AN EMBELLISHED CONFESSION OF JOHN WAYNE GACY

Article BY N. A. Peacock - Art by NICHOLAS RAIMO

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Disclaimer: what you are about to read represents the author’s conception of possible confessions of the subject John Wayne Gacy. While it is based on facts available to the author, it is heavily embellished. The unpleasant sentiments herein are pure fantasy.

There is a sham cop prowling the streets. He has an articulating lamp on the driver’s side, with which to spot his quarry. And when he finds them, their reaction is not un-alike that of some prey creatures in the headlights of their stunned demise. He has a bravado worthy of a minor film star, but certainly not the looks. Tonight, he has dressed to kill, pomaded his hair. Tonight, he looks the part, of a (dirty) cop. Or, maybe a killer of young men. Take him or leave him. Most of his potential victims would take him for an undercover cop. He sees one and targets him with the lamp with some feigned authority. The young rentboy is quite terrified - terrified of being found out as a homosexual more than anything (if his parents knew, it would probably kill the three of them). This one now thinks again about suicide by wrist-slitting. John Wayne Gacy pulls up and at first it looks like he’s going to book him. But John is a john, a killer-john. He has a reefer and puffs it slyly, and the rentboy still thinks this might be a cop (maybe like the ones that beat him up), but then he thinks he understands. This sordid-looking man offers him a draw on his ratty little reefer – and that might be innuendo. The reefer is bona fide. This john says in a mild lisp, ‘It’s cold tonight’, then focusing, adds, ‘scars on your arms. Nice. You look sick, like the world’. The rentboy is thinking that this will be the last time, and he is right. John has sussed him out now, as the rentboy knows. Grotesquely coquettish, he says, ‘I do admire your looks, now what say you get in and we chat?’ A lascivious wink and the rentboy accedes to that offer, adding it to his resume of self-disgust. And as he crosses that Rubicon of getting in, the rentboy thinks that it might just turn out alright, that paradoxically, this might be a good thing, a nadir for the better. But somewhere deep down, he knows that this is the Devil incarnate, and shudders. John says to him ‘don’t worry about a thing. I’m a true friend. No less so than Jesus. I’m not the wolf tonight’ and smiles, in a creepy, but uncannily reassuring way. Only one of them will be returning to these sorry streets, and soon after they drive away they both know that, that it could never really be any other way.

 

LET ME SAY MY PIECE

So, you read that stuff above. Lol! So, here’s what I think. (Oh, by the way, you can read about this on some websites, but it probably isn’t as interesting as my rendition - so, if you do want to proceed, if you can be bothered, then, firstly! if you don’t want to read about horrific stuff, then go read Reader’s Digest or something, because this account is going to be as screwed up as me. O.k.) So, I killed a bunch of people, who were homosexuals (mostly youths), who God didn’t like anyway, probably their parents didn’t, society in general. And if his ‘Highness in the Sky’ did care, why didn’t he stop me? Well, he didn’t – Q.E.D. – and no religious figure can square that one. They might say, ‘God moves in mysterious ways’ – but that’s B.S., because I could say that I did so too. Anyway, those ministers never liked those people anyhow, and secretly probably thought I was doing God’s work.

So, you probably know what I did to those people, likely in some detail by now (and we’ll get on to that later). So, I’m not denying that what I did to them might be construed as sexual, and I would have a hard time trying to explain that away, but, I also had a wife, and had enjoyable sex with her, and had some children there. I think that makes me something other than a homosexual. I think I was just a bit screwed up, and those people tempted me like Jesus was tempted in the desert. Well, I was the wrong person to tempt, that’s for sure. And what I think is that they led me on, down a sordid path, to their own destruction, with me as a sort of accomplice, or guide perhaps. And once you went down that sordid path – all the way – there was no turning back, not for any of us, and then, you had to do what was necessary, even if it was totally horrible. And it was like, I became their euthanasist. And so, in regards of that, I would say, I was performing a service. They wanted to die, society wanted them to die. I guess, I also wanted them to die, even if I didn’t know why. So wasn’t everyone happy! Seems not. I got labelled a sadist, and a monster, and you know the rest. As if, I enjoyed torturing those people, and killing them!

What makes people so sure I did enjoy killing and torturing those people? But, forget about me for a minute, and think about those people who decided to drop bombs on civilians in Nam, and the pilots who actually dropped them on their behalf, or because they wanted to. (You see a B52 giving birth to death!) Were they any better than me? Try and prove that they didn’t enjoy it! Or did they just get led down that sordid path as I did, and have to do what they had to do, like I did? But they got paid, got medals, plaudits. They were treated as heroes, which I guess is what people aspire to, no matter how they go about it. And they got to screw the best women.

And I’ll say one final thing about that: outed homosexuals didn’t get to drop bombs on civilians, whether out of duty or desire, because they, were considered ‘undesirable’! Too undesirable to kill innocent civilians. And society demonises me! Lol.

And by the way, a man who likes sex with boys and girls is a bisexual, not a homosexual! But one who likes sex with dead people of either sex is something else altogether.

 

ENTER JOHN WAYNE GACY

So, I was born, Chicago Illinois 1942, and probably wrong, like deprived of oxygen or somehow broken in the process, I should say, given what turned out. Maybe genetic! (Or maybe there is a Demon who cuckolded my Pa). Blue collar for sure, but not the wrong side of the rails (got over to them though didn’t I, prison bars, Velcro straps on the gurney. Metaphors!). Pa was Polish (Gatza, or something), and Mom was of English and Danish ancestry, I think. My Mom decided on the Wayne bit of my name, being a fan of that actor, being a fan meaning that she probably flipped her hump button to his image and wanted to screw him, and I wished she had; because then I’d really be part him. But mothers don’t screw with conscientious forethought right, because it’s just whatever creep comes along with sweetness, then, the oven is open for business. And some buns are better than others. I had two sisters, each of them ugly, probably uglier than me. But being ugly isn’t a sin, not in my eyes anyhow. And maybe neither is sin.

I’ll tell you something that really mattered though, Pa was a Goddamn alcoholic, which I knew from about the start. He was born to drink, he worked to drink. That was all. I guess he was different when he managed to get his yeast in the dough, because, he couldn’t have been capable if he was as drunk then as he was when I was about ten. I guess, or maybe I was a ‘Brew Child’. He used to drink in the mornings, shamelessly, which meant that he wanted to drink all day long (as those degenerates are wont to do), and if work didn’t keep him away from it, he would have done. But alcoholics usually get what they want (with the cunning of a tiger’s barbed tongue for licking their meat off), and so by an ironical twist of fate, he got laid off for his boozing, and assessed for it by the company Dr, as if he were anything better than a gutter-chunder - lush, and so he got his ticket to the eternal bar, and did get his wish. With the health insurance, he was booze-rich, while we were broke. He would just sit in front of that Goddamn blinkering TV set, with his booze, mutter oaths, shout at it, have one-way arguments, then threaten to ‘bash its brains out’.

