Beauty Pageant

This is our second story, dealing with a slightly disturbed individual

He hated the bus, too many people. Even though there were only three (counting himself) an old hag and some young, fleshy brunet, easy on the eyes, at least. Couldn't wait to get off, just get off this small, cramped contraption. Holding his briefcase tight, he stroked it, like one would try to soothe a dying man, it'll be ok, we'll be home soon, he whispered to his briefcase, and his tools. So shiny, gleaming, gleaming, gleaming they are! He needed to get home now (!!!!!) and use them! The voices, incessant, use them, use me they cried into his psyche. No one would suspect him would they, not if he wore a suit, and nice shoes, and a nice house with a convertible. Not if he attended church every Sunday, ate all those awful (!!!!!) cookies at those school bake sales his kids dragged him to. Not if he had a beautiful (albeit plastic) wife whose brain was the size of a trampled grape. No, he was fine, never better actually. He kept his kids satiated with cartoons and copious amounts of high calorie snack food. Anyways, this generation never turned their IPod’s off long enough to notice which season it is. It's funny, he thought, how a society so intertwined with technology knows absolutely nothing. That’s why they were so easy to find, men and women dying to be beautiful, he would grant them their wish, most definitely. The bus halted to a stop, the brunet walked off, it was his next. He opened his briefcase, and checked his instruments, it would be waiting for him when he arrived home.
 
                          Beauty Pageant: An ode to Perfection
 
Off the bus, and one, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten steps to his front door, he opened it slowly and went inside. The house was dimly lit, the only light permeated from the kitchen. He preferred it to be dark, he stepped into the living room and both of his children were sitting on the couch, side by side, staring intently at the blank television screen. They didn't even greet him when he entered,
 
TV off, his son said
 
Turn TV on, his daughter said
 
He proceeded to grab the remote and promptly clicked the red button labeled power. a cartoon featuring a fat  hippo graced the screen.
 
Here he said, and threw a piece of chocolate at the two children, they fought furiously over it, tearing at the others hair, biting, and scratching, the two were beginning to bleed and he left the room. It wasn't that he didn't love his kids, he did, but keeping then distracted like this allowed him to complete his work in relative peace. He went to his bedroom and noticed his beloved spouse, laying in bed, blanket wrapped tightly around her like a white funeral shroud.
 
Hi, she said, copious amounts of tissues littered the room, scattered in heaps along the edge of the bed, he hated when she did this.
 
Paris Hilton killed herself, his wife managed to say through a torrent of tears, they say that it was a result of a deep depression she entered after bruising her face in a purging accident! Who will the kids look up to now!
 
It'll be ok, he said, and laid a comforting hand onto her trembling shoulder, now take this dangerously high dosage of xanax I bought for you and sleep.
 
She acquiesced to his request, and within a few minutes she was asleep, tears still streaked across her face. He left the room and took one final glance into the den, apparently, his son had lost the struggle, for his throat was torn opened, a large, gaping hole, a bloody maw. A thin jet of blood squirted out of the wound, staining the carpet, his daughter was now savoring each bite of the succulent chocolate. He told her to clean up the mess, and he left.
 
One, two, three, four, five, six, seven, eight, nine, ten, eleven, twelve, and he was at the top of the stairs, directly above their bedroom. What stood before him, an ebony door appearing in striking contrast with the sharp white of the surrounding wallpaper. It was locked at all times, but he had the key (oh yes he did!) The door opened, and it was still there, thank God, his package was still alive!
 
She was sitting on a black chair, hands chained behind her back, white rag crammed into   her mouth. She shook back and forth when she saw him, brown hair shaking violently with each drastic movement. He approached her, removed his jacket, as well as his shirt, exposing his chiseled torso to her. She began to sweat, and he removed the rag from her mouth.
 
Please! she said, I've been waiting for such a long time!
 
I know, I know, he said, and gently stroked her dark, wavy hair.
 
It was then he opened his briefcase, the one he always carried with him, and she saw them, rows of surgical instrument, thin knives, some stitches, hooks, and two of the pale globs typically used for breast enlargement.
 
He smiled
 
Please, make me beautiful, and she began to cry, I'm so ugly she screeched, fix me!
 
He placed his hand over her mouth to quiet her, she obeyed his request.
 
Now, dear, he said, lifting one of the knives, this may hurt a bit but in the end, it will be worth it, you will be famous. Like all of them!
 
He opened the velvet curtains she had been facing, pulling on a yellow rope than dangled from the brown ceiling.
 
Several men and women, five to be exact, adorned the white walls. Long dead, skin resembling that of a porcelain doll, a collection of perfect eternal companions to this man. The beauty astounded her, their faces were so pure, blemish less, and divine. She yearned to reach that level of perfection, even in nudity every orifice was shaped in the perfect manner.
 
Now he said, your breasts are not large enough, lets make them bigger
 
Oh, of course, she said
 
He removed her shirt and lowered the blade into her flesh; the skin welcomed it, and gladly opened itself. He smiled, and with broad strokes he neatly fixed the globs inside, he then ever so carefully stitched them back up. Staring at her breasts, the skin a swollen red, and the stitching apparent, she immediately realized how close she was to reaching perfection.
 
Keep going she said
 
Gladly
 
Now your lips, he said, who would ever want those upon them?
 
Absolutely, you're right she said
 
He used his silver instrument of purity to open them and he inserted what resembled stuffing, making them that much more pleasurable to glance upon and suckle one's lips.
 
Almost done, now look at yourself, he held up a silver mirror and she now realized that she was in such a state that warranted herself being added to his collection. Blood smeared her lips and beyond like lipstick, her eyes bloodshot but beautiful, it was in this state he would adore her.
 
Please, she said, i want to be with you forever, and the tears began to caress her cheeks.
 
Oh my dear, and he kissed her passionately, you will; and it was then he used the same exquisite blade to slit her throat, one swift continuous motion, and the cycle of rebirth was once again completed.
 
She seemed to mutter the words thank you before she passed, and he was ever so welcomed to please her.
 
In the end, he thought, she was his favorite so far, the rest of them protested futilely, but she, she knew that this was transcendence and he was an artist, she was merely the canvas. Da Vinci, Michelangelo, they used oils and he, flesh. He held up her head, and stared into her eyes, dark as two coals, absolutely magnificent. He would have to bleach her soon, in order to turn the skin that porcelain white she so envied in her last few moments. He was glad she understood, it was then he lifted the mirror, stained in some places with her scarlet fluid, he looked, well, flabby, he would have to hit the gym soon, so many prospects begging for the perfection they witnessed in magazines. Satisfied with his work for today, he went downstairs and had a filling meal, it tasted particularly good tonight.

Author's Note

The intention was to be a little creepy, tell me if it worked to that effect