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Serial Killer Quotes

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Serial Killer Quotes

“There’s a subtlety to transphobia that we don’t see, because we’re not meant to see it. That subtly lies with making transphobic stereotypes so pervasive that they go unquestioned, unchallenged, undiscussed. So when trans and gender-nonconforming people call out these stereotypes, we should listen. Just because something is a common trope doesn’t mean it isn’t harmful, complicated and worthy of critique.”

“I especially liked it when, at the end, they begged for their lives. When they did that—and they all did that eventually—I would pretend to hesitate and see in their eyes the glimmer of a final, desperate hope. I let them have that for an instant. Then, I took it away. That—that extinguishing of their very last hope—I savored more than anything, even more than the extinguishing of their lives. You see, it was at that moment they could feel the presence of the Devil and would beg God to come and deliver them from him. And it was in that moment that I made them see—that they finally realized—God had been there all along. It was then they understood: the Devil was just God in his night attire.”

“Joe Hunt said he just kept shooting, a lot of times. He said that at one point Ron Levin's brain jumped out of his skull and fell on his chest. Joe seemed like he thought that was kind of neat in a weird way, as if it had surprised him. He was very casual when he was telling me all of this, matter-of-fact, except when he laughed about the brain.”

“Joe “Hunt” Gamsky still purports to be a devotee of Yogananda and is visited occasionally by members of Ananda Church of Self-Realization. I wonder, if they or anyone ever asks Joe how it felt to strangle poor little Richard Mayer; Or how he feels about getting away with that now?”

“The date rape drug he’d intended to give me has knocked him out so hard he’s barely even flinched, despite being dragged to the top of a twelve-storey building, stripped naked and bound to a post. His head lolls towards his chest. I stand back to admire him, taking in his slumped frame as he wilts against the pressure of his rope bindings. He looks Christ-like, vulnerable. His skin is grey in the murky moonlight. His body is incredible. Hardly surprising, since he seems to spend half his life at the gym. His stomach is taut, rippled with abs. His pecs are straight from a swimwear ad, his broad shoulders and ripped arms are built like a boxer’s. His biceps are strong, lined with veins that will soon cease to pump blood. He has the kind of arms that could pin you down so tightly you wouldn’t be able to move a muscle. His hands are large – the least attractive part of him: dry, thick, stubby. They’re the type of hands that could grip your wrists and stifle screams. Hands that could have killed me tonight. Hands that would have hurt me. Hands that would have held me in place while he raped me. I let my eyes wander down to his cock, which would probably have been pounding away inside me around now if things had gone his way. I could tell pretty early into our date that he was a predator. Perhaps it takes one to know one, but I could see it in his dark eyes and sly glances, the hungry way he took in my body, the type of questions he asked, his eagerness to buy me drinks. He probably didn’t think I had it in me to notice. Of course he didn’t. He just saw my shiny, sweeping hair, my lashes, my clothes, my smile. He saw what everybody else sees: my mask.”

“Shower while there were two dead bodies in the bathtub, and he was sane. He drilled holes in the heads of living people to make them his unresisting companions, and he was sane. He ate a bicep which he fried in a skillet, tenderised and sprinkled with sauce, and he was sane. For hours he lay with corpses, hugging them, cherishing them, and he was sane. He kept eleven assorted heads and skulls, and two complete skeletons, for eventual use in a home-made temple, and he was sane.”

“Williams looks up in surprise. “So, she died yesterday, early morning, before sunrise?” He questions the lieutenant. Jenkins nods, a look of disdain on her face. “You’ve been right all along. Consistent pattern. Too consistent to be coincidence. It’s definitely him. Apartment looks cleaner than is realistically plausible. It’s as though no one even lived here... It’s him. He was here,” Jenkins tells him. She taps her pen on her notebook periodically as she speaks. A nervous tick. Williams notices she wants this killer caught just as much as he does. Williams nods in agreement. Being vindicated is a hollow victory. All along, he has been hoping for some monumental turn of events to prove him wrong. In his heart, he knows he will never be that lucky. But here they are, gathered around another crime scene, the truth slowly revealing itself.”

“No murderer had before or has since caused such a sensation, passed so quickly into folklore or gained an image – top hat, cape and Gladstone bag – that is truly iconic: as instantly recognisable as Sherlock Holmes's deerstalker and meerschaum pipe, and as capable of conveying a meaning understood around the world – even by people who know nothing about the Ripper or what he did, or that he, unlike Holmes, actually existed.”

“I wonder if anyone watches me, if someone across the street sees the glow of my bedroom, the silhouette of my canopy, the flick of my vape light, the press of my palm against glass. Do they see a girl? Or do they see the monster inside the maiden? I could be your neighbor. I could be the one who waves at your dog, the one who compliments your shoes on the train, the one who holds the door for your precious daughter. And I could be the last thing you ever see.”

“I could tie someone up with that silk scarf and throw him into the river, his bloated body bobbing up in the morning to spoil the tourists’ breakie. I could stab someone’s eardrums in with the stiletto of my candy-pink heels. I could slit someone’s eyeballs open with my mermaid scale sequin bomber jacket. And I’d look fabulous doing it. I think about that sometimes. The utility of beauty.”

“People like them never expect darkness to crawl into their perfect lives. Robots, both of them, NPCs wandering around in the matrix as a reminder to fall in line with the made up fallacy of an American Dream—a nickname for an idea so perfectly aligned with its inevitable destiny of doom it sounds preplanned. They pose as a remnant of the nuclear family, an idiotic ideal that catastrophically blew apart nearly immediately after conception—an intelligent design behind the hellscape we know as society.”

“Loneliness was never meant for the living; it was especially designed for the dying by Satan himself. Whether we’re surrounded by loved ones or not, it’s only the one slipping into the next world that is experiencing death. Dying is the loneliest moment of anyone’s life—and everyone seems hell-bent on getting there as fast as possible.”

“I also remember when I watched Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer [1990] at, like, age 15. That scared the crap out of me. Because it didn't operate inside the usual conventions of the horror genre in the way that I could accept. I can accept horny teenager counselors being murdered at camp. But I couldn't accept the derangement of Henry: Portrait of a Serial Killer, which was that anyone could be murdered at any moment - whole families, with no build-up music and no meaning. It terrified me.”

“In a brilliant fusion of fact and fiction, Jayne Anne Phillips has written the novel of the year. It's the story of a serial killer's crimes and capture, yes, but it's also a compulsively readable story of how one brave woman faces up to acts of terrible violence in order to create something good and strong in the aftermath. Quiet Dell will be compared to In Cold Blood, but Phillips offers something Capote could not: a heroine who lights up the dark places and gives us hope in our humanity.”

“We read about secret lives that people have on the Internet, or alternate lives of a serial killer where the whole family didn't know that their dad or their brother or their child was that. There are all the things in our heart that no one really knows, and I thought that that was interesting territory to explore.”

“Lately, the only thing keeping me from being a serial killer is my distaste for manual labor.”

“If you ask me, we could do with a little less motivation. - The people who are causing all the trouble seem highly motivated to me. - Serial killers, stock swindlers, drug dealers, Christian Republicans.”

“"Only write what you know" is very good advice. I do my best to stick to it. I wrote about gods and dreams and America because I knew about them. And I wrote about what it's like to wander into Faerie because I knew about that. I wrote about living underneath London because I knew about that too. And I put people into the stories because I knew them: the ones with pumpkins for heads, and the serial killers with eyes for teeth, and the little chocolate people filled with raspberry cream and the rest of them.”