SERIAL KILLER BOBBY JOE LONG

Article BY Nicholas Peacock

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Disclaimer: What you are about to read below are the imaginings of the author (N.A. Peacock) concerning the life and crimes of Bobby Joe Long, based on facts, but substantially embellished. The author does not wish to express any prejudice or animosity towards people according to gender, sexual orientation, race, creed, religion.

(What I wrote got edited by a prison buddy with a lot more words than me. He said, keep it clean and drop the W.V. ‘argot’. So there, plain serial killer prison-speak. Hope y’all like it.)

The errant firework explodes into stars in the night sky. Aren’t they pretty, like your mother when she conceived you. Stars are what went into her from her man, and then you became a star. I was one, a supernova. I didn’t light the fuse. Fuck you!

Hi. It's Bobby here. You probably saw that picture of me in those penitentiary threads, looking pretty smug, staring into space. Ugly fucker eh, ugly as my sins? I'm on death row, as you probably know, and that probably means I'm destined for Hell. I've never been there, have you? We’ll see. Maybe the boys will speed things up down here, cut to the chase. It is probably no worse than in here, or out there for me. If I go there, I might even send you a postcard. Or maybe I'll go to the other place, and if so, you can go screw yourselves, and go to Hell!

EARLY DOORS

I don’t know what you read about me, but it is likely crock, so try this version.

The universe was born in a big bang. Look at the night sky and what is it? It is the ectoplasm of God, his seed, like he jerked off up there. A metaphor, or maybe a simile, or both. Do you know what the first thing a baby smells when it is born? Think about it, where it comes from. I can still smell it now. Do you know how a salmon fish works out where it was born? It never forgets the smell of its own birthplace! They are ‘anadromous’, which means they swim upriver to spawn. (You don’t get it on the menu in here; every meal tastes like it might be your near-last, even though you know there are at least some tomorrows. Any guesses what I want for my last meal? It begins with P and it ain’t Pink Salmon)

You don’t get to choose in his scheme of things. I was Born October 14, 1953 in Kenova, West Virginia to Joe and Louetta Long. And God didn’t lift a finger in my defense. It was like I was a cruel experiment for his amusement. (And there are many souls who must feel the same way, like the other losers in here.)

Pa was your kind of scuzzy, blue-collar typecast. One who didn’t like to work, preferred to drink. He was acquaintance of mistresses Beam, Daniels, Heaven Hill, etc. He could suck that stuff down like a whore working a senator for her pocket money. And though he got sick from it, he could keep it down, even if it meant clamping his teeth and holding his nose, squealing, like losing it would be the end of the world. Sometimes he would struggle and make sounds that made you think his engine was broken and he might die, but they generally don’t do they. So, he was a rummy, and rummies say some stupid shit, and he was no exception; a lot of stuff about incest in Virginia (word plays on that), about Jews, Commies, ‘Faggots’ and ‘Niggers’, and anyone who he didn’t like. And then having made his jokes, and said his dumb maxims, he’d laugh as satisfied as though he was as smart as that guy who worked out the speed of light, or the weight of the moon, or something.

Like many drunks, Pa stank, was flatulent, sometimes incontinent, was changeable, could change his story. He could be as nice as pie, but was mostly mean and ugly. He would sometimes like to whop Mom on the butt in that sly and violent way of a rotten man, but since he knew she wouldn’t put out if that went any further, and that given how much booze he consumed and what that did for his peter it wasn’t exactly a ‘quid pro quo’, he was generally quite restrained, because his invective might as well have been saltpetre. I did wonder whether he had ever raped a person, maybe even Mom. Well, rape is not a clear-cut thing is it, and anyway, if people didn’t go around raping people, maybe half of us wouldn’t be around, including us rapists. If you think about that, it is perverse circularity.

Drunk people can be funny. When I was about ten, he was drunk, and I thought he was out for the count in his threadbare armchair, and sneaked some of his bourbon from his glass. His eyes came alive like some wild all-knowing cowboy expecting danger from every angle. Up he rose shouting and roaring like a madman, like he was an exorcist and I was the Devil. Off came his belt to give me a whaling, and down came his pants and lo, he was wearing some nice red lacey panties. I laughed and laughed and got the whaling, but my it was funny, and worth it. It was funny then and is now (Sometimes you can have a laugh here on Death Row, especially if you’re remorseless).

