooter, put it under the tree, then woke her up. She freaked out maybe all of five seconds before remembering she didn't park anywhere near there. We got called some choice names and are grounded. Grounded from what I don't know.

Speaking of Mark... he finally discovered the cause of the extreme itching he's been suffering the last few months. It was his moisturizing bodywash. Apparently he was having a bad reaction to some ingredient. Back to Ivory soap for him.

At least he's not allergic to water. I knew a damn hippy who isn't exactly allergic to soap and water as the saying goes, but he is allergic to flouride which gets put into the water. He used to bathe very very little until he found a water purifier that would remove flouride and had it installed in his shower. He's much more pleasant to be around now although he does still reek of patchouli.

At a group home where I used to live if any of us smelled like patchouli we got in a lot of trouble even if we hadn't burned one down. This one guy had a thing for this girl that wore a perfume that had a lot of patchouli in it. We came back from the movies and he smelled like patchouli from hooking up with her out in the parking lot and he got put on restriction for a month. The girl dumped him because she heard he'd gotten in trouble for smoking pot.

My girlfriend is getting her college degree next month. Now maybe when she goes for job interviews she won't hear how she's perfect for the job and has all the qualifications except they were really looking for someone with a degree. Her goal is to find a five day a week job that pays almost as much as Miss Montez makes hostessing at a fancy shmancy restaurant. [You would not believe how much Miss M makes. It makes you want to quit your day job and learn to placate idiots.]

My hope is that once Shan graduates we'll maybe possibly see each other a little more. Of course that's what we hoped when we moved in together and that hasn't exactly happened thanks to her deciding to take every course possible so she could go ahead and graduate, and working six nights a week to pay for it. Blame me too, I'm now working lunch shift for awhile to make extra money so I can beef up our savings and maybe she won't have to work so much while looking for something that's a career and not just a job. But it means I'm out of the apartment every morning by 5:30.

In good news, a person in a novel I write in at at panhistoria.com finally got their post up so we can progress in the storyline. They've had a lot going on. At last I'll get to kill someone with my character. It's been a joke since I joined that novel that I would find some way some how to kill some one.

So cruel

I'm running on three hours sleep and I've had fairly busy day which included meeting a friend at the airport. I decided it's finally not too early to go to sleep and my headache has come back full force.

As long as I get to sleep before midnight I'll be good. I usually get up between four and five to get ready for work . I was really hoping to get in some extra sleep though.

I just don' wanna

Now you'll never know what I don't want to do because I just deleted this entire post.

Why?

Because it might upset someone unintentionally.

I broke out of my apathy long enough to get annoyed, but am reluctant to vent about it for hurting someone else's feelings.

Yes, I know, I'm lame.

A slice of hell

This morning I woke up with a raging headache. It was like a really bad hangover. The swollen brain feeling, hurts all over, someone shoot me now sort of headache.

As I made my way to the kitchen I had this thought of please don't let there be dishes in the sink. [BTW, I'm once again stuck saying sink instead of dishes so every time I try to type or say 'dishes in the sink' I say, 'sinks in the dish' and when I ask for a plate I say sink. Rather frustrating.] The idea of there possibly being anything in the sink was almost enough to send me back to bed.

Instead I found a roommate cooking sausage which sent me straight to the bathroom to worship at the porcelain shrine.

That was the start of my day.

Eventually my headache did let up some. I even go to where I could keep food down, didn't have to keep my arms clamped around my head, and could even bear company.

About this time my girlfriend returned from visiting her mom with two neices and one nephew in tow. The oldest being seven years old. I don't know if it was my mental state produced by the headache and wallowing in depression the last few days, or the fact that the oldest is stubborn and stupid, the middle just stupid, and the youngest just stubborn, but at one point I actually said, "My god, it's a wonder more people don't beat their children." Except thanks to me being paraphasic it came out something more along the lines of "God thinks more people should eat children."

One of the kiddies will not be looking forward to going to church Easter Sunday. Not the youngest. She's kind of twisted and started telling me about zombies eating people's brains while they're still alive. They are usually dead by the time the zombies finish so she said.

After my girlfriend hauled off the kids and went to work I had the place to myself for two hours. Eventually another roommate came home and we decided to go to the grocery store. On our list was bacon. The quest to get bacon annoyed me almost as much as the seven year old who smacked when she ate. There were four people standing in front of the bacon. All together apparently, none of them actually looking at the bacon. I stood there several minutes watching them just standing there talking and finally went to catch up with my roommate Mark. We went up and down a few aisles and those people were still there. A few more aisles and I saw them leaving, so we head that way with our cart, but we can't get there because those four people stopped to talk to a few other people, effectively blocking both routes around one of those long coolers they always have stuck between the meats and frozen foods. They just stood there. Doing nothing. Some weren't even talking. Just standing there. At last we got by them, but it was too late. Some other people were camped out in front of the bacon, just standing there. Possibly talking. I don't know. We went to the other end of the store and back and those people were still there.

