The Slasher

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Text originally published in 1959 under the same title.

© Pickle Partners Publishing 2016, all rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system or transmitted by any means, electrical, mechanical or otherwise without the written permission of the copyright holder.

Publisher’s Note

Although in most cases we have retained the Author’s original spelling and grammar to authentically reproduce the work of the Author and the original intent of such material, some additional notes and clarifications have been added for the modern reader’s benefit.

We have also made every effort to include all maps and illustrations of the original edition the limitations of formatting do not allow of including larger maps, we will upload as many of these maps as possible.

THE SLASHER

BY

OVID DEMARIS

TABLE OF CONTENTS

Contents

TABLE OF CONTENTS 3

1 4

2 7

3 12

4 17

5 20

6 27

7 32

8 38

9 41

10 44

11 50

12 54

13 56

14 68

15 73

16 78

17 83

18 88

19 91

20 94

21 97

22 102

23 106

24 108

25 111

26 114

27 119

REQUEST FROM THE PUBLISHER 125

1

THE NEON LIGHT flashed in the small room with the frantic beat of a metronome, casting its harsh purplish glare on the tall gaunt man asleep on the sagging cot. The man lay fully clothed in black levis and black T-shirt, restlessly tossing, his dark coarse features twisted in a satanic grin. From time to time his thin lips parted and a trickle of spittle ran down his chin, revealing the red gums of a completely toothless mouth.

It was nearly midnight and Stanley Palke had been asleep for more than twenty hours. At first his sleep had been deep and sound, almost coma-like in its imageless darkness, but finally his subconscious had emerged, splashing a wild cineramic vision across the delicate fabric or his captured mind. For the fourth time in the past hour Palke was thrilling to his favorite dream.

Palke laughed and a thunderous burst of applause erupted in the huge arena. The fourth victim, a tall muscular athlete, stood naked at the starting gate. He stood very still, his round blond head held low, his eyes closed, his lips softly murmuring a silent prayer.

What’s the matter, Christian dog? Palke bellowed, his voice filling the arena. Afraid to die?

Suddenly the athlete dropped to his knees, his arms going out to Palke, his deep blue guileless eyes pleading for mercy. Palke laughed so much he had to hold his side.

Christian pig, he screamed. You and your phony baloney morality. You don’t talk so tough now, do you? Not when the old knife comes out. Then you’re a good little Christian. He stopped, wondering why he had said knife.

He almost lost the dream then. It faded out and he twisted around on the cot, his face distorted in anger. He had to get the dream back. The best part was yet to come. He wanted to see that big blond Christian pig get it. Just the thought of it caused a warm hardening sensation in his loins, and his hand came down, pressing hard, trying to prolong the excitement. Then suddenly the dream was on again, in all its color and splendor. And he laughed, the spittle bubbling at the corners of his slack mouth.

Run, Christian dog, he cried. Run for your miserable carcass. And the Christian ran, his bare feet leaving little puffs of dust in the soft earth.

Palke watched him closely, waiting for the exact moment, wanting the timing to be perfect to a split second. Then he released the lion. The crowd screamed hysterically as the lion sprang out, bounding after the athlete with tremendous loping strides.

Palke moaned in his sleep, his head rolling on the pillow, his legs jerking up so that his knees touched his chest, his hand pressing down harder and harder, and the excitement mounting all through him.

Palke floated effortlessly over the arena, following the progress of the race, his eyes never leaving the startling white figure of the fleeing athlete.

Run, run, run, you miserable hypocrite, he screamed. He was sure he knew the athlete, and he tried to remember him. Something had happened between them. He was certain of that. Something exciting, Something intimate and forbidden. He struggled with his thoughts, suddenly afraid he would not be able to remember in time. He had to remember. He had to know before the lion struck. Had they been lovers? Could it be possible that he had made love to that beautiful white body, that he had actually felt those rippling muscles, now jerking and knotting and straining in fear? Had he known those long shapely legs now so powerfully carrying that beautiful white body toward a small gate at the extreme end of the arena?

