- Jan 12, 2015
- Reaction score
It was him. The same M.O.: a glass of milk, half empty, left at the scene of the crime. Lab reports have revealed nothing. Forensics have been another dead end. No prints, no DNA, just a lot of ******* blood.
This time the victim was a little girl. Little Shelly Jones, she was only nine years old. Shelly wanted to be a ballerina. Now she's just splattered all over the family rug. Real sick ****.
The press are calling him The Milkman. An apt name I suppose. He has been very consistent with his deliveries so far, but this is one milkman you wouldn’t want knocking on your door. Shelly will be the third victim this year and rest assured, it will happen again.
I’ll catch him though. I always get my man. I’ve got a plan you see. I’m going to figure out what makes this bastard tick and catch him right in the act. Right before his next kill. If my theory is right, that will be on March the 4th. Not much time left…
My plan? Well, they say to catch a killer, one must think like a killer. Have to get inside his head. And I think it’s time I took a sip…
Help detective Rais bring this psycho killer to justice. Any witnesses with clues to the Milkman’s identity, how he looks, what he wears, are urged to come forward with information. Every submission helps.
Lemaire x Uniqlo
The rainy weather today seemed appropriate for my submission.
*Edit. Hope this doesn't suck.
It was raining. Damn, he really hated when it rained. Drops of water fell softly against the windshield, their bodies cascading across his field of view. Off to the side, homes came in and out of view, momentary pictures through a window before they were whisked off out of sight. Slowly though, the slideshow of homes ended as his truck’s momentum came to rest. He was here.
He sat for a moment, his hands still gripping the steering wheel as the pitter patter of rain continued. His right side ached. It always ached when it rained. Why was there so much damn rain here? The doctors here said that there was nothing they could do to fix his bones, he had gone too long without seeking help and the bones had set on their own. Just as well that he hadn’t seen one back then he supposed, doctors had an annoying habit of telling things to the police. It had already cost him his entire fortune to escape once…
Still raining. It didn’t look like it was going to let up anytime soon. With a groan he reluctantly swung the truck door open and gingerly steadied his left leg on the ground before following with his right. Not unexpectedly, shattered bones left one with a limp. He propped the collar of his coat up and made his way to the rear of the truck. He lifted up the heavy bolt and opened the doors.
Milk. This was his glorious charge. Where once he had sipped champagne that tickled the tongue and lit up the night, now he was dispensing the banal drink of the commoner. He stared disdainfully at the array of bottles, ordered neatly in grid-like arrays in crates. What a life. Snorting, he grabbed a basket that lay next to the crates and began filling it with bottles of milk, their necks cool to the touch. The basket full, he turned and started walking down the street to the first home. Around him the rain continued to come down.
Last one. The bottle made a soft clink as he set it down next to its pair. He straightened up and took a moment to catch his breath. As he stood there, the morning light lazily peeking its way above the horizon, he felt his eyes drawn upwards towards the rooftops. A small smile breached his face as he recalled happier times. Times when the roofs were his home and the dawn signified it was time to slumber, not arise. For a moment he was lost, the joy and rush of movement alight in his mind. Then came the memories of the accident. Gone was the rush, replaced instead with the fear and dread of falling, the sound of sirens, and the sight of that stranger on the ground next to him.
He shook his head but the last image stood firm. His side reminded him that it ached. He was wasting time daydreaming. He made to walk back to his truck but then paused, fiddling for something inside of his coat. He pulled out a small notebook, its cover and pages pristine, and a pen. He opened the notebook and began to tick small marks on the first line. Before he closed it again, he stared once more at the number scribbled at the top. A promise to fulfill. He slid both the pen and the notebook back into his pocket, gathered his coat around him and began walking again. All around him the rain fell.
Ah, it's all my fault, as usual... Maybe if I edit out my original entry for this more predictable alternative, people will submit more?
Keeping a straight face while posing for this was the real challenge.
LACTONAUT: DELIVERING VITAL SPACE MILK RATIONS TO THE OUTER COLONIES SINCE 2482.
I still have hope Synthese and Parker will deliver something cool like they always do for these challenges.
Oh, sure. Ain’t that hard to come by “milk.” Grow some specialized yeast strains, let the lab boys do their magic, and you get a blend of proteins that looks and tastes almost as good as the real thing.
But you want milk? Real, honest-to-Terra milk straight from the teat of a methane-farting cow? We-ell. You’d best be prepared to shell out a few thousand creds per Imperial liter - most of that’s going to taxes - taxes that ain’t doin’ much but padding the accounts of some of those yacht-racin’ wigheads who spend most of their time down the gravity well; don’t properly appreciate how nice fresh dairy tastes after a couple of months in hard vacuum.
