Dr Guillotine

Three

By DX

Copyright Jan 2000, 3/2026, all rights reserved.

Power intoxicates, literally.  

I woke sixteen hours later with the worse hangover of my life—exceeding my previous decent into body poisons when frat boys got me sick on whisky as a joke.  I sloughed about my room, wrapped in a blanket and shivering, as I fetched water and pain killers and slept again for another eight hours when hunger motivated me to get up and eat.  I was as weak as a puppy, but I had chores to do.  I plodded back to the garage, my chamber of horrors, and still debating in my mind to go back to bed, I turned on the light.

At the sight of The Machine, warmth spread through my body, radiating from my chest, like the charge a priest gets when he clutches his cross.  Strength returned to my limbs as I fetched the hose and scrub brush and gave my creation a good cleaning.  

With that done, I retrieved the head from the fridge.  Not being a proper mortician, it was far more difficult to manipulate her features as I anticipated, but with a little makeup, hairstyling and patience I was able to get it to look as if she was simply sleeping.  I dipped the head in wax and sealed it in its glass case.

It was a distraction.  Like a glowing artifact it drew my eye from across the room.  The mere sight of it charged me like a solar cell.  As I puttered about the room it almost called to me, and I had to stop, admire it with pride, and day dream about my next trophy, running plans and scenarios through my head.

I finally covered it up so I could work.

The car was shot, the engine block cracked.  I hooked it up to the van and towed it back to its spot in the vehicle graveyard, trailing a stream of oil in its path.  I was going to have to learn auto mechanics in a big way before my next caper.

I already know there would certainly be a next caper; there had to be.  It was a drug, and I was an addict.

As darkness fell, I dragged the body from the deep freeze outside and dumped it into the station’s diesel storage tank.  I had mixed in an industrial enzyme, normally used for septic systems, with the diesel fuel left in the tank.  Within a week the body would be unrecognizable, three months a skeleton.  In six months there would be nothing.  

I took a job in the near by town as a part time pharmacist.  While I did need the income, I mostly did it to get out of the garage, learn my new settings and, for the most part, plan my next task.  It was only my first week when I saw my next mark.  She had come into the pharmacy and was standing in front of the lip stick display when our manager came over and told her she was illegally parked in a handicap only space.  Our manager was so polite when she asked the woman if she would kindly move her car.

But the woman flipped her hand at her and ignored her.  Our patient manager, still so polite, told her to move her car or the cops would be called.  Again the hand flip, this time followed by a sneer and a sharp teeth sucking noise.  

Most un-lady like.

I watched this woman through the corner of my eye; young, pretty, to much make up.  She was the. woman who could bat her eyes out of any trouble, trouble she had gotten herself into.  She was rude, and brash, and believed that anyone who worked for a living was her personal slave to abuse, as evidenced when she stood in front of the register, rolling her eyes and cracking her gum and insulted our check out clerk: “So are you one of those equal opportunity employees or are you just slow?”  She asked, her voice dripping with venom.

By time the police arrived for her car ten minutes later, she was long gone.  I however, did notice the plate and the college parking sticker.

Her fate was sealed!

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Copyright Jan 2000, 3/2026, all rights reserved.  Story may not be reproduced without author's permission.

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Dr Guillotine

Part 2

By DX

Copyright Dec 1999, 12/2025, all rights reserved

“Thou Shalt Not Kill.” 

 There's a reason for that.

 I felt empowered, enlivened, a walking feel good movie, rewarded for my years of being the world's doormat. I saw everything through new eyes. Every neck I envisioned clamped tight in my guillotine's yoke, from the holier than thou computer repair minion to the aristocratic sneer of the lady at the college loan office. Watching their faces of fear and helplessness as I stood above them, throwing the switch. The whistling snap, the searing cut, the rolling head in the basket played in my mind as I rode the bus each day as I stared at the zombie faces of my fellow passengers, looking for signs of life. 

 I would provide a service to humanity, and scrape the layer of pond scum from the surface of the earth!

 I am not, was not, will not be a serial killer.  Serial killers had a ‘cooldown’ period.  For me, there was no cool down period, but an inflammation. There was no guilt but an euphoric cleansing. My only restraint was fear of capture.

 I disassembled the machine, piece by regrettable piece. I had come too close to getting caught and I had no intention of going to jail. I agonized every waking hour to develop a foolproof plan, but fools are so ingenious. 

 The perfect plan eluded me.

 I had gotten lucky the first time.  I would not try my luck again.

 It seemed that my guillotine would never again see action and that thrilling, intoxicating drug of power would be lost to me forever.  I would return to the dark endless mine, digging deeper into the jet of oblivion.

 Until my uncle died.

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The B-Guill 2000

Breast reduction surgery at its fastest!
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Copyrighted 7/2000, 5/2025
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