This premade cover was designed by BoN Editions
SERIAL KILLER was a typographic thriller book cover. With his brown wrapping-paper appearance and letters that looked as though they had been assembled from fingerprints and criminal case files, he gave the impression of being wanted in at least three countries.
In reality, he regularly got lost on his own street.
For three years, he had been exchanging messages on Instagram with a man who competed in motorcycle races, wore black racing leathers, and rode at 200 km/h with the same casual ease most people brought to sitting down for Sunday lunch.
The book cover admired him. Especially the way the man leaned against his motorcycle in photographs. As though the entire world belonged to him and he was still deciding whether he actually wanted it.
SERIAL KILLER wanted to be like that, too.
Unfortunately, he didn’t own a motorcycle.
What he did have was a red spring-mounted rocking horse, which he had acquired when a playground was being demolished. The horse was missing an ear, its spring squeaked, and if anyone leaned too far forward, the handlebars hit them in the face.
SERIAL KILLER called these features sporty character.
Every evening, once the playground was empty, he climbed aboard and practised riding. In his imagination, he raced along coastal highways, crossed deserts, and pulled into a petrol station with one effortless, elegant movement.
In reality, he usually tipped backwards and slammed his spine against the spring.
One Friday evening, a message arrived.
I’ve got a race tomorrow. Come to the track! We could finally meet in person.
SERIAL KILLER stared at his phone for a long time. Over three years, they had told each other almost everything. The man knew about the book cover’s peculiar personality, and the book cover knew about every motorcycle the man had ever owned.
There was just one thing they had never discussed.
SERIAL KILLER had never managed to get anywhere under his own power.
I’ll be there, he finally wrote.
The following morning, he ordered a taxi.
The driver was somewhat surprised when a book cover appeared on the pavement with a red rocking horse tucked under his arm.
“Are we taking that as well?”
“Of course.”
“Got a kid?”
“No.”
“Then what’s the horse for?”
“I’m going to a motorcycle race.”
The driver asked no further questions. He had been driving taxis for twenty years and had seen worse, although he couldn’t immediately think of a single example.
At the racetrack, the air smelled of petrol fumes and hot rubber. Engines growled, mechanics tightened the final bolts, and spectators slowly filled the grandstands.
The man was waiting near the starting line.
He was tall, with dark stubble and black motorcycle leathers. When he spotted SERIAL KILLER, he broke into a broad smile and gave him a hug.
“Finally!”
Then he looked down at the rocking horse.
“And who’s this?”
“My motorcycle.”
The man examined the red animal. He pressed its head, which tipped forward before springing back.
“Nice suspension.”
“Racing suspension.”
“How much horsepower?”
“One. But he’s got a terrible temper.”
The man burst out laughing, then helped the book cover position his rocking horse beside the starting line.
“Come on, I’ll show you the track!”
Unfortunately, SERIAL KILLER lost his sense of direction before they even reached the grandstands. He stopped briefly to look at a snack bar, and by the time he turned around, he had absolutely no idea which direction he had come from.
The man eventually found him outside the ladies’ toilets.
“What are you doing here?”
“Looking for you.”
“But I went the other way!”
“Then I was looking in the wrong place.”
At this point, the man began to suspect that his friend’s motorcycling career might require some assistance.
He offered to take SERIAL KILLER for a lap on his racing bike.
The book cover looked up at the enormous machine.
“How fast does it go?”
“Two hundred.”
“And how fast could it go if you were being very careful?”
“A hundred.”
“And if you were ill?”
The man laughed.
“Perhaps we’d better stick to the rocking horse.”
The race was about to begin. The man put on his helmet, climbed onto his motorcycle, and waved to the book cover, who was waiting beside the starting line on his little red horse.
The lights went out.
The engines roared, and within seconds the motorcycles disappeared around the first bend.
SERIAL KILLER leaned forward.
The rocking horse tipped backwards.
He leaned backwards.
The rocking horse tipped forwards.
After a few minutes, he found a surprisingly good rhythm. His shoes squeaked against the asphalt, the spring groaned in protest, and the book cover stared straight ahead with the fierce determination of someone fighting for a world championship.
At first, the spectators laughed.
Then someone started clapping.
By the time the racers completed their first lap, an entire grandstand was cheering him on.
For the first time in his life, SERIAL KILLER felt that he belonged somewhere.
He didn’t care that his motorcycle wasn’t moving. He didn’t care that the others were already on their third lap. The wind wasn’t blowing through his hair, mainly because he didn’t have any, but he considered that a minor technical detail.
When the man finally crossed the finish line, SERIAL KILLER was still bouncing at the start.
The man removed his helmet and walked over.
“So, how was it?”
“Fantastic!”
“How far did you get?”
“I’m not entirely sure.”
The man looked at the scratch in the asphalt beneath the rocking horse. It was approximately twenty centimetres long.
“I think we’ve got our answer.”
Later, they took a photograph together.
The man sat on his enormous racing motorcycle, while SERIAL KILLER posed beside him on his red rocking horse, leaning slightly to one side because the spring had grown tired.
The man uploaded the photograph to Instagram.
We’ve been friends for three years. Today, we finally rode together.
The comments soon began appearing.
This is amazing!
Respect!
That red machine is an absolute beast!
SERIAL KILLER spent the entire evening staring at his phone.
He had never been so happy in his life.
The following morning, the man sent him a message.
Did you get home safely?
SERIAL KILLER replied immediately.
Not exactly.
What happened?
The taxi driver dropped me off in the wrong place.
Where are you?
At a playground.
Which one?
I don’t know. But I’ve found some excellent company.
The man asked for a photograph.
In the picture, SERIAL KILLER was sitting among twelve spring-mounted rocking horses. One had no head, another was missing its tail, and a third didn’t rock at all.
What are you doing there? the man asked.
I’ve started a motorcycle club.
What’s it called?
Hell’s Toddlers.
Are you the president?
Naturally.
Why you?
Because I’m the only one with racing experience.
The man laughed for a long time.
Then he asked:
So when are you coming home?
SERIAL KILLER looked around the playground.
As soon as I find the exit.
Continue the Conversation
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Love the Story? Meet SERIAL KILLER!
He looks dangerous. He dreams of speed. Unfortunately, his motorcycle is a playground rocking horse.
SERIAL KILLER is a unique typographic thriller premade book cover with a bold, unconventional design.
Looking for a killer cover for your next thriller? This one is ready for a new adventure.
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