That’s where I come in.
Imagine regular delivery of your favorite Earth-grown mammal-fluid, sent straight to your door. Feel those salivary glands trickling? That’s right, friend - it don’t matter where you are; Europa, Vesta station, water-hauler off of Terra herself; let’s talk. No taxes. No questions. Just optimization.
Here - taste that. That vial? That’s two mils. Normally you’d get charged three hundred for that sip. You deal with me, you could be tasting that sweet, white nectar every week. Imagine that in your coffee substitute. Have I mentioned that I can acquire real coffee as well?
Huh. Repurposed Imperial scouting corvette. Lilith-class. Light, quiet, quicker than a shadow and just as dark. The Melanthe’ll fly herself if she needs to - but she’s a whole lot comfier with me at the tac-sys. ‘Sides, old habits die hard.
No, it’s not stolen. What do you take me for? It’s just on permanent loan.
Yes, there is a difference. I’m no crook - just a man with a debt to repay.
Only one condition: I get wind that your gums are flapping, you get a special delivery. In the form of six pounds of tungsten, delivered straight to your doorstep from orbit at an appreciable fraction of light-speed. I encourage you to make your payments on time - would hate to have customs come a-knocking.
"And so", says Antishuis- you can hear him running a hand distractedly through his bristly thinning hair, a habit that's beyond annoying- "you had to quit. The question is.. you know the question."
Pause. If you twisted your neck around, he'd be staring out at the steel-grey morning, fiddling with the arm of his glasses, perhaps rearranging pencils on the desk beside him. What do you expect? You've been through this a thousand times. Company X buys brand Y, thereby diversifying its portfolio. Read the WSJ any day you like, or, you know, there's this new thing now, they call it AOL...
No amount of therapy is going to help. You've shredded your archive, what Antishuis called a symbolic farewell, although you didn't tell him you'd kept a few pieces, things that you'd made for yourself, like a ceremonial garb, to carry you through into whatever came next... which, of course, was the question.
The art world? Everything seemed so weirdly insubstantial, strained references to obscure philosophers glossing artifacts seemingly made by schoolchildren- imagine, you're supposed to admire the flaws..
You miss the fevered workdays in your atelier, obsessing over a canvassed moquette; the perfect simplicity- it took three years to really learn the method- of a shoulder transitioning to sleeve. Even further back, remembering your grandfather's voice, those early mornings on the Untersburg- 'You see Helmut. Each piton at an angle to the last, then the ropes strung tight.' A former carpenter, first he'd guided your hands, then let you do it by yourself. " Has to fit exactly into place, you see. Otherwise the system won't work."
And so.. nights of solitary drinking followed by empty afternoons, watching the impatient sun track across the floorboards. Until- one insomniac dawn- you heard something outside, the ***** of glass on concrete, looked out and thought.. why not this?
You wouldn't wear the uniform, you were adamant about that from the start. At first the bosses kicked up a fuss but then you devised a system to carry out your deliveries in less than half the time. You even have a plan now, re-imagining all the routes, you can see the whole thing mapped out: a series of hubs, each pushing out gleaming threads that, sooner or later, must intersect- building to a crystalline structure whose complexity grows at every moment...
In one of the houses you visit towards the end of your route you've noticed a woman, tall, dark-haired- not beautiful, probably never was, but there's a lustre to her skin and her eyes run over your moleskin-draped shoulders as you walk up the path. These conscientious Salzburg husbands, they leave for work so early...
Wrote this on notes section of my iPhone.
It wasn't like every other day, I finally felt as if I was adjusting to living off the grid. That gap between my new life and old life was starting to feel permanent. El Niño had really hit hard the past these days I had hardly seen any sunlight, yet I couldn't sleep. I had an overwhelming urge to leave the house, I couldn't explain it. And as I went out on to my porch, there he was. I never found out who he was. His stare was as if he was looking straight through me. Maybe he knew who I was. What scared me the most was that his eyes didn't look frightening. It was as if I knew him. He smelt of very good cologne, I didn't really recognize it, and my eyes just wondered. He had written on the ground "smells like phys ed" I had heard before but I didn't know what it meant. Every minute he sat there quietly felt like hours, in the back of my mind I kept replaying my steps. Had someone seen me and finally figured out who I was? I just began to speak of random things, I'm sure he could hear my nerves nous but I tried to down play it. I asked him if he wanted anything to eat, he said "no, smells like phys ed" and he stood and continued to stare. I looked away not knowing what to do. I quickly glanced at what he had on. He looked as if he had been many places yet his coat was still a clean white. His pants had many pockets but they appeared empty. I could hardly remember his face but his posture was strong. Before I went off the grid I had gotten some sleeping pills for my insomnia, they had finally started to kick in. I could hardly keep my eye lids it's at the visible light was flickering. I had decide to go back in, I locked my door and if something happened I'd rather go through it sleeping. When I had woken it was night, I was still numb I could hardly move from the pills. Yet I felt at ease, all my senses felt sharp and there strong smell of fish head I hadn't noticed before. As I tried to crawl out of bed my handle stumbled off the empty bottle of sleeping pills. I fell like a "just born" baby horse; my body still felt weak. As my face was on the ground I saw the empty bottle of sleeping pills are my eye level, so I turned it over to see what I had taken.The label said "fish head oil" Dr. Ed Physh. After a few minutes of just lying there, I noticed the door open but I was still alive. I knew what I had to do. So I walked outside and he was gone. I didn't know if it was a nightmare from the sleeping pills or if he had ever even been here. But again I felt free from the grid.