He died from liver cirrhosis. I hear that it’s a painful way to go (unlike lethal injection). I hope it hurt him as much as he hurt us, and then some. Because when you hurt someone for no reason and screw up their whole life, it isn’t just an ‘eye for an eye’; it is double, triple, etc payback. Because, if he hadn’t been like that, if a small molecule C2H6O hadn’t been the fulcrum of his psyche, 20-30 etc people (including me) wouldn’t be dead. Unsurprisingly, I wasn’t much of a drinker – given that I wasn’t a lush.

I won’t admit to you exactly what went on in that household of our fell childhood - and that must tell you something by itself - but imagine this: it is 5pm, Saturday, Pa is on the couch in front of the Goddamn TV, which is just static, and he’s gone through about a bottle of bourbon, him almost catatonic, just staring at that static, dribble down his chin; then, he just rises up like Lazarus, pulls his flies down, starts running at us, and we’re like a bunch of scattering chickens, there’s piss running down his dirty jeans, outside, out from within at his feet, his limp pecker poking out, him yelling like some crazy drunk preacher, ‘By God I’m done with you bunch of sissies and whores! I’ll whale you right. I’ll get justice one way or another!’ Well not tonight!

I don’t think they take that sort of evidence into consideration in court. They don’t believe that sort of thing, when it comes from a mass killer. But maybe they should. It would explain a lot.

 

JOHN GETS THE (SMALL) PICTURE

You work out by the age of about five that the world isn’t a fair place. You go to school and find that what Ma and Pa said about you being a ‘beautiful child’ isn’t true, at least not in other people’s eyes. The good-looking people have already taken the slots, the best seats at the theatre. And so, they created this class of people called ‘MUNTEROS’, who get ignored, laughed at, teased, burned at the stake, genocided. If you haven’t realised that, then can you please explain to me what a beauty contest is about, and why only some people get chosen for it, and what is it you call the people who don’t get chosen for it? Unbeautiful, differently-beautiful, plain, ugly, MUNTERO? Everyone knows it. Try running an ‘Ugly Contest’, and I guess you might as well call it a freakshow. How they’d cheer. Miss Piggy doesn’t get to go to the ball; not when Cinderella is in town. Burn Miss Piggy, she’s the witch, even if Cinderella did it (shat in the well). Problem solved. Now let’s try and move on and forget about it. God loves us all the same.

Well, I was MUNTERO, and so, if you got the name, you might as well play the game. I was going to play the game alright. Catch as catch can. I guess that is how animals do it. Opposites attract; meaning ugly people get ugly people, not, ugly people get beauties. I came to find beauty in ugliness because I didn’t have a choice. Anyway… enough about that.

 

JOHN MAKES THE GRADE

So, I pretty much said what I wanted to say about my school days. I think I made it clear that it was a disaster. That the Prom was basically like going to the gimcrack ‘House of Horrors’ at some carny show, and I was the ghoul. And how I wished I could have skipped those years, given up ten years of my life to get out of that Goddamn corrupt meat market. I’m not going to bore you with my academic statistics, because the other ones are far more salient. I’m not going to bore you with recollections of school bullies, the names they called me, their violence. I’m not going to bother you with how a pretty girl told me to ‘Go to Hell’ when I asked her politely how her essay on Nat Hawthorne was going (nor about how I prayed that she’d get brutally raped in the neighbourhood). Because all that shit is irrelevant. Water under the bridge. A dead body floating under the bridge. A dead body rotted to oblivion. A dirty fumble with a dirty old man in the woods who’s now dead. Just let it go. Let it go!

Nature moves in mysterious ways: a diamond formed in the bowels of the earth, cut in some exquisite fashion by a genius of his craft, now on some aesthetically-genius sweet lady’s delicate finger, glinting under the lights in a performance of Tosca; a tornado that tears and grinds a crowd of scruffy revellers at a pop concert into swirling mache and bonemeal. But it was nature that gave me my pass certificate. Because nature wants you to reproduce, and coordinately, kill your fellow opponent humans, so you can be assured of your reproduction. But that instinct – to reproduce – can go quite disastrously awry, via the libido. A deranged libido, like a computer that gets out of man’s control and takes over the world. Oh yes, coming from the horse’s mouth, speak to the experten on that one. Pappa’s mind was ruined by that little chemical C2H6O in large quantities. Whereas, mine was ruined by tiny amounts of a lethal chemical called testosterone, responsible for all the births and most of the untimely deaths of the human race. My chemical was bigger than Pa’s, and my ‘crimes’ much, much worse. Go figure. Drink a pint of beer. Drink a teaspoon full of testosterone. Which would you prefer! Anyway: my balls had dropped.

So, when my balls dropped, my Mom knew it right away. Like the tumblers of a lock in her mind had done their thing, the acceding mechanism of a safe, she knew I was able to make a pilgrimage back to my Grand Guignol auberge and complete the circuit, sort of ‘Deliverance Style’.

Freud might have taken a great deal of interest in me. But wasn’t he a dirty bird? I mean where did he get his ideas about pissing on fires and ‘Momma’s Home Cooking’ from?