What is wrong with people that they just stand in front of the bacon? Is there something fascinating there that I'm missing? Is that the spot to stand?

I finally went over to them and said, "Excuse me. I need to get some bacon." And you know what happened? If you guessed nothing, then you're correct. They ignored me. Well guess what? I'm over 6'7". I've got a long reach. I got our bacon and also tossed a few other things into their cart. I wound up doing that to the other people too. All the bacon hogs. When they got to check out I wonder if they noticed all the little cans of brains in milk gravy, the bean-o and maalox, the feminine deodorant spray, pacifiers, cat snacks, pearl onions, and whatever else I could pick up and toss into their carts, or did they not discover it until they got home?

They're lucky I did slip small items into their pockets then yell "shoplifter" as they left the store. Not that I've ever done that to anyone. *cough*

The good thing about me feeling like crap all day and getting crankier by the minute, was it finally motivated me to write a post for panhistoria.com featuring a particularly unpleasant character of mine. I keep having to double check it for random words and repetitive phrases that I'm usually able to pick out before or right after I publish it [thank goodness for the edit feature] and his language isn't quite as colorful as usual [I get help on that from my best friend who's got a mouth on her], but was glad I got it done anyway.

Now if you don't mind my girlfriend just called to say she's off work and headed home so whatever kind of hell I've had today it'll all be better when it's just her and me. [the three other roommates are tucked in their beds already.]

Apathy

Today I'm suffering from apathy. Sometimes I'm torn between thinking it's the best or the worst part of depression. I mean, I don't care I'm depressed, right?

I try to do things I enjoy hoping to break out of it, but I either quit halfway or don't even get started.

What's it matter?

If I don't make the icing for the cake well then let whoever wants to eat it go buy a can of frosting and do it themselves. If I don't write that next little scene or story or post or whatever, no one's really going to notice. If I spend all my time lying across the bed looking out the window or with my head stuffed under the pillow no one really cares. [ok, on the last one my girlfriend cares. She's already drug me out of bed once today and at least made me get dressed.]

I did do a few loads of laundry and only wandered off and forgot one. So I managed to complete something today.

At least when I'm feeling apathetic I don't yell at anyone or curl up into a ball covering my head wishing everyone and everything would go away.

I miss being me though. I miss being the happy one.

OK, now I'm going to go into the kitchen and make fudge frosting.

Having Fun in the Action Zone

One fun thing about the collaborative writing site Panhistoria are the different contests held throughout the site and on the different zones. There are zones for different genres; Action, Contemporary, Fantasy, History, Horror, Other, Science Fiction, Western and Romance. So there's a place for anyone to fit in.

Often the zone sponsored contests are writing contests specific to the genre. This month in Action Zone the contest revolved around a James Bond theme. I took my characters Andre & Meredith and had a little fun with them. Here's my short story for the Action Zone.
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It's All In The Name

The handsome couple who exited the plane last took a moment to soak in the warm tropical sun while the other dozen passengers made their way to a covered area to be greeted with fruity drinks and local tour guides. The younger of the two men looked about at the tiny little excuse for an airport, at the wrecked plane at the end of the runway they’d flown in over with ‘oops’ spray-painted across the wreckage, up at the cloudless sky, and finally at his blonde companion who cleaned his sunglasses on the tail of his shirt. He spoke in French. “This is it?”

“This is it, André,” the man replied in his fluid British accent. “Sorry if you wanted casinos and night clubs. We could always take a boat over to one of the bigger islands, but I think this is perfect. We needed a holiday away from the city. There’s nothing to do here, except entertain ourselves.”

“All right, Meredith, but this better not be one of your secret missions I’m not supposed to know about. There’s nothing here. Makes me think of some evil villain’s secret hideout.” He walked along behind Meredith who wanted a drink and a ride to their small resort. "It’s okay for you if your arch nemesis or some mad scientist is here. You get to have fun. I’ve seen the secret agent movies. I know what happens to the attractive sidekick. I’ll be taken hostage. Tortured. Made to listen to ABBA, while watching Celebrity Big Brother, and eating microwaved burritos. I will be very upset with you if I’m taken prisoner.”

Grateful he didn’t add ‘again’ to his lament, Meredith handed him a red and yellow drink. “It’s merely a holiday, mon lapin. It’s no one’s secret hideout. You’re perfectly safe.”

