I Like Pretty Things

By Chef Vega711

That’s the beautiful part about the internet. Anonymity. A splendid thing. I sit down writing this from some corner of the world, but you’ll never know idea where I am. Don’t bother finding me or tracking me down. If you need my help, leave a sign and maybe I will find you. I’m a bit of a perfectionist, I always take necessary precautions. I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a moron.

Let me tell you a little something about myself to start things off. I like, in fact I love, pretty things. They always surround me and call out my name. I can hear them begging me to make them mine. I am well aware that this is an addiction, but I cannot resist it. The more I have the more I want. It’s the passion that drives me, that gives me a reason to live.

I travel far and wide to search for the rarest and most exquisite objects. They are not always easy to find, but when I find something worth my collection I don’t let anything stop me. I want them and I must have them.

My collection is fine and probably one of the rarest in the whole gold. I only wish I could show it off, but feeble folk can’t handle it. Do you want to see what I have? Do you want to start a collection of your own? If you continue to read this, I hope you’re not one of those weak-hearted. I sincerely hope you’re not.

My dungeon basement is host to hand-picked specimens from all over the world. Glass boxes line the walls holding everything from the lips of a supermodel to the lungs of a swimmer, beautiful fingers from a waitress who worked at a small café in Paris to the brain of a 22 year old boy who was just about to complete his PhD in Mathematics. You see, I’m not shallow. I’m not a connoisseur of simply external beauty. I think beauty is whole, it has more than just a single aspect. Do you think you could join me?

Maybe you’ll understand better if I tell you about my last conquest. Last week as I sat on a park bench, I saw a girl…Let’s call her Jane for the sake of simplicity. I knew I had to have what Jane sees the world through. It must all be so wonderful. But I’m not impulsive. I tailed her around. I watched her shower, watched her hold hands with some punk down the street. Her room was quite neat for someone her age, but she needed to eat better and smoke less and sleep more. It’s okay though, she is sleeping now. You can’t really tell since her eyes don’t exactly sit on her face but take my word for it.

As special as Jane was, I had to do the same thing I do with all my holders. When you collect something as beautiful as what I do, it is absolutely essential to preserve them for a long, long time. I’m not just a collector, I am also a scientist. I am also an artist. The first thing that must be done is to get rid of blood. Blood is a vile thing, it ruins everything. The process was pretty simple. I’m sure you’ll follow well. I lay Jane down (unconscious of course, I don’t like them kicking and screaming) in a tub full of ice. Ice makes them cold and numb. Ice maybe made it hurt less. A T shape cut down her chest to reveal her ribcage, then a bone saw to through her ribcage and alas I found her little beating heart. It is of utmost importance to have the heart beating and alive, you need it to keep pumping. Then all you need is to inject formalin, a preservative, into the heart. Slowly the blood starts leaving the body and the veins now start to hold the preservative, the heart pumping the poison all over the body. And once it is done, once every drop of blood has left the body, once the body is white as the ice it lays on, I start excavating. Eyes are easy to scoop out, but I always have to be careful to not put too much force or they tend to turn into mush. And mush is never acceptable.

As I write this, Jane’s green eyes are staring at me. I must complete this before I start a little staring contest. I know I am going to lose, but I also know I will enjoy the game. I want you to know my story. I want someone I can offer my knowledge to, I want someone I can pass on my heritage too. I’m not going to be alive and kicking forever now, will I? I just don’t know how to approach people without them freaking out and threatening to call the cops. I don’t like killing people just because they can’t keep their mouths shut.

That’s the beautiful part about the internet, isn’t it? Anonymity. A splendid thing. You know my story yet you know nothing else about me. You could see me in lurking in the backdrop of some picture in a magazine and you would not know it is me. I could be anywhere, any country, any city in the world.

There’s not much I can tell you about myself, but there is one thing I’d like to tell you.

I love how marvelously beautiful you look when you sleep.


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