 

JOHN HAS THIS TO SAY (INTER-LEWD)

I know you want to get to the killings here. Well, you can Goddamn wait! So, there was this film about a woman who slayed a bunch of heterosexuals, i.e. punters. In that film, she professed to wanting to ‘be someone’ (special), well, we all know about her now. Now imagine her, on the verge of a thundering highway in – I don’t know, South Carolina – and she is waving at the trucks for business, her general dejected slutty appearance, ‘surreptitious’ signs and signals that those dirty, gassy slouches know all too well. But look, she’s fleetingly baring her breasts, and why not! She is displaying her wares. (At the cattle-market they check. Oh boy do they check. Have a good fondle in there.) And now – in this scene – there is a family there, approaching that terrible spectacle (a bunch of Republican W.A.S.P.s). That obscene scenario! ‘Oh dear!’ Momma Bear says, quite affectedly distraught (as if she never had any drunken indiscretions at college! (remember Mardi gras, too many margaritas, then, you just go with the flow. Now you see them, now you don’t)). ‘Lower your heads kids’, she solemnly advises her little cubs. Then she looks at Poppa Bear. But in this stalled traffic, Poppa Bear is looking at that ‘Little Miss Hooters’, and his libido, is on fire. His eyes cannot lie. And Poppa Bear is thinking. Thinking. In fact, his libido is doing it for him. His autopilot. Notwithstanding that rascal libido, he is thinking….Momma Bear isn’t paying out the chips these days, often ‘too tired’ for a bit of that carnal wrestling – since she’s had her farrow. Gone into semi-retirement on that front, but didn’t she give you what you wanted, those lovely kids? Well maybe so, but his star isn’t going to fade and die. It feels more like it’s about to go super nova. In fact, there is a tumescence, growing, getting inexorably to its acme. Embarrassing! Poppa Bear wishes it would just go down. Well, he has some other, contradictory ideas, like what if he was on his own in this Harlot Alley. What if! That just makes things worse. He thinks he might just need to pull into a gas station, avail himself of their john, grapple with that beastly, untrammelled thing that’s trying to escape from his y-fronts, while thinking about myriad females and scenarios, and risk tearing it off in his enurgumen essay, and tossing it away.

So, you read that. A regular guy whose libido goes nuts, like mine did. Was he really that much better than me given that his mind was in thrall to his balls? And what about that lady of ill-repute? Well, those men who fooled with her got their comeuppance, that’s for sure.

 

JOHN GETS A WIFE

I met a woman called Marylin Myers. It was 1964. She had two children with me. But this isn’t about her. It is about ME!

 

JOHN PROVES HIS WORTH BY TRYING ON THE COLONEL’S SHOES

So, I have talked about libidos going A.W.O.L., implying that this might lead to ‘20-30 etc’ people getting killed. But, now, this. We all know that the idle mind is the Devil’s playden, whorehouse, madhouse, etc. If you don’t utilise your mind in some gainful manner, then it is like it is a vacant and unsecured property, which inevitably gets taken over by vermin and squatters. And he will come and squat in your mind and piss and shit in it. When you feel the idleness upon you, close the shutters hurricane-style, lock the doors, double lock them, because otherwise, your head is his home. Therefore, get your Goddamn butt into the Goddamn work environment. If you’re working, utilising your mind, he can’t get in.

In my case, there was no doubt about work ethic, just what I wanted to do, what really suited me. I worked some shitty jobs here and there, including in a mortuary (I don’t want to talk about that), but It was the fast food industry that was my calling. I got that call like I was a postulant, and it came from The Colonel, of fried chicken. Maybe it was an epiphany (I’ve had a few). I realised, that he was a great man to try and emulate, but felt like an imposter, that I could never really wear his shoes, not with any right, maybe just put on them, on the wrong feet. But by God was I going try. (I’m going to talk about my political work later, but now I really do want to talk about my time concerning The Colonel)

The Colonel had spotted a chink in the fabric of this world, and it was predicated on fried chicken (the other stuff, fries weren’t so important, just a foil if you ask me). He knew that fried chicken was essentially Edible-Gold. And that he was doing God’s work, with God’s tasty clay. I had never considered him Jesus, but maybe an Apostle. Jesus fed the five thousand with his mysterious perpetuating fish and bread picnic. Well, he – and I - fed a hell of a lot more people than that! But I never claimed to be Jesus. Just the Manager.

Anyway. I ended up owning a number of the franchises of that glorious chain, and I was making good money. But I still felt that I was not fit for his gilded shoes; a petit-Colonel, a regulus, a loyal martinet for sure. And there were things about working those joints that really galvanised that disconsolate sentiment. Managing those joints, you would experience a good deal of ornery behaviour from the clientele; foul language, complaints about the food, and this hurt me like blasphemy hurts a minister. But what I really couldn’t stand, was a sort of behaviour, that would have made the Colonel very angry if he had known (and by God I wasn’t going to let him know – it might have killed him). What did I see?

I saw the first evidence of what had been going on in the restrooms. It was a sordid, developing picture that I didn’t want to see, but had to. It was a picture of more than one iniquitous dimension. I have to say, that while I wasn’t pleased about some aspects of that picture, they didn’t really compare to the other, not at all. The other side of that picture! Who said they had permission to do that in here! Was there some neon sign outside that invited that! So, after I saw their unmistakeable spoor, I decided to catch them at it, and that didn’t take long: I would see potential suspects, come down, pop my head over the parapet and yowl at them - Raaahhh!!! It concerned both sexes, respectively, in most of the known permutations, and of quite an age range. And I even saw some of it going on in the booths. I would become incensed. I would throw them out - banish them. Because you don’t get to do that sort of thing in my – The Colonel’s – place. NOT ON MY WATCH! Not without my permission. Not without me getting a Goddamn look in!

 

POLITICS

I had been involved in politics since I was aged 18. I was a working as an assistant Precinct Captain for the local Democrat Party candidate. Pa didn’t like that (‘patsy’ ‘sissy’ ‘cocksucking commie weasel’) but he was going to shit his liver soon anyhow. I wanted to make my name in this world like with a vengeance. I wanted to eschew my sad and wrecked upbringing. And I was going to do it both in business and politics. What attracted me to politics was a certain glamour (and I could see that there could be glory, in dire and momentous times). But because my Pa had had authority over me, and I was going to have some of my own over other people. It was the authority I sought the most, as if it were a desirable infectious disease. I was going to rub shoulders with people in power. And get some of it to rub off on me. I wanted to be seen. I wanted to be photographed (see the picture of me with First Lady Rosalynn Carter in 1978 (Wikipedia). She seems a bit creeped out by me, doesn’t she, like she has an inkling)

Anyhow, later I became a Jaycee, even though I was working those three Colonel joints. If you really want to see the seedier side of politics, albeit amateur and unaffiliated, then become a Jaycee in a blue-collar district. I was an organiser; a dedicated acolyte. I was a wrangler of the brothers: I was voted "outstanding vice-president" of the Waterloo Jaycees. I even got dubbed the ‘Colonel’, which was a compliment that was impossible to accept, yet the sentiment was heartwarming. But what did we get up to, us Jaycees? Well, it wasn’t exactly what the organization would likely have had in mind. It was pretty debauched that’s for sure. Lots of nights drinking, taking drugs, and watching pornography. And not just watching it; we had some ladies of ill-repute come to our little rotating mess hall. There was some wife swapping, and if I thought my goodwife would have been up for that – most certainly not, the frigid prude – I would have offered her to the boys like you’d lend your lawnmower to your neighbor.