Mom. If some creep came up and told you your Mom was a whore, you’d be pretty riled right? But if she was one, what could you say in her defence? You’d just have to suck it up and let it burn away in your mind. Then who do you blame? The insulter, yourself for not standing up for the insulted, your mom for being a whore? I knew she was one early on, and it was an epiphany in stages. It was when Pa left to pursue his new life elsewhere as a waster in some flop house. So, Mom was pretty and was prettifying herself in a way that could only mean that she was looking for some attention. She was working in this lounge bar, which I think in hindsight was some kind of a bar-brothel hybrid. She was a huntress. (Put a C in there and you can make a new and important term). And the wild cocks came home to roost. And they were very possessive of her. And I heard them fucking, and my that was a noise to rouse a kid’s emotions, like the birds and the bees on crack.

Whores charge for their services. Mom did not, at least not that I knew. So, she was a double whore. She was a nymphomaniac, with a button that wouldn’t quit. She was my goddamn mom, and she was a disgrace. As I’ve said, you don’t get to choose. And you don’t ask to be born. And God you can goddamn let me into Heaven for forsaking me this way…since in my innocent days, I used to pray to your name, and I thought I prayed right, and it if it was for nothing, what are you, but a whore and a charlatan!

Mom was neglectful and I was reckless. I had some scrapes including falling out of a tree and getting hit by a car. These incidents can break your mind, and so can your parents with their madness. But what was strange about Mom – although I didn’t fully know it to begin with – was that she wanted me to sleep in her bed with her. Freud eat your heart out. Yeah, pretty weird. But I liked it to begin with.

I loved her, because she was my Mom. But when you love your mother, it doesn’t mean you should go to bed with her, at least not when you’re no longer a child. But Mom had other ideas. Mom’s bed, the ‘Screwzone’. It stank of sex. She stank of sex. I knew where that smell of hers came from, the same place those men had skunked her. The scent of the whore; perfume, her scent and of man-sex--scum. Gross but infectious. Even dogs go nuts on it.

That arrangement went on for a while. Mom told me that there was something odd about me, about my genes, that I might actually be turning into a girl, or maybe something else! I was certainly confused about that. A fucking girl! Genes not configured right. So, you’ve got X & Y, like on a graph, but what’s in between? I did come to understand her point though, because, aged about 12, I was developing tits. I had a dick and balls, and tits! I thought I was a boy, but God had a different idea. God can do what he pleases, give you diseases, make you mad, a freak, irrespective of your prayers, and without a word of apology.

Mom kept holding me tight in bed, like you see when frogs mate, and I would be compressed against her dirty, used bumpers. Still more of those creepy men. They would come into the house when I was still up and seeing me, halloo me, as if saying “Hey kid, sorry about this, but I’ve got needs, and your Mom provides”. Gross, fucked up. But then who was I to complain given my pedigree.

I was starting to wonder more about my Mom’s body and although I knew a good deal, I wondered what exactly was taking place with these men and Mom. Yes, I had reached puberty, and my libido had ignited like a star. So, when my Mom would cuddle me in bed, I would get erect. I’m not saying her hand went down there, but I’m sure she knew what was what. And I’m not saying her hand didn’t threaten to go down there. But it was this new smell of her that I remember so well, so redolent, of something you cannot describe. A new smell, because my mind was changing, becoming dirty, dirty with her sex-stink and what it meant for me and my peter. I will say this, her thing smelled like that crazy spiky fruit you get in Asian markets, and it drove me nuts. At that point, I realised – and I suspect she did too – that if I continued sleeping in her bed, incest was on the cards.

SCHOOL

Hialeagh High.

I think that Dante should have written the prospectus for my school. It should have been called ‘Hell-Ya’ school. I hated it like being married to Satan’s Hoe. I said on more than one occasion to the teachers, when they asked me what was up, that “I’d rather be in Auschwitz”, and that wasn’t too smart, since there were some Jews there, pupils and so was the Principal, or so I was told, so I got reprimanded. I hated it because I was too strange for the others. Other people don’t like strange people, which I guess is why they kill them in Death Camps. They used to burn ‘witches’ on bonfires because they were too strange - too ugly more like. (Burning someone, think about that, think about the noise, like a jet engine winding up; god, you’d hope that would end soon. And would it be worse if instead of an ugly woman it was a nice, pretty, slim Nordic, chick? I think so). I was an ugly person, a pug-ugly kid; that much I knew by eighth grade. People with wrong faces and wrong figures need not apply.

