Radio Star

If a picture spoke a thousand words, then a sound could speak millions.Simply watching murder was boring – it left nothing to the imagination. And expensive. God – they cost so much to get into one of those live streams, especially when a well hijacked CCTV could give enough car crashes and fist fights to satisfy any common sadist for free.

Any live stream was a waste of time. No matter how beautiful you made your murder, it would forever be tainted by the visual. No room for interpretation. Nothing to stick in your mind, to haunt your dreams. No reason to ask ‘did they really just do that?

On that topic, those deep web red rooms were only ever for the rich. Of course, most rich people were sadists – that much was obvious. But when you pay for livestreamed murders, you couldn’t be surprised. You’d already sat down, grabbed your popcorn, and expected to see someone kill. The art of the murder was lost entirely. You couldn’t disturb or shock someone who willingly went to watch you kill someone. Professional killers were losing their touch

Anyways, the point is that I didn’t watch the red rooms. Even if I was interested, I couldn’t be arsed to deal with the big crypto bullshit and deep web transactions, anyways. Unless, of course it was for smaller payments, stuff like coke and xanax, which I could easily get dropped off at my front door with a stolen bitcoin address. The internet was a beautiful thing.

I dipped my finger into a plastic baggie of powder, rubbing it on my teeth, turning back to my stack of cassette tapes – some of which I had recorded myself, some old punk albums, heavy metal, whatever I could get.

You see, I was a professional killer of a different source. There used to be more of us, on various frequencies around the UK, pumping out some of the sickest sounds the human body could make. Some of them moved onto video sites. Some broadcasted their own suicides. Now, it was just me, single handedly keeping the pirate radio murder scene alive.
I clicked a new cassette into my tape deck, opening up my computer. The browser automatically showed up on my newest fascination. A man called Connor Kurt – almost twice my age. Recently got out of prison for ‘manslaughter’, where he stabbed a young gay man who had “broken into his house”. The videos I had found told a very different story.

As you may have guessed, Connor was also known online as “420BloodFucker”. And unlike some of the paid red rooms, he was pulling up video streams deep on the surface web, having people find the links through elaborate puzzles and guessing games.

I looked at his shit-eating face. Bald, with a goatee. Stereotypical metalhead I would see in the corner of a local bar, bitching about ‘snowflakes’ and ‘libtards’ ruining his night out. I saw one video on live leak – the one where he had a man hooked up to some electric equipment, shocking him within an inch of his life.

Now he was out, I was determined to find him. I saved a fair few videos now. Some of them were pretty hot. Pretty boys and girls cut into slices. Eyes popping out, teeth, jaws. Acid, drugs, things I hadn’t even thought about on my show. I had matched the background to a house that was sold online soon after Connor’s release.

In another world, we may have been collaborators, but Connor was a piece of shit. He was a rival, and he was becoming more and more of a thorn in my side. There was also the pressing matter that some part of him wanted me dead on account of my affinity for sucking cock. To add insult to injury, someone had rung into my last show, asking if I knew about BloodFucker. He was a phenomenon amongst sadists, and that was a problem.

I inspected his Facebook. He wasn’t anything special – I was quietly disappointed. Office job, two kids, a failing marriage with a woman who didn’t show much intimacy aside from liking the occasional Facebook status. Pictures of the two of them were spliced in between various story bullshit and other pieces of nothing. Needless to say, I hated him already. Ruining my goddamn career and he didn’t even understand why I did what I did.

This wasn’t about money. It was about mortality. About proving once and for all, to the masses, that people could die. Everyone had a life, and anyone could make them lose them. At the end of the day, I was the one person with the balls to kill these annoying fucks, with their money and their companies and bourgeois bullshit. This was about inspiration, about tempting the common man like the snake in the garden of evil. I was the forbidden fruit. The start of a bloody revolution, scattered with the heads of millionaires and rotting organs.
My politics were radical, sure, but nobody could deny that I was creating a better world for all sinners. One corpse at a time.

Plus, Satan had blessed me with the joy of finding beauty and pleasure within each and every kill. My sadism was a gift – it was a sign that I was the one and only being fit to carry out this task. And I was a fucking star. A celebrity armed with weapons and the creativity that could only be found within the mind of the most depraved madmen. It was truly a privilege to stand amongst them.

I had a plan. Find Connor on the way home from work. Stalk him. Get him alone. Kill him. Deceptively easy. I got my microphone, power pack and radio transmitter, stuffing them into my backpack. It was a little heavy, but it also meant that I could swing it around and give someone a concussion if I needed. I straddled my motorbike, forcing the helmet over my tangled mess of hair. Safety first.