The crowd roared and Palke screamed in protest. He had to know before it happened. Wait! he cried, but it was too late. The lion leaped, his great paws reaching out and clutching the athlete just as he was about to disappear within the safety of the opening.

Pandemonium broke out in the arena, but Palke did not hear the crowd. He was listening to the girlish squeals of the muscular athlete.

Palke couldn’t hold it back any longer. He flopped over on his stomach, his legs straightening out, moaning softly, his toothless mouth twisting out of shape.

A moment later he awoke, slowly rolling over on his back, his eyes still closed. Shame engulfed him and he cursed loudly, disgusted with himself for this one great weakness. But after a while the shame evaporated and a warm relaxed feeling washed over him. He smiled in the darkness, his large black eyes opening, and suddenly he was laughing, a wild compulsive laugh that shook his tall hard body and reverberated in the small empty room.

He sat up in the bed, holding his side, the laughter rolling out of him until the tears streamed down his cheeks. It lasted nearly ten minutes and by the time it stopped, Palke was exhausted. He lay back on the cot, rubbing his wet cheeks with the back of one hand while his other hand dug into the side pocket of his tight levis and extracted a crumpled pack of cigarettes. He took one out and struck a wooden match against the sole of his shoe. He watched the match burn for a while, waiting until the flame was almost touching his fingers before bringing it up to the cigarette. Then he flicked it out and tossed it across the room. He closed his eyes, the cigarette stuck between his thin lips, and slowly reached down, his fingers searching along the rough flooring until they found the knife. It was a cheap hunting knife in an imitation leather scabbard and he sat up as he slipped the knife out and ran his fingers along the blade edge. He took deep drags on the cigarette, the brightly glowing tip casting enough light to show the thick layer of dried blood on the blade.

He lay back again, sparks flying from the cigarette as he blew harshly through wide nostrils. He closed his eyes, his fingers gently caressing the blade, waiting for his strength to return.

Then he rolled out of the bed and stood up, the red embers of the cigarette now almost touching his lips, the thick smoke curling up against his face, making his eyes smart, and he angrily spat it out.

The knife was still in his hand and he gently slipped it into the scabbard, tucking it down the front of his levis, so that it rested against the flatness of his stomach; and then he carefully pulled down the loose T-shirt over it. He went back to the bed and raised the mattress. There he found a short length of lead pipe and tucked it into his hip pocket.

The hotel was a shabby three-story walk-up almost in the heart of the skid row section of Los Angeles. It faced on an alley that ran out onto Fifth Street, just east of Main Street. It was the kind of an address that Stanley Palke preferred. Here in the midst of squalor and poverty he felt at ease and secure.

He came out of the alley and looked up and down Fifth Street. He was hungry and he felt in his pockets to see how much money he had with him. Money was important to Palke and though he had over four hundred dollars hidden in his room, he only carried small amounts. As usual the street was crowded with winos and addicts leaning against decrepit buildings, their eyes veiled, their wrinkled dried faces impassive. Palke looked at them and laughed. Scum! Dirty, filthy scum. He’d like to go right up that street and stick each one of them right in the belly. But they weren’t worth it. Just dirty old bums. Who would miss them? Who cared whether they lived or died?

Looking at the bums reminded him of the mission and he wondered whether it was still open. He disliked spending good money for food if he could get it for free. But he hadn’t the slightest idea as to the time, except that it felt very late.

He decided against the mission and jaywalked across Fifth Street. He went into Toni’s and ordered a large bowl of chili. He sat at a small table against the far wall, his toothless mouth just over the bowl, gorging himself with the hot spicy beans. Afterwards he sat back and lighted a cigarette. His large black opaque eyes moved slowly about the room. The small bar was crowded and there were many bums standing around, trying to wheedle a free drink. They were like dogs around a table, he thought, always whining for a handout. He reached into his pocket and took out a tube of Benzedrex, quickly breaking it open and extracting the roll of medicated cotton. He tore off a piece and placed it into his mouth, chewing it slowly.

