He offers me a ride, and I, in no position to turn down the sole hope of getting back to civilization made in the past three hours, perhaps only find him mildly charming because of his decision to pick me up. He doesn’t seem strange. A little shy maybe. But sociable. I should’ve known by the way he was eyeing me up and down that he was probably something of a fruit. But hey, what did I care? As long as he kept his hands to himself. Naturally, he didn’t when the time came.
After he cajoled me back to his house in the woods–people never think of Ohio as a woody sort of place, if they think of it at all–I told myself: this guy is really fucking lonely. He just wants a friend to keep him a bit of company. I felt for him. There he was all alone in this huge house, which he told me his mother had just moved out of. I didn’t really know where his father was. And as he told me about his life, he kept passing me beer after beer after beer. When enough hours had gone by, I thought I had more than enough fulfilled my duty as both Good Samaritan and appreciative hitchhiker. But I guess Jeff didn’t feel the same. As I turned to head for the door, I heard him shuffling with a suspicious quickness toward me. Before I could turn around, the very dumbbell he had complained that his father had bought for him to take away his favorite pastime, dissecting animals, was making explosive contact with the back of my head.
He wasn’t using Soilex at the time he met me. I wasn’t as streamlined of a process as the others. But you know what they say, you never forget your first. And even though he didn’t cherish my body parts the way he did, say, Anthony Sears, I know I’ll always hold a special place in what should be Dahmer’s heart but instead seems to have transmuted into a black hole somewhere down the line. Even though he had knocked me unconscious, he still had to finish me off by strangling me with the bar of the dumbbell. I think this was the part that really got him aroused. All this time, he had been suppressing his commingled desire for sex and violence and now, here I was, ready and unwilling to serve as the conduit for his realizations. It didn’t seem right that this was to be my “higher purpose” in life, to be the virginity breaker, killing-wise, of one of the world’s most notorious monsters. I had aspirations of my own, you know. Maybe I could have been in a band. Maybe I could have gotten out of Ohio. I wasn’t a bad looking guy. That’s probably why he chose me. To think, my life could have been saved had I been just a bit uglier. Or if I’d been wearing a shirt on the way to the show I was trying to get to in Chippewa Lake Park. It was just so hot, the middle of June. What was I supposed to do?
In hindsight, I see that it could have happened to anyone. People had forgotten about the Manson murders by now, and that was all the way on the West Coast, land of the freaks. It could never happen in Ohio. I chuckle to myself as I say this, watching him scatter my bones in the backyard, the sentimentality of his childhood home forever solidified by my presence. I guess at least he had the reverence (that might be an overreaching word) to wait a day before dismembering me. And yeah, it was a challenge to endure him masturbating over my corpse, but that was nothing compared to dealing with being dissected in his crawl space. I’ve never been one for scrutiny, so this was more than something of my worst nightmare.
When I look at what he did to the others, maybe I had it easier. Sure, he had fine-tuned his process. But I feel I was handled the most gently. His preference for Soilex was something that arose from the bubbled-to-the-surface wisdom his chemist father, Lionel, had imparted. By the time he got to that lair of inhumanity at 924 North 25th Street, Apartment 213, his assembly line process could be summed up by his own assessment, “The Soilex removes all the flesh, turns it into a jelly-like substance and it just rinses off. Then I laid the clean bones in a light bleach solution, left them there for a day and spread them out on either newspaper or cloth and let them dry for about a week in the bedroom.”
Simple as one-two-three. If he had lived to the present, maybe he would be teaching a MasterClass on serial killing. Who knows? The public seems more accepting of profligacy nowadays. The kind tolerated by giving Jeff an interview on Dateline a few years after his arrest. It was like an elegant version of Jerry Springer, watching him sit there with his father as he explained the origins of his behavior: “I sort of lived in my own little fantasy world when things got too heated in the household. It was just my own little world where I had control. Maybe I felt I had no control as a child or young adult and that got mixed in with my sexuality and I ended up–doing what I did was my way of feeling in complete control. At least for that situation. Creating my own little world where I had the final say, where I could completely control a person, a person that I found physically attractive and keep them with me as long as possible. Even if it meant just keeping a part.”
But Jeff couldn’t have the final say anymore. I made sure of that when I possessed Christopher Scarver’s body. And though I do feel bad that another inmate had to suffer my wrath in the fallout, I only did what needed to be done. Life imprisonment was giving Dahmer more pleasure than he deserved. The sight of all those nude male bodies, day in, day out. Sure, he couldn’t strip their flesh with Soilex anymore, but he was permitted some perverse enjoyment from the metaphorical sexual cutting of repressing his violent whims.
Watching him take his last breath on the floor of the gym shower, I masturbated over him. An eye for an eye makes the whole world depraved. And then I was gone, going to my own spirit world at last, and he to his, somewhere further down below.