That sort of thing gets out of control. It sucks in people whose libidos are somewhat intemperate. It is like a party that starts off with some faux-decorous intentions, but actually almost everyone who turns up has designs concerning the endgame, which after too much booze, is a Goddamn scene like a pastiche of those I busted in the Colonel’s cubicles. So too the Jaycee get togethers. Except it was heterosexual.

Except, something very bad happened. It concerned one of the Jaycees, his son. I must have been out of my mind on drink and drugs (the Devil snuck in through an unlocked backdoor. I had told the father that his son could swing by my place anytime, like we all had a big, nebulous, open family arrangement. That I had some model WW2 planes he might like, to have. When I saw him near my house – I don’t think he was actually coming to visit – I somehow managed to lure this 15yr old kid into my house, and the bait was that stuff of Jaycee party nights, some reels of ‘sex education’. I was like a siren calling.

I don’t recall what actually happened, not in great detail (maybe the amnesia was a defence mechanism) but I was left with the impression, that it was pretty sordid and apt to end up with me in some trouble. And it did. I ended up in the slammer. My wife left me. These things happen.

 

JOHN GETS CAGED

It turned out that some other boys came out of the wood work and professed that they had considered themselves ‘sexually assaulted’ by me. With that kid and the others ganging up on me, their sycophant lawyers, a bunch of sentimental sissies in the jury, I got the book thrown, slap in the face, by a judge who probably liked to dress as a woman in secret. They sentenced me to 10 years at the Anamosa State Penitentiary. The Colonel must have been horrified. I had let the Colonel down so badly. So so badly. I could never show my face near one of HIS joints, eat HIS food. I could never even deign to lick shit off his shoes. I had fallen, like the angel Satan.

I won’t bore you with the details of prison life too much, because I’ve prevaricated enough when it comes to the crux of the matter, the juicy stuff you wanted to read from the start. So, I’ll be brief.

In that Goddamn Hell of reprobates and their warders, and the Goddamn bars that kept them emplaced! I was there. I was amongst their number. Call me Prisoner No XXX. I was a ‘Sex Offender’, the most despised creed. You have some guy in there that burnt some guy to death with gasoline because he was a love rival to his Goddamn harlot wife; who stole, raped, lied, cheated on his own wife, was a criminal from top to tail, and he looks down on me, because I had a sexual mishap with a willing kid! Lol. He who casts the first stone.

Prison has strict rules. Once, I caught two men engaged in sexual congress of the oral variety and went over and kicked them in their respective faces, and one of them in the balls. I found that very therapeutic. Probably God’s work.

I worked as a cook in prison, and in that sense, I felt that I was paying homage, making reparations to, the Colonel. The food got considerably better, that’s for sure. I used spices. Food for thought.

If you watch one of those documentaries about me, you will see a piece about that time in prison. You will see how we all behaved like superannuated choirboys. How they make you supplicate to his Highness in the Sky, as if he was on the telephone. As if he didn’t have a part to play in the whole affair, be it by negligence or, maybe ludic design. See us in that film clip, look how joyous we appear to be, singing our hearts out to the Lord, to his love and forgiveness, like we are Goddamn evangelical Chernobyl. The shill for his Highness (a screw of the cloth) certainly knew he had a captive audience, because if you didn’t sing his hymns, and to his delectation, you weren’t getting his shitty little ticks in the register, and then the Goddamn pious screws felt they could screw you over just that little bit more. No better than us, just didn’t get caught, felt they could lord it over us. Hell awaits.

 

ON CLOWNS

As you likely know, I had an alter ego, and that was a clown called Pogo. And he was a very good rendition of the clown principle in my opinion (but not as good as Bozo). So why do we have clowns in this world? It is because, there are these people out there who want to escape reality, in a guise that is theatrical, entertaining, joyously funny. They make other people happy, but it is a fraud, because deep down, their hosts are soul-aching, crying inside, fit to string themselves up (murder people, other stuff). But apart from that, they aren’t much different from those people who go on programs, where they transform themselves into an ersatz musical star (I think one of them is called ‘Stars at Large’). Escapism, from mundanity, and pernicious pain. A black hole of sadness. I was Pogo the clown, and I – Pogo – had a cleansing effect on society’s ills, performed at parties, for people young and old. I gave them something back for the pain of the world, for what I took in lives, commensurately so I believe. Pogo was my alter ego, who could never hurt a soul Pogo the clown was innocent in all this, just leave him alone! You leave him alone! After what I did to those people, and it emerged that I was also Pogo, people seemed to see clowns in a different light. Now it seems, clowns aren’t so popular; are seen as creepy. And let me concede this, many people who masquerade as clowns, are in fact not exactly a dutiful mother’s best friend, if you see what I mean.

But there was that clown who represented a certain fast food restaurant empire. I always hated him. Despised him in fact. That Goddamn face! Let’s not mince words…I wanted to…I wanted to capture him, do what I needed to do - and that’s saying something! - then see him buried in my Goddamn cellar, in the ‘Cellar of Rest’! Pogo was the true one! Pogo should have had that restaurant gig. Pogo would have made it better. Pogo was the best (apart from Bozo, who was the greatest, the Clown-God). The ‘Clown-Town’ wasn’t big enough for the both of us. That silly little clown belongs in Hell! Pliers and blowtorches on his Goddamn cheeky mask! Raaahhh!!!

 

A NOTE ABOUT PROSTITUTES (INC RENTBOYS)

Prostitution is not a career you will find mentioned in the careers guides. You will find many careers in them which you might scoff at, like ‘Agricultural Worker’, or ‘Property Maintenance Worker’ (i.e. janitor (with a capital J)), or maybe ‘Masseuse’, etc. And then there are the choice ones. Catch as catch can. But does the careers guide disclaim thus: ‘The Agricultural Worker holds a lowly career, is little more than a human dray. He (and of course she) can expect to earn a pittance and hopefully learn to accept humility in this world. They are in fact modern – politically embroidered – peasants’? I don’t think so. It wouldn’t dare, tell postulants that they might be….MUNTERO! So back to the prostitute. The prostitute is no worse than the client. It is moral reciprocation. You need to think about that. The prostitute earns a living fair and square. The coalface. Danger money. Takes the punter’s shit on their shoulder. Prostitution should be in that Goddamn careers book. Because it is a victimless line of work.