“Isn’t that what you said about Hong Kong? Prague? North Dakota?”

“To be honest North Dakota took me completely by surprise as well.”

André pat Meredith’s shoulder. “Yes, I understand. Who expects such a large concentration of ninjas in North Dakota? Who expects ninjas anywhere? Who expects ninjas at all? Sneaky little bastards.”

“I’m sorry. But it’s not my fault entirely. You have this way of attracting trouble like flies to honey.” He held open the backdoor of a Jeep for André and followed him inside. “I don’t know why I’m apologizing for that. It had absolutely nothing to do with me. They mistook you for that insane venture capitalist Shorty McStump.” He gave the driver their destination.

“I resent that still. And that name, Shorty McStump. That is someone evil. Villains always have ridiculous names. They can’t have normal names like other people.”

“Says the guy whose last name means ‘knife’.”

“Yes, it means knife, Mr. Pike.”

“Quit worrying and let’s just enjoy our holiday. Nothing will happen.”

André’s dark eyes bore into Meredith’s bright blue eyes. “Oh thank you so much, Old Man. Why not draw a target on me, put me in a blow-up raft slowly losing air, and pour some blood in the water to attract the mutant flying man-eating electric sharks? Never ever say nothing will happen. Might as well call the ninjas.”

“Is your friend all right?” the driver asked.

“No. He’s neurotic. But I love him anyway.”

* * *

All was going well. After a day where the most exciting thing that happened occurred in a hammock, André began to feel more at ease and secure.

Together he and Meredith entered the cozy building referred to as the lodge where meals were served family style. A new guest had arrived and stood behind the bar mixing drinks with a silly Japanese man who wore an obnoxious Hawaiian shirt. “André-chou, get us drinks. I’ll get us places at a table.”

“Not with the old peoples from Florida. I not want to hear from that man about how the States keep saving my froggie behind from the Gestapo.”

“I wouldn’t dream of it. Get me a gin and tonic. Lime not lemon.”

“Ouias.” He went to the bar and smiled at the woman who didn’t smile so much as simmer.

She radiated smoldering passion and sexuality. Her luxurious scarlet hair was streaked with golden blonde. Half of it was twisted up in an elaborate coiffe, the rest hung down in thick shimmering coils pulled forward over her shoulder. Her hair was so abundant it nearly obscured her bandeaux top which tried with all its might to contain her ample perfect breasts. A sarong in shades of brilliant greens and blues clung to her hips yet allowed almost the entirety of one long leg to be revealed.

André noticed her eyes. They were not the same color. “You are making the drinks for all, please?”

“Yes, darling. I’m playing bartender. I do so love it when alcohol is inclusive in the cost of a package, don’t you?” Her voice was a smoky purr.

“Yes, whatever you say. So, you will make for me a gin and tonic with lime and give to me a Stella?”

“No, problem, sweetheart.”

He tilted his head at her wondering why she kept calling him pet names. Maybe she was a waitress in a diner and couldn’t help herself.

“Here you go, cutie.” She set a glass and bottle of beer in front of him. “What’s your name?”

“André Couteau. You?” He picked up the glass and beer and took a sip of the gin and tonic because she had filled it to the rim.

“Fraise DesBois.”

The glass shattered on the floor. The bottle bounced off a barstool spewing its contents. Another barstool fell over as André staggered back, his hands held up defensively before him. “No. No. You stay away from me! Evil woman! Stay away!”

Meredith ran to André and grabbed him by the shoulders. “What is it? André, tell me. What is it?”

“Her name. Fraise DesBois! It means wild strawberry.” André tore away from Meredith and ran from the lodge ranting about arch villains and ninjas.

Meredith could only shake his head in disbelief. “I think the stress of the restaurant has finally gotten to him.”

Fraise DesBois watched with a smile as the tall blonde man left the lodge. She pat the head of the wiry man next to her. “You did well to alert me, Bak Phat. Not only have you happened upon Mr. Pike, France’s greatest secret agent who is British, but with him is his Achilles Heel.”

“I thought he said his name was André.”

* * *
Meredith had calmed André with a shot of reason and a dose of tranquilizers. He left André tucked snugly into bed, returned to the lodge for dinner, and offered his apologies to Ms. DesBois, beginning his apology with “You may have noticed my friend is French…” That was really all the explanation needed, that and he added André was a chef and overworked.

