The Right Stitch
Perfection is made.
Nothing natural exists that is perfect. Hard work, blood, sweat and tears goes into the creation of a masterpiece. Painters can throw paint at the canvas and call it post-modern and it will sell. Sculptors can give their subject disjointed eyes and a slanted mouth and people will call it abstract.
But if you look at true masterpieces, they don’t fit that mould. When Da Vinci painted the Mona Lisa, each brush stroke was meticulously planned to create those piercing eyes. When Michelangelo carved his David each sinew was chiselled into being with precision accuracy.
Crime is just like art. There is a right way and a wrong way to do it. Max Meadows threw his paint at the canvas and none of it stuck, instead leaving him staring at a wall as blank as that canvas. Escher’s dioramas are just that bit off kilter that you’d call them abstract. The Cleaner puts his efforts into bleaching away the art.
Death Row is full of artists who can’t control their medium. Death Row is full of criminals who can’t control their wrongdoings.
If you’re going to get sent to this place that’s a literally hell on Arcadia, you may as well do it right.
I’m the Da Vinci placing each brush stroke. I’m the Michelangelo painstakingly carving out each muscle to perfection. My art is a masterpiece, and my crime is my art. When I kill, the body becomes part of my legacy. There would be no point throwing paint at the canvas and hoping for the Mona Lisa, and so I don’t throw my kills at the canvas either. When I kill them I study them. I prepare them meticulously. And although I don’t work with a paintbrush or a hammer and chisel, my tools of choice are just as important.
For you see rather than carved from marble my masterpieces are stuffed with premium quality materials. Rather than carving each sinew and muscle, I just use the ones already there. And rather than blindly hope for the best, I take painstaking care to make sure each step is taken correctly. From the last breath to the last stitch.
And that’s where my opponents fail. They can all kill, but their kills are sloppy and imprecise. A case of modern disposable art. None of them have that instinct for the real masterpiece, like me.
So when we line up, our art on our sleeves, they’ll all have splodged canvases, but me? I’ll have my own Mona Lisa. My own David. My own Sistine Chapel.
Right down to the very last stitch.
The right stitch. In the right place. At the right time.
Perfect. Just like every single person who joins my taxidermied army.
My army is carefully crafted over my whole lifetime, and it’s a big fuckin’ army. But don’t worry, there’s room for 8 more in that army.
I just hope I’ve got enough thread…