(Hey, imagine if an accountant answered when asked ‘why did you want to become an accountant?’ and he looks kind of coy, and says ‘I didn’t have a choice’, and laughs smugly. Oh, a numbers man. He ‘didn’t have a choice’. Haw, haw, haw. Didn’t have a choice. Well, someone’s got to do it. A nerd. A poindexter. But this is innocent. Except! He uses the Goddamn whores. And, he’s killed one of them. Two of them. Maybe more. Then he’s on Death Row at San Quentin. He’s got these letters to his name, an A here, a C there, a B there; ACA, ACCA, CPA, MBA. But he’s a Goddamn murderer! What letters does a murderer on Death Row get? DRM (Depraved Rapist Murderer). And what letters a prostitute? Don’t they earn their stripes! GGH (you work that one out, poindexter.))

If you don’t want prostitutes, then our society really needs to get a grip of the problem of broken homes and the broken people they issue. If you have an abusive family environment, where your father – and let’s face it it almost always is him – wants to avail himself of his children sexually, like he’s some Goddamn lightfinger sneaking donuts at the bakery, like a sow eating her own farrow, then, you get runaways, and runaways are like proto-prostitutes. I don’t know why they do it, not really; but I think they don’t have any other choice.

What does that tell you about the world? It is beyond our comprehension. ‘God moves in mysterious ways’. Go say a prayer and play the lottery. If you win the jackpot, you’ll know it was God’s work, because he moves in mysterious ways, and this time, he picked up your call and you got a sale. But if not…

Well any way, I was a ‘SEX NERD’! I was as good at what I did as that apocryphal accountant was as good at what he did, (I mean the accountancy bit in his case). But I didn’t just kill ‘two of them’. It was a ‘maybe more’ - to say the least.

 

JOHN KILLS, IS A KILLER jOHN

1

I wasn’t going to give it up like a whore. I wanted you to wait, be patient. Because it is up to me what I want to reveal to you. And you should thank me for my time and honesty.

O.K. So let’s get this sordid show on the road.

Let’s say I killed about 30. I’m not going to talk about all of them because it will take too long, and this account can’t go on forever. I’m going to give you some sublime secrets and details, which you will slaver over, maybe do other stuff over. Don’t deny it. You love this shit.

If you want to find young loitering drug addicts and prostitutes (often one and the same), then the bus terminal is basically one of their H.Q.s, dens etc. I knew that. I went to the Greyhound bus terminal in Chicago, and what did I find? I found a dejected-looking teenager. I could tell his disposition in a flash. I drove up to him and asked him if he needed food, money. He did, of course he did. He actually seemed pleased to see me, which was a Darwinian fail. So, I said to him, ‘you’re sick like the world.’ He didn’t seem much impressed by that (note to self: improve your chatup lines). I handed him a burger I’d purchased as a decoy, bait. He took it enthusiastically unwrapped it and began to munch it with the desperate alacrity of a lush who’s dried out like a sponge and needs emergency ‘re-hydration’ (who’s found a discarded hip of bourbon with a putative inch in there (except it’s rat poison)). Then, looking at him kind of pityingly (but also my demeanor conveyed the insinuation that it was a great concession/inconvenience), I said, look. There is a spare bed in my home, and it’s yours on condition you do some work (around the house). You can come and sort yourself out. Two-maybe-three weeks. What do you say?

He agreed to that in a snap. He didn’t exactly have any better offers. Unless you consider what sort of dirty work he had to do a good career, and I’m sure some people do - different strokes for different folks. I didn’t really know what he took me for, a john, a good Samaritan. Well he came with me, like a screwed-up disciple. He came to the John Wayne Gacy Rehabilitation Retreat, where success rates were very high – because the dead don’t recidivate.

Things went ok for a while in the household. He did his chores as requested. He was as happy as a clam, drinking a lot of my booze and eating my food. But then he got lazy, and he wasn’t exactly paying out the chips, by which I mean, he wasn’t doing his ‘chores’ (I had been insinuating it plenty). That sort of domestic situation cannot continue - something has to give. Messages to nowhere. We argued and did actually try and reconcile. But it didn’t work, and so he was walking dead-meat, not that he necessarily knew it. But those singled out for death likely know somewhere in their ill-fated psyche – yet they seem to willfully ignore the issue.

Then I killed him.

Because, I was getting these crazy inspirations, dreams. I had this person in my house who was an intruder, even though I’d let him in. I felt very frightened about what he might do to me. He could have been a murderer for all I knew, given that even his parents had discarded him. I just got so fearful about the situation. So, one night, after we had argued for the nth time about the washing up, I decided to confront him. I went to the room I’d accorded him, armed with a big kitchen knife. I kicked that Goddamn door in, like I was the law - John Wayne-attenuated. I saw him start from his bed like a coiled spring, as if he’d known about the confrontation all along. He came at me. A vicious little tyke. By God did he fight for his ill-earned scrappy little life. Any excuse to avoid the mortal shuffle. He thrashed around like a cat on fire. Bit me, punched and kicked. He even managed to get that knife at me, cut my arm. But my justice was not that meek. I stabbed him with the fury of a brave. After six essays, it was like he was like a deflating balloon. But I kept on all the same. How many times I don’t recall. Maybe 20 or 30.

Then I took him down to the ‘crawl space’, and the weirdest thing was, that there was already a rectiinear hole in the ground about 7ft by 4ft, and another 4ft deep. I didn’t recall digging it at all. Maybe he’d dug it, to bury me in after he’d murdered me. Anyhow, I buried him in my crawl space. And no, I didn’t put up a headstone, or leave any flowers. It just wasn’t that sort of place.

My crawl space was big enough to fit a good number of people – plenty of room in the inn. But I’m not saying that the capacity wagged my thinking. I was going to kill who I needed to. And that Goddamn crawlspace was going to take it like a man. Because the ground is the stomach for the dead, and it can Goddamn well eat it up like Oliver Twist of egregious dietary demands.

But if you’re going to hell in a handcart, you might as well do as much mischief down here before the Devil finally wins the custody battle. So I did.

2

I killed again, like a famished wolf.

Oh, this one was something; by God did he think he was the queen bee. He was rather attractive, that was for sure; in fact, he was prettier than my Goddamn accursed former wife (who’d had second thoughts after my time in chokey, on that screwed up charge), and many women besides. But something had gone fundamentally wrong in his upbringing. Maybe his Pa (or his Ma), or someone else, had had a little rummage in the cookie jar. I didn’t know or care much. He was in my sights, like an antelope is in a Lion’s.

