I Am Dexter Morgan's Four-Button Henley

I am Dexter Morgan’s four-button henley -- the one he always wears to his kills.

I am the kind of shirt you’d be likely to see crumpled in the corner of a Sigma Chi bedroom, roiling in the commingled scents of Axe Body Spray, Jägermeister, and last night’s pseudo-consensual liaison with that freshman chick from Iowa.  Mercifully, I avoided that particular fate and was instead purchased by a man who murders for pleasure.

I’ve spent many faithful years clinging to Dexter’s back as he stalks and kills his victims.  Not that it needs to be said, but the guy’s a pro.  First, he administers the tranquilizer.  (Nobody appreciates what an art this is -- I mean, the dosage has to be just enough to make the person go instantly limp and remain unconscious long enough for Dex to set up the kill room, but not enough to induce a coma.  Does he measure out the stuff in advance?  I don’t know; I’m not around for that part.)  Next, he straps his subject down with lots and lots of Saran wrap.  This keeps him or her from escaping, but more importantly, it also obscures the subject's naughty bits.  If you’re looking up into the eyes of a dagger-wielding serial killer, the last thing you want to worry about is a wardrobe malfunction.  Finally, after a good hour of sawing and chopping, we sail off into the Biscayne Bay to dispose of the Hefty-bagged body parts.  I know, I know -- I’ve tried to convince him to switch to those biodegradable EcoBags, but the Dark Passenger isn’t riding the sustainability train.

Spending all my free time in Dexter’s closet means I have ringside seats to his love life -- and boy, has that changed over the years.  For a long time he was an avowed asexual, his sole “gratification” coming from the thrill of the kill.  Our beloved Rita started off as a platonic partner, as well as a sort of cover story to keep Dex from drawing suspicion as perpetually single men tend to do.  But then, one fateful Halloween night, Rita dressed up as Lara Croft and gave Dexter a really dynamite beejay and it was like the guy suddenly hit puberty at the tender age of thirty-five.  Since then, his libido’s been on fire!  Not even Rita’s tragic demise could extinguish it; I mean, she was barely in the ground when Dex met shell-shocked assault victim Lumen Pierce (Seriously!  "Lumen"!) and brought her back home for a bit of the old how’s-your-absent-father.  These days he’s giving the time to reformed thrill-killer Hannah McKay, which surprised the hell out of me because it really looked like he was about to off her instead!  Then again, maybe the whole stalking and kill-room-setup was just, like, foreplay?  I hate to say it but I’m starting to think that this guy might have some issues.

On a related matter, I count myself privileged to have witnessed Dexter’s proud ascension to fatherhood.  What a dad he’s turned out to be!  I mean, sure, he named his son "Harrison," which pretty much consigns him to a future as a mid-level John Deere executive.  And, okay, between his busy work schedule and his busier murder schedule, he probably spends a grand total of about a half-hour per month with the kid.  And there was that one time that Harrison got kidnapped and nearly killed as a direct result of Dex’s vigilantism.  But come on!  You try juggling the simultaneous responsibilities of a single dad and a good-guy serial killer!  Well, on second thought, don’t try it because it’s illegal and you’ll ruin your sister’s life and even if you really think you’re killing all the right people you’re probably going to screw up and murder some innocents.  But it’s still better than pledging Sigma Chi.


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