He returned to the cabin with a tray for André, they had to get the recipe for the lobster bisque, and set it on the little table just inside the door. The shower was running. “André, You’ll be happy to know Ms. DesBois has a good sense of humour and understands how stressed out you are and has no hard feelings. I brought you,” he opened the door to the bathroom and fell silent. Steam billowed out. He stepped inside, reached into the empty shower and turned off the hot water. “André, did you start a shower and go back to bed?”

Stepping into the bedroom his eyes narrowed at the bed which was not only empty, but in disarray. The mattress tilted half off the bed, the bedside table overturned, the lamp only shards of pottery scattered across the floor. “This better be a really bad practical joke, André.”

He returned to the bathroom and saw the steam revealed a message written on the bathroom mirror. “Bring the flash drive to Cpt Morgan’s Cave at sunrise or you will never see your Chef again.” The last portion was hard to read because of the limited space on the mirror and the length of the message. At first he thought it said something about never seeing Cher again which was fine with him.

* * *
“Stupid ninja,” André scowled at Bak Phat.

“I told you, I’m not a ninja. I wasn’t even born in Japan. I was born in Cleveland.”

“Did you or did you not sneak in my room dress like a ninja?”

“I wore a black ski mask and a Hawaiian shirt. This shirt!” He tugged on the rainbow hued shirt he wore.

“Cause you a stupid ninja from Cleveland.” André sneered.

“I’m not a ninja!”

“Bak Phat, stop talking to him,” Fraise DesBois snapped for what seemed like the hundredth time.

“I try, but he keeps calling me a stupid ninja.”

“I calls them like I sees them, stupid ninja.” André muttered under his breath. He was really getting tired of this. This boring cave was no place to spend the night. “Hey, is this not a pirate cave? Are not pirates and ninjas mortal enemies? I hope a pirate come and cut you to pieces.”

“You’re insane, do you know that? Stark raving mad!” Bak Phat waved his hands in the air. “You’re a freaking prisoner. Can’t you cower in fear or go whimper in the corner?”

“I might could if you were scary ninja ‘stead of stupid ninja.”

Outside Meredith who saw no reason to wait around until sunrise to launch a rescue for André dropped down behind one of DesBois’ armed thugs, this one wearing a golf shirt covered in palm trees and a ski mask, tapped him on the shoulder, and head butted him when he turned to see who it was. “I guess the current economic crisis must be effecting her ability to afford experienced minions,” he said as he inspected the machine gun the man dropped. He removed the clip and tossed it into the ocean. “Overkill, really. I’m just one man.”

Carefully stepping over the man he proceeded toward the next minion who patrolled the opening to the cave.

Inside the cave DesBois was getting tired of the bickering between Bak Phat and André. “Can the two of you please just shut up! This has been going on for hours. Shut up!”

“Yeah, shut your mouth. Ninjas is to being silent.”

“Your English really sucks.”

“You suck.”

“No, you suck, you fa- ooph!” He fell over clutching his family jewels.

Outside Meredith heard someone cry out. The minion heard it too and began hurrying towards the cave entrance. Acting fast he sprinted, tackled the man, and held his face in the sand until he stopped kicking.

André shook his head and examined his shoe for scuffs. “Evil Lady, your ninja got lousy reflex. I hope they not all this bad or Meredith gonna be disappointed at no challenge.”

“I’m the one who’s disappointed, sugar. I really expected more of a challenge than this myself.” She began pacing the length of the cave. “I guess it really would have been a challenge had he come alone. I just planned to do what I did with Jim.”

“Jim?”

“Jim Bond.” She continued. “With him it was simple. He fancies himself a ladies man, so I only had to seduce him.”

“Yeah. That get you nowhere with my Meredith.”

“I can’t believe his name is actually Meredith. What kind of name is that for a secret agent? Did his parents want a daughter? How scared am I supposed to be of a man named Meredith?”

“Very scared. He behind you.” André smirked.

“Like I’m falling for that.” Just in case she looked over her shoulder. “Meredith!”

“That’s Mary F@cking Death to you.” He delivered a swift fist to her eye.

After reeling back from the sucker punch she lashed out at him. He caught her hand and snapped a long lacquered nail followed by another and another.

“My nail tips!” she screeched in horror.

“Your fingers will be next if you don’t give up hope of obtaining the secret information, gather your pretty useless minions, and leave the island.”

“Damn you, Pike. I’ll leave, but this won’t be the last you hear from me.” She stumbled into the wall when he released her.

“Try to call before noon. We get quite busy at the restaurant after that.” He unknotted the ropes around André’s wrists. “Are you all right?”

“So-So. Stupid Ninja scuff my shoe.” He kicked Bak Phat one more time for good measure. “I can’t believe you hit a woman. That was not very nice.”

“She made fun of my name.”