The kick came quickly and he smiled, the red gums gleaming wet in the yellow light. What he needed now was a beer to cool it down. He stood up and approached the bar.

Hey, Stan! someone called.

Palke gave the bar a quick look and hurried out. He’d have to find a better place to drink, he thought, as he proceeded west on Fifth. That flunky dump was full of bums.

2

PAUL WARREN was drunk. He sat on the bar stool, his whole body hunched forward, holding the empty glass in both hands. He wasn’t used to so much liquor and he had been sick earlier in the evening. Now his stomach had quieted down but his head felt worse than ever. He had heard of people who drank themselves sober, but he knew from experience that he was not one of them. An excess of liquor always soured his stomach and made his head feel like a lead balloon. Drinking wasn’t like it used to be, he thought. In the old days, a few drinks had made him happy and carefree. He used to be able to nurse a glow for hours without a let-down. But now it was all different. He was either cold sober or maudlinly drunk. There was no happy medium any more to lift him from the mire of boredom or the depths of depression. There was only greater boredom and deeper depression. He shook his head sadly and looked up, staring fixedly at his blurred image in the bar mirror.

Rat, he mumbled, trying very hard to recognize the pale haggard reflection that scowled back at him. I know you, you lousy rat. You can’t fool me with your stupid drunken face. Rat, rat, rat...

The bartender took the empty glass out of his hands, eying him suspiciously. You awright? he asked.

Warren struggled to straighten up on the stool. I’m okay, he said. Fill it up.

I don’t want you puking in here. There’s a crapper at the back of the place if you need it.

I feel fine, Warren said, making a great effort to speak distinctly. If there was anything he hated, it was a drunk who blubbered all over the place. He knew he had a lot of faults, but at the moment he found an unreasonable pride in the fact that he never got a fuzzy tongue.

It’s your funeral, the bartender said, throwing some ice into the glass and pouring the Scotch over it.

Warren shook his head vigorously. Truer words had never been spoken. It was a funeral and a wake and a burial and a cremation, or any other damn thing anyone cared to throw in that was bad enough.

The bartender waited a moment while Warren fumbled through his pockets, then gave up and walked down to the other end of the bar to wait on a new customer. Warren soon gave up the search and picked up the drink, sipping at it carefully.

God, he felt miserable. He just wanted to slide off the stool and collapse right there on the floor. Sort of ooze off into a nameless jellied mass. He felt old and tired and lonely, and underneath it all, there was a quiet desperation, a futility and hopelessness, eating at his insides like a giant malignant growth.

He tried to calculate the amount of liquor he had consumed during that afternoon and evening, but it was hopeless. All he could remember were the first few drinks at lunch and how it had ended up in a four-hour drinking bout without any lunch....

By the time he had gotten back to the city room of the Tribune it had been four o’clock. He had gone directly to his desk and sat down. People and furniture seemed to fuse in and out of focus, and he ran his fingers through his thinning hair, trying to clear his head.

Hey, Paul. Where the hell have you been?

Warren looked up and tried to smile at the anxious friendly face of Jack Garner, but the best he could muster was a gloomy grin.

Out celebrating. I’m such a lucky guy I have to celebrate every lousy day.

Goddam, Garner said, making a quick swipe at his brow to show he had been busy. All hell broke loose while you were out. Sheer bedlam.

What are you trying to do? Depress me?

Garner sat on the edge of the desk. I’m serious, he said, his voice charged with excitement. They found four sailors in the harbor today. All four were murdered, knife wounds everywhere. A real bloody mess.

What do you mean in the harbor? Warren asked, silently cursing himself for being late. Cedric Roberts, the city editor, would skin him alive. Why in hell did everything have to happen when he was out?

Well, Garner said. All four were locked up in a stolen car. Somebody stuffed them in the car and drove it off the pier.

Story wrapped up?

Yeah. Just made the bulldog.

Was Roberts looking for me?

He’s mad as hell. He’s down in the composing room right now. I wouldn’t want to be around when he gets back.

Warren’s phone rang and he gave Garner a wry glance as he picked it up. Warren here. He listened