Aimsley Amis had lost his polished and speckled marbles at the age of 40 and couldn’t be persuaded to find them. At an age when most men grow a goatee, have an affair with a young blonde and squander the piggy bank pennies on a Lamborghini, a concatenation of circumstances including being fired, getting stuck in interminable traffic jams, and being habitually unlucky at the races, led Aimsley to go stark raving mad – or, in Mr. Ricky Martin’s pop vernacular – he went loco.
The unfairness of life stalked him like a clumsy polar bear across the frigid and lonely landscape of life and took one too many nasty swipes at him and left him more deranged and disordered than an absent-minded ivy-league professor’s chamber drawer.
The spark of reason was obscured under the proverbial bushel and the garish glare of homicidal mania took centre stage. Aimsley turned – as many self-respecting middle-aged men who go bonkers do – into a serial killing assassin.
With great relish and greater furtiveness he sounded the death knell of a dozen or so mortals and sent them plummeting into the black abyss of eternity.
He couldn’t get enough of it – he couldn’t sit still without snuffing out the life of some poor chap or the other. Day after macabre day he trailed his unsuspecting victims with a crowbar in his hand and bloodlust in his head and, quite literally, struck when the iron was hot.
The prospect of signing people’s death warrant was titillating and he dotted every bloody eye stroked every gory teeth with great flair and panache to the accompaniment of double bassoon beseeches and desperate Uillean pipe pleadings. It made his heart bleed to hear their cries for mercy but he made sure it was their blood the cops had to wipe off the walls.
And so, as was to be expected, there was a nationwide manhunt for Aimsley. The dragnet was spread and after much blood, sweat and tears Amisley promptly found himself entangled in the steely meshes of the law.
The details of his crimes that emerged at the hearing made the blood run cold, and the modern day Daniel wielding the sword of justice condemned Aimsley to life imprisonment in isolation.
The prospect of a lifetime behind bars without being able to kill anyone was just too much to bear. Like a starving wolf on the prairies he stared ravenously at the other inmates scurrying about like sprightly chickens and he nearly collapsed in desperation.
He had to kill. So he took to squashing spiders, stomping cockroaches, and throttling the rats and other assorted creatures that infested his cell.
Soon enough, he had killed every living thing in his cell. There was nothing alive left within his blood imbrued grasp.
The desire to welter in blood left him panting like an exhausted cheetah after a futile chase on the Serengeti. He stared demented panther looks and grimaced hungry vulture smiles. He chattered incessant monkey chats with himself and howled loony toon wolf tunes to the moon.
Finally in his desperation to kill, he slipped on his suicidal trunks and waded into the sea of oblivion. And that was the end of Aimsley Amis. He had gone to meet the Imperial Serial Killer in the sky.
