If Marilyn Manson had 3 Days to live: The Conclusion Story

Makeshift Shoddery

I'm listening to one of the most romantic songs on Earth as I type this

*****

Agent Keller from the Illinois Bureau of Investigation was a young officer with long blonde hair that she kept in a bun to avoid nervously tugging at the ends. The force was no place to show weakness around crime scenes,

officer Keller knew that her nervous tick was tugging on her hair.

The desire to do so around dead bodies made the urge sickeningly violent. She could hardly keep herself from shaking as the thought rattled her mind.

Luckily, her task was photographing and processing the bodies, and at least it kept her hands busy.

"Officers, I'm ready, if you'll clear he bathroom." She said. Her voice was as it was normally, at least she had control over her own voice, if not her bladder. She crossed her legs when she entered the bathroom.

The toilet was at knee-height, and a safe distance from the bathtub.

And a respectful distance from his body.

She clicked on her recorder, and leveled the camera to her eye, snapping photos. Calmly, she described the scene into the microphone:

"Male; Forty three years; Caucasian; apparent suicide," she snapped two photos of his face.

His head was careened to the left shoulder, black raven hair snaked into the water of the bath. His eyelashes of the same color were long, and rested on his cheek bones, closed for good. His once musical mouth was shut in a small line, the bottom lip barely surfacing the water level.

Both shoulders shrugged on either side of him, and his long pale arms draped, upturned, on the edges of the porcelain tub.

"Multiple lacerations on the forearms and wrists suggest he cut himself open and bled to death. The bathwater is a tinted red, and blood leaks from the wounds to the tiled floor." She snapped more photos, and placed a marker with the number 2 next to the tub, on the tile. She circled, and placed a 3 next to another object.

"A blade is next to the left hand of the deceased, also wet with blood."

She bent down again, about to place a 4 next to a container of prescription Amoxicillin, when she heard the rush of water, and felt a hand grab her arm.

She rounded, finding herself staring at Brian Warner's open eyes, and her arm caught in his grip.

"JEEZUS CHRI-" she screamed, but he had reached out another bleeding arm and clapped her mouth closed.  

"Shhhh...." he said slowly, sanely. He blinked earnestly.

Tears sprang from her glistening brown eyes, for a second, she thought she had seen a demon, and was now going to die. Then she remembered she was a woman of the law, and gathered her nerve.

"I swear to god you are going to prison for this, Brian!" she whispered harshly against his palm.

A wry smile pulled on the corner of his newly alive lips, "It's nice to see you again, too, Annie."

More tears streamed down her face, angry ones. Hurt ones. Ones of relief, realizing that Brian wasn't dead.

He continued quietly, urgently, "I need your help. First, go into the medicine cabinet above our heads, there's something in there for you."

He slowly let his hands slip off of her, she staggered back, hand already on her radio. She paused, looking at his perfect eyes, remembering that he was such a good man. Such an honest, loving, man.

Maybe trusting him, and helping him, was worth a shot this time.

She walked on legs made of jelly, and found the cabinet. She slowly opened it, a pile of cash was in there, about to tumble out.

"Brian....this is more than fifty thousand dollars! What do you possibly need so badly that-"

"I need you to help me kill Marilyn Manson."

****