Diary of a Mad Man

Kanda Metropolitan Police
Desk of Constable Ives
Exhibit A, case #003044
Partial Transcription, Suspect Connor Malloy's notebook

02 Aug

We've made it through the D's. I must say this has been a most excellent idea. Ian's idea to pay off the steward to let us have some fun with these "noble" ladies has been quite satisfying. One day a week, our helmets turn off, and we get time to play. Mrs Abbott, I'm sure you didn't realize that we'd be starting with you. Lets see, Abbott, Abrams, Algood, Alphonse...such lovely ladies. Monday, however, I found a true gem on the lower decks; a lovely pair sitting next to each other. Duchamp, Helen. Ian prefers the Turkish girl next to her, being that she's been deflowered already and therefore fair game, but I am content with my little French minx.

I sat there for what seemed like hours, her tender flesh under my hands, her taste lingering on my lips. Ian warned not to sodomize her too often or too vigorously, or else she'll know something other than the usual "attentions" the crew are prone to has occurred. Its taken most of the month, but her body is starting to accommodate my length and girth. How I want to slip that helmet off and look into her eyes as I'm sliding it into her, my hands upon her breasts and member in her bum. I wonder what color they are?

Oh well, tomorrow, we start with the E's before we must sleep again. Only a few of them, starting with a lovely blonde on the upper deck named Abigail Easton. Its a bit unnerving to do it right with the husband sitting there and all, but so far no one has awoken. And while Ms Duchamp's rectum has been a fine companion this week, I am growing tired of her, and look forward to wetting my prick in a proper cunny.

09 Sept

Something is wrong. We were playing dress up with the girls when the horn sounded. The lights went out, and it appears that we missed our opportunity get back to our seats and put back on our Cinematon helmets. We tried them, but they were already locked in a Minifold. Seems we're stuck awake till next week. I'm sure we'll be able to entertain ourselves.

22 Nov

The helmets still won't work, and I fear for our sanity. Ian swears that he didn't brutalize Ms Zanetti, but who else could there be? Poor girl, deflowered and defiled right next to her fiance. He didn't even redress her, just left her sitting in the remnants of her crimson virginity. The crew is all in a deep, deep slumber, and impossible to rouse. We've had to break into the cargo hold for food. I never thought I'd slaughter a sleeping horse for food, but we must do what we must to survive.

01 Dec
Ian is getting worse. He won't leave the cargo hold alone for fear of some "demon" on the ship. He claims to hear this ghostly apparition stalking the halls at night. He claims it was not he, but this ghoul who has been deflowering the maidens on the upper deck. The crew has not yet awoken. I've hidden a dagger under my bed. I can hear him now, pumping his seed into his Turkish delight after he has given Ms Duchamp's rump a good pounding. He won't speak to me when he is finished, rather he'll stair at me with his tired, bloodshot eyes before drinking himself to sleep.

25 Dec
Well, that brightened my mood a bit. We found a shipment of Brandy, and proceeded to celebrate the birth of our Lord with much debauchery. I don't believe we got the right clothes back on the girls. It won't matter anyway. Our unkempt faces and fateful gaze will surely give us away once the crew wakes up.

26 Dec
My God, he was right. I heard him, clear as day, walking on the upper deck. Ian was dead-drunk and could not be roused. His heavy footfalls echoing menacingly on the iron sides of the ship. I am ashamed to admit that I am too frightened to see if this figure is real, or the product of my slipping sanity.

06 Jan
Ian is dead. My God, it looks like he was mauled. I fear I am next. This demon will find me, and I will know pain and terror. Let this notebook, which has been my only companion, serve as a witness should I be incoherent when they find me. I've left the warmth of the passenger decks to seek requiem among the sleeping horses. Perhaps their presence will hide me from my tormentor.

End Transcription

Investigator's notes:
Mr Malloy is quite insane. We found him nude in the hold of the ship, three dead horses apparently eaten raw near him, and the body of Ian McGee decomposing in the corner. We took a headcount as the passengers disembarked, and all are accounted for, and no stow-aways present. It is my opinion, this degenerate and admitted Sodomite killed his partner in a psychotic rage, this demon being a projection of his own vileness.

We've questioned the steward, who readily admitted to conspiring with the men to allow them to **** the female passengers, but he seemed genuinely shocked as to the amount of damage they were able to do. While "the lonely Steward" is one of these unfortunately prevalent "gambits" that we run into from time to time, this was not the case. Seems our Mr Malloy deflowered 18 maidens on the upper deck, but none on the lower. Perhaps his Irish nature led him to wickedly defile the daughters of the Empire. Of course, the Company will have to pay quite a bit of coin to hush this up.

As for Mr Malloy, I wouldn't be surprised if he hanged himself in his cell to avoid a most embarrassing trial. We of course did not tell anyone of any of his erotic endeavors. While some are undeniable, the others will be spared knowing what was done to them. Modesty must be preserved.