Wednesday, November 6, 2019
By Randy Romero
The cellar was jet black and freezing. Its walls were soundproof. Not like it mattered. The property was secluded, tucked away on the back roads of Westlake. No one was around to hear anything.
The Surgeon’s polished equipment glistened under the dim lights. His patient was splayed out on an operating table that was bolted to the floor.
“All those charlatans. Those sycophantic simpletons. They praise the wicked, the immoral, the corrupt. They worship false idols. And they dare to call me a monster. Foolish parasites. The media calls me The Surgeon because they lack creativity. It’s funny though, they actually got things right for once. Score one for those hate mongering bastards. Should the police ever apprehend me and reveal my true identity to the world, the media can gave themselves a congratulatory pat on the back.
I’m a surgeon by day, and a killer by night. A sinner and a saint. An angel to some, a demon to others. To my patients, I am a God, a savior. To my victims, I am the devil. For every life I save, I take one in return. Confused? I’m sure you are. Why would I dedicate all my energy to saving lives only to take the lives of others? Well, I could give you a load of crap, make up some excuse. But the truth is, there is no reason. I kill simply because I enjoy it. I’m sure they’ll say I’m mad, crazy. But I’m as sane as I’ve ever been. The only feeling better than saving a life is taking one. It gives you a rush like you wouldn’t believe.
I remember Grady Miller. He was my first. I cut him open, took out all the organs, and sewed him back up. No wonder they call me The Surgeon. Grady was the first…of many. If they ever do catch me, I’ll probably be sentenced to death. I wonder what will happen when they execute me. Hell won’t want me. Heaven won’t know what to make of me. But both will be in awe of my work.”
The priest–bound to the operating table–was speechless. He had that helpless look that The Surgeon had seen innumerable times before. He called it the death stare. That look of fear but also acknowledgement as they accepted their death was imminent.
“Well, Padre, thanks for listening to my confession. I don’t expect you to absolve me. I don’t desire redemption or absolution. Now, let’s get this show on the road…”
The Surgeon took a razor-sharp scalpel from the instrument tray and slit his “patient” down the middle, the blood spurting through the air in quick jets. The Surgeon wiped some of the blood from his face and checked his watch.
“Time of death, 12:14 AM.”