Origin: His history is made up of fragments in which many components conflict. Milkman was apparently raised by his father in the hills of Tennessee; there are no records of his mother. It is believed that she left befor his 7th birthday. His father knew that he was different and abused him as a way to direct the anger from the failures in his own life. His father was a failed delivery man.
Milkman grew up alone, learning how to read from an old chest of classic magazines. His father died sometime near his 10th birthday and Milkman survived in their mountain shack alone. The dwelling was a little more than a dilapidated mobile home with a shabby wooden add-on bound to it to add an additional bedroom.
As his body continued to change unnaturally, he developed a second personality which was populated by his father’s anger. His skin became milky white and his eyes melded into a deep amber hue.
Milkman became determined to become a hero to his father’s rage by saving local communities as the delivery man of death. He found that communities came together whenever there was a slaughter of a family. It was his ‘special’ form of art.
He began to choose neighborhoods that he felt were ‘broken’ and studied them for the family that was most to blame. He particularly blamed single parent households. Once the family was chosen, he would systematically kill each one, often saving the mother for last. He felt that she ‘NEEDED’ to watch because his mother left. After each murder scene, the last one killed was found with Milkman’s unique saliva dried across their face. He licked each victim from their lower jaw, across their cheek, and up to their hairline before killing them.
He would always unplug the refrigerator and leave a bottle of open milk on the front porch to sour as time passed; for him it represented the evolution of communities and the souring of relationships.
On the walls of each home he would leave his tell-tale signature of, ‘ISAIAH 60:16’ in blood.
Milkman is responsible for the deaths of 7 families across 4 states and 2 deputy officers, totaling 26 people.
He was captured behind a local convenience store in a small town located in Mississippi, licking a woman who he had just killed. He escaped the jail by killing the two deputy officers the next day.
I visited her that night not so long ago. She was watching television.
She didn’t know that I was in the closet beside her front door. In fact, she didn’t know that I was in there all evening. I enjoyed watching that love story with her… even if I did it from the shadows.
She never made me bored, she giggled at the cute parts, cried at the sad parts, and topped it all off with a small carton of butter-pecan ice cream at the end. She made our friendship special.
She was new to the neighborhood and no one spoke to her.
The kids next door wouldn’t even speak to her daughter as they passed by their front gate. I guess they didn’t like little girls that still played with dolls. They didn’t like little girls that waved to everyone. They didn’t like new little girls in the neighborhood.
I wanted to help.
I decided to help.
That’s why I like the shadows and the milk. They’re both pure.
It wasn’t until that night which made me realize how special our friendship really was. I couldn’t wait to lick her face.
My father would be proud of me.
The first time I visited her house was yesterday. I left a bottle of milk in the closet. I left it to spoil. The same as she was doing to the neighborhood by being new.
The next night I entered through her patio window and waited in the closet with my milk. I uncapped it as a present for her to find.
She didn’t search for the stench until her show ended and she finished her ice cream.
That was when she opened the closet and found me.
My father would be so proud.
The Serial Killer in Mr. Clover’s Neighborhood
Mr. Clover loved his pistachio ice-cream with chocolate bits added on top. He would eat a small cone of it and drink a fresh carton of milk when he finished it to lie to himself about health after given in to his weakness.
He loved his women young, bored, and ‘taken’ just as much as the lies he told to himself about his weight, his success, and his achievements. He would tell Tanya, the new wife down the street, that he was the one who got rid of the drug dealers in their community. He would visit her with a smile each Monday morning, after her husband left, as a courtesy… he just wanted to make sure that she was settling in to the neighborhood. It need not be mentioned, that as head of the Home-Owner’s Association, this was a duty he took most seriously and ‘intimately’.
His sin after each late-Monday escape from their rendezvous would be a Pistachio ice-cream treat topped with chocolate bits and a fresh carton of milk. He would get them both from the small Milk-and-Ice Cream truck that had start visiting their neighborhood not much longer than when pretty-little Tanya arrived.
The truck met him at the park every Monday as though it was his confirmation that each of his visits was a success and he could never be caught.
“How ya’ doing today, Tevvy?” the older man would ask the young ice-cream truck attendant every week.
“Good, Mr. Clover. I’m doing good.” He’d always answer. “How was it today, Mr. Clover? Y’know I gotta know. Did you see her today? What happened?”
The old man did as he had always done for the last couple of months that this had been going on. He’d look around carefully, lean against the ice cream truck, bite into his treat, and give all of the details to the youth listening intently with eyes wide open filled with awe.