The girls at school didn’t like strange, ugly people like me. They shunned me. In fact, even the ugly girls didn’t like me. I guessed that I was just cursed, in ways I couldn’t figure out then, but can now. I guess women know something about men who might do something untoward towards them, at least the smarter ones do. You know that from trying to chat up a girl in a bar, in a bad, awkward manner, which says “I want to screw you. Let’s cut the charm offensive and cut the chase”. No dice creep.

The boys didn’t like me either. I wasn’t a faggot, and neither were any of them as far as I could guess. They were the usual mix, of jocks, squares, misfits. And there was me, neither fish nor fowl. I had those nice little titties getting going, and didn’t the boys work that out and work on it. Children are cruel. I guess it is because they either know no better, or expect cruelty unto them. In the ancient days, victorious kings would burn children to death, along with the rest. The king might say “The children of my enemies are burning, and their cries of agony are music to mine ears”, which I think was probably fair back then, and maybe even now!

Sex Education.

They teach it you, the proviso being that it is basically sin. Having a female teacher talk about vaginas, breasts, menstruation, erections, ejaculation, pregnancy and ‘loving emotions’ is pretty awkward, if not sickening, but then, having a mom whose hands might have got down to your personal department is too, by a country mile. They told us the birds and the bees like we were retards, in a ‘Janet and John’ manner, a completely fucked up one admittedly, but it was not what we wanted or needed. Why not just show us a porno movie! Pornos tell and show you everything. Anyway, the two middle aged women who had to go through the motions of the lectures were liable to make a straight boy a faggot, and turn a girl into a nun or a dyke. (It was rumoured that they were a pair of dykes.) Porno movies don’t use people like that, because you’d probably puke. I think every school should employ a whore for the theory and practical side of that lesson, and maybe if that had happened I would have turned out right; but I think that, I think is a lie!

It was in that Hell-Ya that I met my sweetheart. She was not the sort of girl I had imagined hooking up with, because, A, I hadn’t imagined with whom, or if I might hook up at all, and B, she was better looking than I could have hoped. So here was my first screw, I didn’t need to go to Mom for some practical sex education, or a prostitute for that matter, except, Mom was one, maybe still then; and I imagined that she would have obliged me if I had petitioned her for a bit of ‘home cooking’.

FAMILY MAN

That wedding, it was all that corny bullshit, that you would see in an episode of Dallas or some other pukey, sentimental drama. It makes you think the participants of such a ritual performance are paragons of virtue. But they aren’t, not necessarily. But hey, one suit fits all; they don’t do really fucked up weddings and honeymoons for to-be serial killers do they! And what might they resemble? But even serial killers and genocidal maniacs like to keep up appearances; then they can have their fun on the side.

Corollary of that, we moved into a shitty little flat and set up home. I did my crummy blue-collar job, and she homemade. What is homemaking exactly? I imagined it involved watching daytime TV, maybe cheating on you, maybe paying a little attention to the old button. Hey, I didn’t give a crap, because I had eyes and those eyes were adjusting, and my mind was starting to develop designs about other women, and they were some pretty frightening designs, as they would have been to the women I was thinking of if they had only known. I was starting to get these ideas about meeting them, but it was much more than that, since, I was thinking of treating them like a cruel boy treats a vulnerable pet; but the more, raping them. I wanted to rape women. If you don’t pay a prostitute, it is a form of rape. But proper rape involves finding a woman who isn’t a prostitute and raping her, and if you do pay her, it is still rape. Fucked up logic methinks. I didn’t want to rape my wife, hell, I didn’t really want to have sex with her that much at all. I felt that this terrible plan would come to fruition somewhere in the future. All good things to those who wait.

They say, why would you go out for cheeseburger when you got steak at home? Stupid: the steak is out there, I couldn’t even get ‘cheeseburger’ at home, you just got to go out for steak and pay a premium for it. Or maybe not. Shoplifting sex eh, is that fair? Who gives a crap. Soon, it got to the point that I didn’t want much to do with that woman I married. Just wanted the doggies in the window, and to know how much they were, and to simply not pay.