I was driving around Chicago, of an evening, the sorrier streets where you might expect to find my kind of quarry. There were quite a few potential candidates, so it was like I had options. Judging by their demeanor, their zealous questing, it was a buyer’s market, prices likely to be low, which didn’t concern me, since I wasn’t paying a red cent (I think the price of drugs had gone up or some new and desperate talent had flooded the scene (thank God for broken homes)). Anyhow, it seemed you could pick and choose.

(One thing I will say about the ‘scene’ – just a point of interest for your delectation – is that the ‘Roosters’ and the ‘Jills’ basically segregate. And I thought it was very sweet)

I pulled up to his Royal behind, window down.

He was about 19. Tall. Slim, but buff. Nordic-looking (blonde (long)), blue-eyed, lily-white (Hitler’s kinda fella (except the homosexual bit?)). He regarded me rather indignantly, sighed, as if to say: I’m not a Goddamn prostitute! Just an – as of now - out of work actor, who needs to research this role…ummm, of a rentboy, for an audition for a gritty film, by…ummm some great director.

You keep living the lie honeybuns. I got your number, and its 19, and that’s where it stays. My dirty money could buy you out of that lie. So the lie ends – if not here and now – then soon – bet your rear-end dollar on that.

He looked around rather ashamedly, furtively, and I thought that he might have had some kind of pimp. Because, I saw this slightly older, bigger, quite brutal-looking man lurking behind a building corner. What a strange-looking man he was (he actually reminded me of me). I wouldn’t have wanted to mess with him. A skulking seedy-fiend if ever I saw one.

El-Rento said, in a rather melodramatic manner ‘my time will cost you more that you might have envisaged’

Really? O.k. honeybuns. My time might cost you a lot more than that subjunctive price. So I said, ‘for someone of your talent, I am willing to pay top drawer’

He looked at me like I was a muntero, said, ‘Yeah. O.K., we’ll have a pow wow in your ride. See how things work out…Baby steps’.

By God! What was this? Some Goddamn ‘date’. ‘Baby steps’…like talking, then holding hands, a little peck at some Goddamn small-town America home doorway before ‘she’ goes back into the loving milieu and thinks about the birds and the bees while listening to ole Blue Eyes the Innocent, while rummaging her dungeon. But he was shitting himself, written all over his prissy little face, (like he didn’t know). So not that spartan fantasy.

No it wasn’t. This was the ‘birds and the bees’ of the Goddamn jungle, the savage African veldt.

So, he deigned to go with Mr Muntero who was set to pay him a premium rate for his insalubrious work. He was magnificently wrong. About as wrong as you can get. He was going to get a surprise. The surprise of his life.

On the road, I slipped him a fifty (boomerang money), and that cheered him up no end. Stars in his eyes. He seemed to think he was some hotshot. A hotshot rentboy. Lol. I told him that I wanted him to spend the night at my joint, that there was plenty of alcohol there (true), and cocaine (grownups’ candy) also true)). And I said that there would be other boys there, that it wasn’t really prostitution, but a sort of orgy, where the participants got paid, to have fun (an egregious lie). Lol. He listened to my bullshit with burning ears. And when I told him that some well-known filmsters, established actors would be swinging round to participate, he was sold, triple sold, like he’d had an epiphany. He thought he was finally getting his break. Well he was right.

Back home. It was about booze and drugs right off the bat. Fine, you can have that stuff, whatever floats your boat. He was a Goddamn fanatic.

Well, things carried on in a debauched and dissolute kind of fashion. With him already high on the cocaine, and drinking like it was end of days. He was really screwed up. Something to behold. A paradox: a beautiful boy, an Adonis, programmed for self-ruin.

So when it got to about 9pm, he was getting ants in his pants. He said, ‘I thought you said we were going to have some kind of party’, wounded like Santa Claus had called the whole shebang off.

Too true. I had had enough of him. That prissy, stuck up manque. The first thing I did to him was bludgeon him with an empty brandy bottle, which didn’t shatter. He was stunned. I’m not going to tell you what I did to him thereafter. Because you want to keep your mind clean, as clean as Ms Poppins’ underwear - that magical lady who never needed the restroom. What I had to do to him probably hurt us commensurately-reciprocally. Let’s just say, that ‘I got an A on paper Depravity 101’. Then I put him finally to sleep in Chez Gacy, in the basement suite, beside the other one. So they kind of laterally bunked (which I thought was cute).

3

I wasn’t going to stop. You can’t

If you can believe this, I met another ‘Rentboy-not-Rentboy’ who was even more pretentious than the last one. By God were the broken homes turning out some strange clay.

It was not that far away from the encounter with the last one. I pulled up window down.

He was also a Scandinavian-looking tyke, not quite as good looking as his predecessor, but not far off. About 17, general physiognomy, figure (a few pounds here or there) in the same ballpark. He could have been the last one’s brother or cousin for all I knew. Broken homes and broken bones. And hearts. And birds of a feather will…

I said to his Royal behind: ‘you look as wholesome as the world, but maybe you’ve been a little sick’ (his arms were scarred and there were needle marks, so I wasn’t being sly)

He screwed his little face up as if I were opening a Pandora’s Box of woe. I thought he might actually cry (likely so did he). It was like he was having some huge tussle in his pretty little head. Well, I wasn’t going to kidnap him. He could keep the key from the lock if he wished.

His face changed, as though he’d come around to the reality of the situation, and this is what he said (quite remarkable):

‘Hello nuncle. I know. Blow on your beans. Form your seeds and get them caught in the smiling wind. Hope they sow. In my heart a deathly weed doth grow’

That might have been Shakespeare or gutter-luncheon for all I knew. But I wasn’t going to be fooled with that poetical shit, because business needed to be attended to. But when he got in the car (‘nuncle-mobile’), he kept on talking like that, and I couldn’t have cared a red cent whether he was some budding poet or not (not). I told him that I didn’t want any more poetry tonight (any excuse to avoid the mortal shuffle, Goddamn misguided Scheherazade). I told him that there was whatever he wanted back at my place. I told him that like screwed up poet-sire-witch. I told him there was a surfeit of booze, and handed him a twenty.