The old man’s whispers were rude and vulgar, topped off with lustful tales of his sexual prowess and superior smarts. He made it known that the married woman, seventeen years his younger, was kept happy by his performance and charisma.
Tevvy’s pale white face dared to blush at the things he was told. He couldn’t pull away from Mr. Clover’s tales nor help but to idolize his confidence and charisma. Tevvy really liked him.
Each day after Mr. Clover finished his ice cream treat and stories he would depart with a comment about his own home, “Well, Tevvy, my boy… I have to get back to my wife, kids, and boring life. When you get my age, son, you’ll realize that any Monday morning you get in the arms of a beautiful woman, other than your own, is as good as things get in life!”
With that comment and a wave from the ice cream and milk salesman, Tevvy, Mr. Clover would disappear back to his world as a hardworking husband and a loving father.
That was until he missed his visit to the ice cream truck one morning… and then another.
That was until rumors began to circulate through the neighborhood.
Comments around the ice cream truck were made about the ‘loose’ new young wife at the end of the block whose husband left her. Comments were made about Mr. Clover’s children fighting at school and his wife stuck in a deep stupor of depression and medicine. News spread about their misery, fights, and failing marriage.
The grass in Mr. Clover’s front yard grew, his tree limbs hung, and his pool was green. His car was home more often than not and his home became as much of an eye-sore as pretty-little Tanya’s at the end of the block.
Tevvy knew he had to do something.
The pale youth prayed about it before action. He read scripture after scripture from his father’s old leather Bible seeking guidance for his actions. There were so many verses on community and helping his fellow man, until he resolved that this was another one of the divine tests that he knew he had to pass.
It was a test… just like the others.
In his mind, he would be tested like this until he could change the world. He had to keep doing this until he learned perfection. Tevvy had to humble himself and to save something greater than him. He had to save Mr. Clover’s neighborhood.
He knew to watch his home, because it was inevitable that one of their fights would make him leave. When it happened, it was nothing more of a repeat that he has witnessed so many times before. Mr. Clover barged out of the front door staggering to the door of his Buick and drove it down the street weaving from side to side as though death would be a blessing for him. Tevvy knew he had to act fast.
It was Mr. Clover’s daughter’s window that was open.
It was his youngest son that noticed him first; Tevvy’s amber eyes gleamed against the shrouds of darkness as an interruption only second to sound. The older son challenged him, but that did not last long. A few bumps on the floor and walls, followed by the staleness of night time silence was enough to bring their mother to the top of the stairs.
She was important to Tevvy. It was important that she was last. No form of art… is art, without appreciation. No applause can ever be appreciated without the sound that comes from it.
Her grunts were delightful to the ice cream and milk salesman; her challenge and fight… almost erotic. Pulling her into the room, by her hair, with her ‘silenced’ children was more difficult than normal because of her size, not to mention that the floor was slippery.
Her scream… music.
This was the applause that Tevvy waited for.
It was from the heart and it was real. She screamed until exhaustion. Just beyond that Tevvy made her forever quiet. He showed his gratitude by lying with her amongst the children for all but awhile, and then slowly licked her face from her jawline to the edge of her hair. For him, her tears were deliciously salty. This made him lay beside her for ten minutes more.
His clothes became a piece of his art as the purity of its white cloth took on the crimson hue from his handiwork. He carried a small bag with him down to the kitchen visiting each room in the house just to get to know Mr. Clover better. He just ‘knew’ that he would be proud of him. Stopping beside the sink, he shoved his hand against the wall and wedged the refrigerator plug from the outlet.
“Things are going to spoil now.” He whispered to himself with glee.
Pulling his shirt off, he used it as a paintbrush to complete his canvas of art on the living room wall. He wrote:
The youth opened the front door and pulled a bottle of warm milk from his bag. He opened it and left it on the porch beside the door before leaving. His walk through their driveway was more of a light dance as he began to sing nursery rhymes into the night.
He then stopped at the edge of the road as though he was interrupted and stared off to the side. “What?” he asked. “I – I did it,
Daddy. I did it. You don’t have to keep at me for a while now. I helped this neighborhood, Daddy.”
The pale youth jerked around quickly as though he was paranoid then looked back at the house, “See, Daddy, I made it pretty. It’s like my ice-cream and milk. It’s perfect. Mr. Clover don’t have to be sad anymore. He can go with pretty-little Tanya now.”
The boy stood straight, shifting his attention back to the street. “I gotta go now. I did everything that I could. God gonna love me now, Daddy. He’s gonna love me now; at –at least until next time.” He then ran to his small ice-cream truck and drove into the night.
This town would never forget the horrors left by… the Milkman.