Toolbox Box

Two men in a van on a California night,

Chrome toolbox shining in the pale moonlight.

They called her name, they offered a ride,

But the silence was broken when the doors closed tight.

"They’d never be found, the bodies in the hills,"

Said Norris with a grin, "I just love the chills."

Heard the tape recorder hiss, the terror on rewind,

Sadistic souvenirs carved deep in their mind.

Box of screams, locked inside,

Hammer and pliers, nowhere to hide.

On the highway of pain where the shadows crawl,

The Toolbox Killers heard every victim’s call.

"Let’s make a tape," Bittaker said with a sneer,

Her cries still echo after all these years.

Ice pick, vise-grip, blood on the chain,

Pleasure in torment, addicted to pain.

"She displayed magnificent screams," he confessed,

Like monsters applauding their evil success.

Bodies scattered where the mountains rise,

Grim souvenirs beneath the desert skies.

Box of screams, locked inside,

Hammer and pliers, nowhere to hide.

On the highway of pain where the shadows crawl,

The Toolbox Killers heard every victim’s call.

Van of terror, parked in the dark,

Polaroids burning, leaving their mark.

Five girls taken, their names engraved,

In silence they scream from an unmarked grave.

Box of screams, the devil’s song,

Every mile driven, the road was wrong.

Evil recorded, etched on the wall,

The Toolbox Killers heard every victim’s call.

No redemption, no disguise,

Only echoes of the tortured cries.

From the van to the grave, the story still chills,

Two shadows forever in the California hills.