Unbelievably, we managed to spawn two kids. Kids are a waste of time. They eat, shit, bawl. Are usually uglier than you had hoped. Devious. Put you out of pocket, and mind. Both of them were not what I had envisioned. And they don’t exactly respect their sire do they, not if he’s rotting in Death Row; not something you want to admit to someone, and maybe their terrible provenance will be found out anyhow, and that would to fuck you up some, so you’d have to re-invent yourself, change your name. Not a great start in life. Join the fucking club.

For some reason I couldn’t quite fathom, my wife loved me, and maybe I did love her, but not enough to be a good family man for long. No siree, when you’ve got ideas about the women you’re going to go raping and maybe even hurting quite badly, and just how exciting that could be, as opposed to coming home and sitting on the sofa with a beer and some humdrum chow, watching TV, listening to your increasingly frumpy wife grouse, tell you about what dreary things she has gotten up to that day, like finding a bargain in a dime store, you want out. So, I was a just a fraud, because it takes a fraud to pretend that your wife’s boring talk is of any importance whatsoever, when your mind is out there, where the whores are, beckoning you like sirens illuminated by neon harlot-lights. So, what are you going to do, stay indoors with frumpy, or go out and find the honey and eat like a crazy, voracious, grizzly bear?

I had been avoiding her after work for whole weeks, going to lap dancing clubs and titty bars, coming home stinking of booze and perfume, and making lame excuses about ‘stag do’s’, and office parties, and deliberately lame excuses which said, in oblique terms, ‘go fuck off and let me live my life’. And she did, and took the kids. Thank God.

COME TO TAMPA BAY AND TASTE THE WHORERISH DELIGHTS

Did you ever go to a sweetshop when you were a little boy, and there were sweets you just couldn’t afford? Probably. It kind of screws you up little, doesn’t it, not being able to get what you want, what you really want. With older people, it isn’t sweets anymore, but getting screws, and not being able to get it screws you up all the same. But what is it you want exactly? Here was the ‘sweetshop’ and it was in the Tampa red light district, and it was the ‘Screwzone’, full of whores, a coven of whores, whose realm it was, and probably still is. Come see the girls in their natural environment. It is like a pervert safari.

That place and so many like them is where the Devils holds court. You’ve got the whole panoply of fleshpots in their various incarnations; and it is all about the flesh and the punters are the carnivores. And then it is about those whores who strut about like sordid peach-mobiles, in their paint and gaudy attire. And there is so much joy and pain mixed together like an element or amalgam no one can reckon. And there is such secret sadness in depravity and early ruin. There are those men who are the shepherds of their dirty little charges, and I got this: the ancient Greek for them is pornoboskos. (I saw one of them, and his whole body was a tapestry of rotten ink, as rotten as his soul, how he faced this world, or more specifically that outside his foul purlieu, only he could know.) But those strutting whores…workers of libidos of unbridled shame, ‘milkmaids’, ‘jerknurses’, ‘fuckcouncillors’ pick your epithet, they were just asking for it. And they were going to get it.

I think there must have been churches around here at one time, but if so, it is like they shrank from fear of the pernicious vice. In fact, I believe at least one became a ‘loungebar’. But I guess they went out of business, because the Devil moved in and sent the ministers to flight. And I bet some of those pious creeps who would declaim to the flock about the whores in the bible around there before if went sordid, would go and get some of this contemporary meat, and probably wonder what those whores of old charged and complain about inflation. Come to think of it, there should be churches around there, to service the sinners of new, and a whore would make a great minister, or ministress (in a mini-skirt), because, at least you’d know she wasn’t a hypocrite.

Not many a straight man can resist those doggies in the window I tell you. You wait till you see the types that show up, shifty fuckers in their fine suits, family men with their marriage bands pocketed; every walk of like wants a piece of that carnal pie. Resistance is futile. Then there was me, and I wasn’t really into that whole shamefaced deal, hell, I wasn’t even interested in paying for my slice of the pie, and I was thinking that sex with whores wasn’t really worth it unless you went a bit overboard, and I was thinking that it would probably be a whole lot better if you also killed them. And I wasn’t an Einstein to work that out. Because plenty other men had.

So now you know a bit about where a serial rapist and murderer has his hunting ground. So, when you go looking for some errant nookie, know that the ‘Lion’ also hunts tonight.