My gloved hands tugged the accelerator, the satisfying hum of the engine gracing my ears. I grinned, inhaling the familiar scent of bloodlust and motor oil as I pulled out of the driveway.
Connor was an accountant for some energy company. Stuff about spreadsheets and schedules. The sort of job I couldn’t last in, not at all. The very thought of working a 9-5 at some office, cooped up in some box with nothing but a computer screen and an overly uncomfortable chair for company. Awkward small talk around the water cooler. Company meetings, office drama. That sort of stuff wasn’t made for someone like me. The audacity Connor had, killing people on the side like it was some sort of side-gig or hobby. For some of us, there was only one choice, only one path left to walk – beautiful, beautiful murder.

I saw the office building in the distance, parking up and pulling my helmet under my arm. The car park was run down, and I scanned the cars, trying to figure out which, if any, Connor would drive. He lived an awkward distance away from work, meaning he would probably walk home, but I couldn’t be sure. Judging by his build, he probably chose walking more often than not – but looks could be deceiving.

I crouched behind the motorbike, opening up the backpack and plugging in my microphone. I scanned for some radio frequency I could hijack. Once I settled on one, I held the microphone to my lips. Showtime.

“Good evening ladies, gentlemen and perverts of all persuasion. Don’t adjust your channel, because this is the Radio Star, and murder is coming directly your way. Get your poppers. lube, fleshlights – whatever satisfies your sadomasochism, and buckle up for the greatest show on the radio waves.”

I smirked, shoving the microphone into my backpack, turning my focus to the comings and goings of the office. A tiny voice in my brain nagged at me to just kill now, the next man or woman, and satisfy the blood lust pumping through my veins. It was an addiction, I couldn’t remember the last time my screams of rage sounded strangely similar to an orgasmic lust. I needed someone dead beneath my grip, and I needed them dead now.

Luckily, I managed to stay still and ignore the urge to kill the secretary lady who had sauntered out of the office. One more, I would let one more ‘innocent’ escape my grasp before I would end up going crazy and stabbing whoever was unlucky enough to come through the door next.

Then I saw him, turning towards the car park. I had to contain my excitement, diving behind a trash can until I was sure I knew which car was his. I should have known he drove the fucking Tesla – bastard. I stood up, walking over to the man, oozing confidence from every pore of my body.

I was rather lucky, to be blessed with a boyish, more effeminate body. I looked like a pansy, a coward. The sort of kid who would be pushed around the playground by the straight boys and their footballs. There was no denying I was a queer – although I wasn’t so much in love with those who I killed. To me, it felt more like I was in a homoerotic relationship with the grim reaper himself. I was married to the kill.

The point was, Connor didn’t recognise me as a threat before he felt the cool metal of my knife against the small of his back. I smirked, digging it in just enough to prove to the man that the knife was, in fact, real. I used my free hand, pressing my weight against his and restraining him against the car. “Hello there-“

He growled, his voice dry and scratchy. “Who the fuck are you?” He scoffed, struggling against me.

“Don’t be so rude, Mr BloodFucker” I chuckled, enjoying the way his eyeballs widened at the realization of what I was inferring. “I just want to put on a show with you. You’ve never met a fan before?”

“Some fan-” He grumbled, rolling his eyes. He caught a glimpse of me in the car window, and his resistance softened. Perfection.

I shook my head. “Are you telling me you’re surprised? You’re not the only one who knows how to use a knife. Now – let’s drive, okay?”

He huffed, satisfied that I was some crazed fan. I think he thought he could kill me too, once we got to the room. I was just an inconvenience to him. “To the room, I assume-” he hummed, disappointed.

“Of course. I’m hoping you can make me a star-” I faked a swoon, climbing into the back seat of his car. It stank of weed. “Now drive, or do I need a little firepower to help you out?”

“Fuck off, I’m driving, I’m driving-”

He was, in fact, driving, and soon enough I saw the familiar house which I had only ever seen on google maps. He got out of the car, and I followed, clicking the gun to remind him that I was still a threat. “You wanna see the studio, right?” He said, boredom dripping from his voice.

The studio. God – he was so pretentious. “I thought you’d never ask”

I followed him downstairs, into the basement. The walls were off white, splattered with blood of various hues ; from the brownish purple to the fresh red of a recent kill. “So messy-” I tutted, turning to the camera, positioned on a tripod and linked to a big computer that wouldn’t look out of place in the bedroom of an antisocial gamer.

“What do you want, kid?” Connor asked, arms folded and looking at me condescending.

I smirked. “I want you to kill me, Blood Fucker.” I said softly, making sure to exaggerate the ‘fucker’. I wanted to be a caricacture, the sort of person who he thinks fags are. Someone effeminate, sexual, trying to corrupt him.