During that ride back to Chez, I got the clear Impression that he was a brutally screwed up reefer-kid. And I surmised that someone had not only had little sneak attack at the cookie jar, but something far worse had happened, like ‘they’ had stolen the whole Goddamn container. Fought over it. What would you expect! But he thought he was going to be something big in the literary world, and he was wrong. He thought he was a scion of the beat poets. Even I could tell his poetry sucked (‘As I ride in this car. My libido so far…’) But he wasn’t going to get the chance to prove how bad his poetry was. His plot awaited (some people book their slot in the soil in advance. Well, I’d already done it for him).

Back home, he behaved a lot like the previous guest. He demanded booze, (‘yonder is the yard. I will wrestle its indomitable arm’). He consumed the cocaine I provided with a vengeance (‘I am a hound of blood astray. Whose nose is gay.’)

I thought: where do these people come from?

He seemed to get some bad vibrations, prescient as he was. I didn’t like him. He was just lost in his own little world. Which I thought was kind of rude. Well, the sun was getting over the yardarm, and its absence was casting a rather dark shadow over his being.

Because it was my world he had intruded. And the man with falcate blade had come to give him a damn good shave.

I can’t be bothered to embellish the tale. He was sitting on MY sofa talking his poetry. I’d had enough.

While he was drunkenly rabbiting on like some windup Byron with dementia, I took leave of him. I got the best knife I had (nothing but the best for him), and in a thoroughly violent manoeuvre I put it into its rightful place (the sternum). I think I executed the business pretty humanely (for me). By God was there a mess though. The carpet was ruined - he deserved to die for that alone.

And I sent him down from those Ivory Towers of his fantasy world.

And I killed his dead body, if that’s not an oxymoron (not that I care).

And he went down to his earthy beddings. Good night from ‘nuncle’. Say high to Marlowe for me.

(And that night I dreamt – amongst other things – about that very unfortunate scene. That he was cleaning up the blood he’d issued on the carpet, using huge amounts of buttparchment. He was reciting poetry, stuff about someone called Ozymannedass. I was whipping him. Hard. He was talking about tamed rats, ravens, yahoos, a leopard in the desert, Dr Ball-Sack, and Goddamn paddlefish’)

4

I guess you’re getting quite tired of this horrid repertoire. I guess. (Well who said it was some Goddamn anodyne essay! You were forewarned) Well here’s the near last of the cases.

It was a Friday night.

I’d seen his sorry carnal contraption a few times. I thought he was a kind of reject from the hallowed street-whore scene. (My God does it get any worse than that!) I felt that I was almost doing him a favor. Deigning to give him my time, my King’s shilling (or Charon’s). Put him out of his misery.

He was buggles. About 20. Ample, like his birth hurt. About 6ft tall. He was not cut in the right cloth for this sort of thing. He should have just been a male nurse, a sanitary worker, a Goddamn farmhand. Anything. But not this. Because he was too ‘sensitive’ for this. Well, the hyena doesn’t give a hoot about what it eats does it! Bambi is not cute in their eyes – a whorish menu.

He was about 20. And about dead.

By this time, I had adopted the character of a sham-cop. My articulating lamp (not illegal) spotted him, put him in the limelight.

It was a bit affecting really. I didn’t want to have to want to kill him (but the libido on meltdown mode takes no hostages.) He was going to die. No doubts about that.

I pulled up. I said to him: ‘What’s going on? Are you for sale?’

He shrugged.

Maybe he thought he wasn’t in that line of business, or was obviating the issue.

I said ‘you know it’s illegal to engage in prostitution. The penalty is at least 5 years in penitentiary.’

He looked like he was about to flee. But he knew I’d run him down.

I said, ‘you get in and let’s have a chat. Or I’ll tell your parents you’ve been soliciting’

When he got in and we were out of harm’s way, I admitted to him that I wasn’t in fact a cop. And he just shrugged

I told him that Chez held many delicious sweet nothings. About what he could avail himself of. Like as much food as he could gobble. He just shrugged. So I didn’t bother elaborating on what might appeal to him back home – what was the Goddamn point.

I handed him a 20 and he just let it sit there on his hulking lap.

That person needed a wakeup call.

I got him home and within the hour he was nicely buried.

I can’t be bothered to elaborate on what I did to him. I couldn’t believe he even had the will to breathe, he was so Goddamn sullen, depressed. If I’d said to him ‘Hey, how about I just kill you?’ he likely would have just shrugged, maybe said ‘O.K.’. So I dispatched him with no more enthusiasm than he putatively had, to live. Just a kindly use of the ‘Preacher’, the Preacher being a pummel-tool made of a wood called lignum vitae, almost as hard as bone.

20 or 30(?)

I never knew for sure. But I do think that this person was that man who was skulking behind the building corner, when I picked up that jumped up would-be actor. Maybe there are numerous people like that. Anyhow, I sort of got the impression that he knew who I was, knew what I was about, and sort of wanted a slice of the poison pie.

You’d be surprised. There are people out there who simply want to be killed, and not in a nice way. I don’t think the courts are very sympathetic about that as an excuse. But the law is an ass.

I saw his behind on a street not associated with prostitution as far as I knew. I shone my light at his feet and honked my horn twice. He wasn’t the least bit startled – was expecting me all along, it seemed.

I didn’t really need any magisterial chat up lines here. More just a kind of sop to the etiquette, the etiquette of death.

I said ‘the moon is full tonight. A right ole boney ball. And so are my cojones’

Which was garish and disgusting, I fully admit.

He smiled. A strange smile, kind of creepy, but uncannily reassuring.

Then I said, ‘I do admire your looks, now what say you get in and we chat?’

He laughed, kind of coquettishly, grotesquely so. He was toying with me. And so he could, given that I’d already reserved a nice plot for him in the Crawl-Space Suite (No smoking. Respect the feelings of residents. Keep the noise down. Etc)

In he got. Into the taxi of Charon. I could barely bring myself to look at him. He did look an awful lot like me. It was very creepy. Well, that wasn’t going to assuage me and my temper. His number was up. He’d won the anti-lottery.

When we got home, I felt it courteous to offer him a drink. It was a cocktail I’d formulated called a ‘Crawl Space’ (I toyed with ‘Crawl Daddy’ and ‘Craw Space’ (which made sense, because it fitted a space in your craw)). But it was a Crawl Space. It consisted of a finger of vermouth, a dash of blue curacao, a tiny dash of angostura bitters, a dash of slivovitz, and a small dash of Chartreuse (and an eyeball – just kidding). And, by God was it a masterpiece of alcoholic alchemy.

His chat was pretty exiguous (though quite poetical), maybe even exigent. Because it was getting near his bedtime. His bed was made for him. I had even left a Gideon bible on that earthy side-table-substitute (I jest).

