Fan Fiction ❯ Waxwork ❯ One-Shot

There is an art to fine killing, one that few people know about and even fewer practice; this is why most serial killers are frustratingly sloppy.

No, friend, this isn't the strangest “How-to” speech you've ever heard, this is just my story. Granted, most stories aren't found in manila envelopes in a back alley, next to a diner known for its “night owl” specials.

My name? I deign not to tell you; you would just have me reported to the police. Nor will I explain what I look like, or my past; that would be just as foolish. All of that will be told to you when you become the subject of my next masterwork.

There's an art museum on the corner; I suppose you've visited it a few times. Maybe you've even seen me. I don't work there, of course; I don't mix work and pleasure. I'm not one of its sponsors, and trust me, my artwork can't be found there, either.
Perhaps you've seen its famous waxwork hall, down a ways from the Prehistoric Art gallery? The one with the famous “Murderer's Row”, of course. Wax figurines of the most infamous killers in recorded history - from Vlad the Impaler to Edward Gein to Carl Panzram, they're gathered in that hall, locked in wax. Except one of them isn't.

I'm the only living thing in the Murderer's Row.

No, this isn't one of those “wax murderer dummy comes to life and resumes its model's killing spree” tales. For one, I am not made of wax. Although I stand there, day after day, never once moving a muscle, I'm as flesh and blood as you are.

Please suspend your disbelief, my friend. I'll explain how shortly.

The idea came to me the first time I visited the museum. I had already racked up quite the record of kills at this point - all random, all untraceable, but each one with an artistic touch. (You may have seen my earliest work, when I suspended a strangulation case from the West Bridge with a length of piano wire. Ghastly, wasn't it?) While touring the Murderer's Row, I saw one dummy that was a dead ringer for me, down to the tiniest physical detail. (Of course I won't tell you which one; I'm not that stupid.)

That's when I got the idea for my crowning achievement: I would become a living exhibit.

When the museum closed, I was still in it, hidden behind a tapestry from Cambodia. Sliding back out, I made my way back to the Murderer's Row, camera in hand.

I photographed every detail of that dummy, capturing its pose, its clothing, its expression… whatever could possibly be nailed down about that dummy, I nailed down. It was rather exciting, taking photographs while looking out for security guards at the same time.

The next day, I got the photos developed, and went to work. Over the course of a month, I set out to become the dummy. I practiced the pose, first in my normal outfit, then in an outfit I had specially made, one copying the dummy's clothing exactly.

I worked on muscular control, trying to slow my pulse and chill my skin. Granted, there were “Do not touch” signs all around the Murderer's Row, but there are far too many illiterates in the world. At the same time, I worked on controlling my breathing, slowing it to an unnoticeable rate. Those yoga lessons I once took in Tibet definitely helped.

Assuming the same pose for hours on end would not be a problem. I was already a master at standing stock-still, having used it any number of times while stalking my victims. And the dummy had a simple pose: standing up straight, arms at sides, one foot slightly advanced. (Don't think you can figure anything out with that fact - they ALL pose like that.) No tricky, muscle-cramping contortions would be necessary.

Perhaps the worst part was learning to sleep with my eyes open. In the end, it became necessary to purchase a bottle of eye drops.

At the end of the month, I felt ready to take over for the dummy. That night, I dressed in its clothes and headed to the museum.

Arriving at the Murderer's Row, I made the switch, hiding the dummy in a rarely used maintenance corridor. Stepping onto its podium, I struck the pose and waited for opening time.

The ruse has gone completely unnoticed, and so I am here, a living exhibit.

My training worked better than I could have thought. My skin is as pale and cold as pure wax; my pulse is a thin, wavy flutter, my breathing a slight rise and fall that cannot be seen through my clothes. I sleep standing up, eyes wide open, to the point where nobody can tell that I live.

During the day, I pose for the teeming masses. By night, I take the real dummy, place it back in its purloined spot, and go out for dinner. (The disadvantage of not being wax is that I do need to eat.) Once I'm done eating, I sometimes head out to add another to my tally of the dead.

Being a waxwork is a perfect alibi, don't you agree?

Of course, I do not spend every day at the museum. Sometimes I need a break, and besides, they often take the dummies out for maintenance. When my dummy is up for examination, I take the day off, usually getting some decent sleep. No matter how often I try, I can never get a truly satisfying amount of rest when I'm the exhibit.

For about two years now, I've hidden in the museum, taking the dummy's place. That thrill of hiding in plain sight while the police go insane looking for me has never faded.

While I'm posing, of course, I can never perform my real art. As much as I fantasize about it, leaping from my podium and raining death upon the crowd would blow my cover so badly that it boggles the mind. But there was this one girl…

She could have worked as a model, she was so pretty. Perfect skin, perfect teeth, perfect hair… and all the brains of a Chia Pet. Just my type.

I had seen her during a sudden waking, when some idiot pushed me. After making a mental resolution to butcher the fool, I saw her taking my picture. (It's hard to resist striking a pose whenever someone passes me with a camera. It nearly wrecked my cover during the first few months.) The urge to make her my next masterpiece overcame my sensibilities, and I made a mental note to stalk her once my “shift” was over.

To my surprise, after I had stepped off the podium for the night and put the real waxwork back, I heard a woman's voice. It seemed to be coming from the maze pavilion, part of their “Performance Art Spectacular” that was running at the time.

Sneaking into the maze, I surprised the poor girl. She started screaming, and it hit me: she thought I was the dummy!

I love little fringe benefits like that.

The police found her body draped across the arms of an old Nubian statue in the African exhibit. I, on the other hand, was at home, taking a break until the investigations died down.

If you're still reading this, then you probably don't believe a word of it. I don't expect you to, of course; the very idea of a serial killer pretending to be a wax dummy is quite the unusual one. But still, there's the slight chance that you'll tell someone, in which instance I can't afford to let you live.

Not that I would have in the first place, mind you. I just needed to brag. And now, you know too much.

I wouldn't suggest looking behind you just now.