“I’m sorry I was so rude, with the gun and everything, but I needed to get your attention. It’s my dream to be killed by you, to be a star. No other red room killer would take me up on this. I promise I’ll scream extra loud for you-”

He might as well have been drooling. Pander to a narcissist’s ego, and you can play them like a fiddle. “Oh, uh, sure.” He chuckled a little. “Saves me having to go and find some fag on the street”

“You don’t just kill fags, though” I pointed out, and that was true. There’d been others, but the running theme was pretty clear.

“Yeah, when I can’t find fags-” He scoffed. “You get off on my shit, is that it?”

I bit my lip, playing coy. “In a sense. You’ll see-”

He grunted, satisfied with my answer. “Let me grab my shit.”

“Right now?” I asked. I couldn’t believe my luck. I had half expected I’d have to wine and dine the fucker before tempting him into this. I checked my knife was still in my pocket, watching Connor leave.

I crept over to where I had left my backpack, turning on the broadcaster. The same frequency was still open – thank fuck. I let the microphone poke out slightly from the zipper.

“You’ve been waiting for this. Open the Blood Fucker stream, or just keep listening. It’s showtime-” I whispered.

I picked up a chair and placed it in front of the camera, making sure it was in view. I heard the heavy footsteps approaching, his frame darkening the doorway as he assessed the situation. I could sense apprehension in Connor’s eyes. This was too good to be true, a young queer giving his life for his murderous live stream side project. “Right. Cool. Any particular way you, uh-”

“Dealers choice-” I reassured him. He looked so nervous, bless him. “Better get that mask on.”

He did so, and I smiled again. God, it felt so good to be in control. He pulled the black balaclava over his head, and turned on the camera. He was always pretty silent whenever he killed – at least from what I had seen.

“Evening. Something different today, guys – we got a willing one. Remember to donate to my bitcoin address at the bottom of the screen. Let’s get going-” He said, speaking in a voice almost twice as deep as when we had talked before.

Connor stepped behind me, running the sharp of his knife along my throat. I made sure to stay still just a moment too long, to let him believe that I was for real. I could hear him exhale, the tension releasing, and I jolted up, headbutting him in the process. He stumbled back, allowing me to pull out my own weapon from my pocket.

I chuckled a little as he looked up, processing what I had done. “That was easier than I thought” I scowled, looking him up and down.

He attempted to land a few punches on me, and I took the bruises as if they were gifts. It was going to take more than that now. Now the adreniline and sex were pumping through my blood, I knew deep down that this was going to end with a corpse under my feet. I sank my knife into his chest, but it clearly wasn’t deep enough. At least he made it to the ground.

I caught a glimpse into the camera, leaning forward slightly so the mic could pick me up. “I hope you’re listening-” I smiled, returning to watch Connor as he got to his feet once more. I charged at him, finally feeling his flesh sink against my knife, the full length of the blade disappearing into the skin.

That was how it worked. The first stab was always the hardest. The second sealed the deal. Now he had hunched over, and I dragged him into the view of the camera. I grabbed his hair, pulling him up to watch the camera.

“Now – Blood Fucker here is nothing more than a common, tasteless killer-” I yelled, making sure my microphone across the room could hear me. I reached to grab the balaclava, pulling it off and slapping Connor’s face.

“Cute, isn’t he? Well, I’m gonna kill him. And every live streamer on this goddamn planet. Long live the true sadism. Audio is king. Sound is what connects us, after all” I grinned, finally sinking my knife into his throat, pushing my nails into the skin and digging my way through the flesh, my fingers tangling with the cartilage of his Adam’s apple.

He stopped struggling, and I felt, deep down, that a part of him probably wanted to go this way. Dumb cunt.

I grabbed him by the nape of his neck, pulling his body towards the camera. I yanked the corpse up, his dull lifeless eyes staring down the barrel of the lens. “See? This is what you’ve become, huh? Baited into a honeypot by a fucking queer.”. I tossed the cadaver towards the microphone, hoping the crack of his bones would satisfy my devoted listeners.

I pushed the camera to the ground. Hearing it smash felt like a murder in itself, splinters of glass and shrapnel scattering across the floor.

I took comfort in the fact that Connor lived alone, sitting in the corner and basking in the afterglow of a job well done. I turned a cassette on my walkman, swaying slightly to the music. I leant against the wall as the music comforted me like a lover, wrapping around me and telling me what a good job I did.

Connor’s body shifted slightly, a guttural moan escaping his lifeless body. I smiled, knowing that I truly was a star.

Credit: Finch “PHOBIA” Murphy