He drank that Crawl Space down and I made him another. But we both knew that it was about a ‘quarter to midnight’. I was thinking about how to broach the subject matter. We were kind of telepathic on that one, like nascent lovers, love at first sight. Death at first…(no).

I asked him which knife would be to his delectation. And showed him the selection I’d acquired. I explained that most of them had been, well…blooded. Did he want a fresh one for the butchery? Yes he did. And that was the least concession I could have made. Mi casa es su casa amigo. Mi crawlspace es su crawlspace.

We agreed on a rather fine and copious blade.

I cannot bring myself to tell you what actually happened to him in his demise. All I will say, is that he had ruined the carpet that I’d already had to replace. And he deserved to die for the mental distress his death caused me – if that makes any sense (it does).

When he’d finished leaking his life-blood and finally succumbed, I took him down to the ‘Garden of Rest’

And I laid him in his allotted place, in what was by then becoming ‘prime real estate’ on account of the number of residents.

I then went to the bar and drank a Goddamn huge Crawl Space, maybe a whole pint’s worth. And succumbed. And I think I could have burnt the place down, since there were smouldered cigarette butts cast hither and thither and some holes to testify to their frustrated destructive designs.

The next morning, I went down to check on the residents. In the ‘parking lot’ (or whatever you want to euphemize that Goddamn fucked up sump hole of my soul). I couldn’t see any sign of that last one. I was deeply perplexed. I thought that maybe I was losing my mind (the law wouldn’t accept that excuse). Anyhow, I now think that I’d invented that last casualty, which was a huge concession to him! Except, there was a good deal of blood on the carpet.

 

JOHN GETS SOME CONCERNED VISITORS

O.k. So if around 30 people go missing from the - sorry and sordid – streets there is going to be a certain amount of interest in a likely party to this.

I don’t really know how they got the scent on me. And I’m not saying that my ‘cemetery’ was low rent (in fact, I was a kind of funereal Mary-P)

But they came a-sniffin. Strange vehicles would lurk my purlieu. And those same cars would follow me hither and thither, like Goddamn ramoras (or those hideous flies that want your blood, and just won’t quit (why did God invent those SOBs!))

F.B.Flies! Come to find the carrion. But you SOBs have to play by the rules don’t you. I mean, you might think I’ve got something tasty in my basement, but you can’t just storm in and have a rummage. It would be rude.

They were haunting me. They knew it was me. Because, if anyone was going to be the culprit, I would have been very disappointed if they’d not considered me for the role – since I’d Goddamn written the whole play.

I had the common courtesy to ask them in for a drink, a cocktail. Which I thought was out of bounds for them. But not. So, two Crawl Spaces, in martini glasses, sans eyeballs.

I could smell it, and knew they could too. That smell. That smell of failed flesh, gone to dinner with the microbes and crawlies. That piecemeal belch of the terra-degustación' de mort. In fact, I’d only really noticed it when they looked at each other like a pair of hyenas folie a deux. Yes, Mary-P hadn’t been on form. (I should have fired her Goddamn iridium-plated potty-chops, in a Bessemer furnace.)

They had sniffed me out. And I was toast.

This young-blood hound (about 28, quite a pretty boy, circa 6ft tall, buff, good complexion, quite long brunette, pretty anneledine lips, sort of Celtiberian-looking), he said to me, ‘I know it’s an inconvenience. I really do. But do you mind if we take a look around?’

I said ‘sure. Help yourselves. Mi casa es su casa’

And they both sent me back a wry in-sync smile. Before the went to rummage my dungeon.

I was thinking about adding them to the slumber party. But you have to call it day at some point. I mean, all good things have to come to an end, including death.

Those two got the evidence they needed, and a whole passel of lawmen came and three of them took me away. Kind of civilised about it too. Because we knew what the score was, I mean maybe not the numbers, but the score for sure.

My nextdoor neighbor, who’d always hated me, he saw me in the police car. He smiled, like he’d known all along. Was celebrating my fate. Pious jerk; as if he’d split up with Mary-P on account of her moral degeneracy (in some quasi-conciliatory, heart-rending weep-fest). I sent him a digital symbol of a singular and crude and unmistakable design.

 

EXIT JOHN WAYNE GACY

When your time comes, the pious murderers who have you caged in their midst have the common decency to give you a last supper like that of the fabled man of the cross attended, before his betrayal and much fantasised demise, on the cross. Well, you can have pretty much what you want (before they turn you into maggot fodder), if you can stomach it; I mean, it’s not likely a really an appealing prospect is it. I think you know more or less what my last supper was. I think it is patently obvious. What else could it be! But I didn’t eat it. I just stared at those bits of crispy fried chicken, the pot of slaw, the pot of beans, the fries, the cup of soda. And I was thinking all the time about his highness (not the one in the sky). I almost broke down, almost. I almost touched the food, as if my finger were a telescopic extension of the stomach. I could smell it alright (the scent of the Colonel). And I then came to thinking that he wasn’t exactly my friend after all. Just another person out for himself – like Jesus. So, I just picked that tray of the Colonel’s food up and threw it at the cell wall with the rage of a berserker. Raaahhh!!!

We went through that whole processional bullshit, Goddamn prelim ritual to make the murderers in there feel O.K. about it. Then this He-man priest comes up and gives me my last rites. He says his religious babble, psalm 50 or something. As if he’s reaffirming his booking in Chez-God’s Presidential Suite. As if it is a sticking plaster, Goddamn salve for the coming event. The warden (a Goddamn fat, ugly, corpulent son of a bitch, who was too fond of the Colonel’s food (or ersatz), who clearly enjoyed his job a great deal and had a cheeky wry smile to prove it), he asks me if I have anything to say for myself, any final words. I certainly did. I said ‘you know what. I really like you. And I’d like you to come and visit me. A slumber-party. Mi assa es su assa. Call it an induction, because we both know that we’ll be seeing each other down there. In that fiery Dantean penitentiary. Probably sooner than you envisage.’ His smile got a good Deal more awry after that, as if it were about to fall off his Goddamn cornpone ‘Mother’s-Home-Cooking’ face. I got about as much payback as could be expected with those extemporised barbs.

Say, where was my deus-ex-machina! Where was that Colonel! Where was the other one…Where was Pogo?

So it was gurney time. The bed of the soon to be dead. So, like those scrapheads out there who juke their life juice, I got a dose that was…Ends.

P.S. They got John Wayne Gacy, but Pogo lives on.

P.P.S Kiss my ass.”