I’m your Ice Cream Man
All my flavors are coo-coo-coo-cool,
gua-guaranteeed to satis-fu-uh-yy
Warning: Spoiler! (Click to hide)
LUC wool farmer's jacket
TVA wool cardigan
L'Maltieri cotton shirt and pants
Carpe Diem horse boots
"Well, officer, he goes door to door sometimes, and he says he's selling fresh milk, but I don't know. I've seen him coming out of the woods, and I've never seen any milk, so..."
Greetings, subjects. MilkLord here, TrashLord's curdy cousin reporting live from the Locale of Lactose, the Aisle of Ambert, the corridor of cream. A shockwhey of imposters rippling through the lactosphere has churned me from my bovine bedrest.
I plead of you: ignore these frothy frauds - these offer you nothing but sweetened condensed dairy deception.
You're butter than this - don't be a half and half wit and vote for me, your humble homogenizer. Your duke of dairy, your Sultan of Skim, your Emperor of Emmental.
We'd walk to school year round but I always remember those dark autumn mornings. We would walk in darkness until the sun rose behind the clouds and threw its diffuse illumination over everything all at once. I never wanted to put a laundered shirt on in the morning and the calm light would only make me more restless. I wanted to take huge, looping steps. As though I was trying to run on the moon. He was always the calm one. We would steal empty milk bottles from our neighbour's doorsteps and walk down the road throwing them high in the air to each other. The transparency of the bottle merging with the colourless sky before reappearing and falling back into our hands. When I fumbled I would start running before it even hit the floor. I'd feel the glass fragments tapping on the back of my polyester trousers and look back to see him walking. Hands in his pockets and his tie tucked in. He was the patient one. He looks after the herd, checks the soil chemistry and the calves, tweaks the humidity and temperature with a thermoregulator so sluggish it takes days to move the dew point by a degree. I don't have the patience for it. I was always more comfortable running away from the smashed bottle than waiting for it to land. That's why I prefer to be out here at the sharp point of distribution. Dealing with you, the happy customer.
Do we deliver? Well of course, we can deliver to every sub level of this city. That's never been the question, forgive me; The question is whether we will deliver to you.
Brother 1 wearing Swedish Workwear suit, 6876 shirt
Brother 2 wearing Puma jacket, Maharishi snopants, Bagjack NXL and Adidas Climachill Sonic Boost AL
Yeah, been down with the flu since last Friday... about 90% now but first time in 10+ years that I've taken more than 3 days to beat any kind of illness -- which I think means my unhealthy lifestyle is finally doing what it's supposed to be!
But an excuse to cosplay harnden cannot be missed....
"Hello stranger, you must be new to these parts... I am this town's osteopath, the bones of this town's young and old are my domain....mending, breaking.... one hand gives, the other takes.... as dictated by the vagaries of these troubled times..."
"If there lies evil in your heart then there will be no hesitation in me busting some calcium up in yo ass..."
Super late entry, hope it's okay I piggybacked off @Rais 's story.
Warm milk from the bottle while I lay cradled in her lap. That was the last happy memory I have of my mother before being ripped from her arms and tossed into the street like a discarded cigarette butt. Before a life of filth, of desolation, of desperation. I did what I had to do to survive. Stole. Hid. Killed. Lied my way into this job delivering milk.
Why milk? It's pure. Clean. Unadulterated. Innocent. Not unlike these children.
Don't you see? I'm not hurting them. I'm saving them.
Childhood is so fleeting, so brief. One second they're loving and sweet as angels, and in the blink of an eye, they've...curdled...into ugly selfish lumps. I save them from that nightmare. They'll live on forever as children.
I hear you've been looking for me, Detective Rais...Pray I don't find your children first.