I AM THE LIGHT OF THE WORLD

I do not know exactly what made me decide that I would definitely someday kill whores, only that something changed again in my mind and it was tectonic, or like when the poles finally shift. Like my mind was breaking and being reformed. I would go to sleep and think that I wasn’t going to wake up at all, or that if I did, I would be insane. It was a particular feeling of sinking as you drifted off, as though you were falling through space. Like a gravitational force. My head would feel like it was made of lead, and I would shake myself awake and try and stay up to keep from that falling sensation, which felt like the end of days.

And when I did reluctantly fall asleep, I would have some terrible dreams. Dreams about deathcamps and women trapped in them at my mercy; of being a soldier in some horrid, lawless war, raping captive women; of killing many captured women and throwing them into trenches or ravines – things like that. And in those dreams, it seemed I was having a wonderful time, and didn’t want to wake. I then tried to rouse myself from them, maybe I was moaning and screaming, tossing and turning, thinking, that if I didn’t resist this, I was going to become a killer and go to Hell. But I couldn’t get out of those terrible dreams, and they played through to the very end and then released me, and I woke, sweating, with a huge erection.

One time I dreamt I was God and was composed of light particles. And that I lived in a black hole.

I read somewhere that a scientist said about the stars exploding and falling, and about blackholes. You know what a blackhole can do? Suck in light. And in the bible Jesus said that he was the light. John 8:12

I Am the Light of the World:

‘Again Jesus spoke to them, saying, “I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will not walk in darkness, but will have the light of life.”’

A blackhole is like a big Godly suckjob Jesus, Son of God, so no escape from that for you. Some scientist said that one day way in the future, we will all be light particles. So maybe my dream wasn’t so crazy at all. Maybe I am a God.

CLASSIFIED ADS

1981. My ex-wife and kids long forgotten, I moved to Ft Lauderdale, into a crummy apartment block. My lousy job could cover that with little to spare for much else. But I had worked out a form of entertainment that was pretty much free. There’s no secret about what that was: raping women. But, I had been planning this with quite a degree of cunning. I had worked out – and maybe other rapists had too – that you could find some women in the ads sections of magazines and papers. Either the classified, or lonely hearts sections, and make arrangements that would give you a pretty good understanding of who you were likely to meet, and some degree of confidence that they would be alone. You did not want to waste your time turning up at a potential rape’s place and find her man there, or some other women; you did not want to turn up and find that the woman was an old crone who not even a sex-crazed rapist would want. It took some nous, reading the lay of the land. You’ve got to plan these things well, or it is ignominy.

On the one hand, the lonely-hearts section was better, because you could tailor your choice somewhat; but you had to reply to them and hope they were interested, and you had the impression that you didn’t know what was really at the other end. They use this code system to communicate their likeness and their likes, like: GSOH = good sense of humor; PnP = party and play; WE = well endowed. But I never saw one like: NPRP = no psychotic rapists please, and even if I did, I would have turned up anyhow, probably as a priority. In fact, some of the people on there were basically advertising themselves to rapists like me, because we will read that stuff and get some ideas.

Long story short, I wasn’t going to write any crap to those people. What do they want, love letters? So, it was the classified ads, I went for which is why I got known as the ‘Classified Ads Rapist’

My first ventures into this were not likely to work out, and that was so. I called numbers and got through to men, or women who sounded too old and undesirable, and to be perfectly honest, I chickened out. But then I learnt how to handle things better. So, on one occasion, I called up an anonymous number, someone selling a lawnmower. Now, I did get through to a man, and he sounded about 40, but spunky, and I reckoned on there being a girl in the equation, and her being a good few years younger, given that spunky men will choose that way. He sounded nice (like he’d been getting his rewards on a daily basis), and so I reckoned she would be nice too, if she existed. I said I could come around on the Wednesday during the day, thinking that he was the breadwinner, and that maybe a she was a stay-at-home. He said that Stacy could be in the house between 2 and 5pm, and that told me all I needed to know. I was going to rape Stacy.

(One thing you need if you’re going to go out raping is a ‘Rape-kit’. Simple: rope, gaffer tape, (handcuffs if you have them), a blunt trauma instrument, a gag, and a knife. And the fucking courage to go through with it!)

Stacy, Romeo is on his way.

I didn’t know quite what to expect, but I couldn’t really have imagined Stacy and that man lived in a nice place. As it turned out, it was just a shitty little tract house, with junk in the front garden, like they were always having a sale, or just dumped their stuff out there. A bit depressing. And there was the lawnmower. But what about Stacy! I got my ‘kit’ out the trunk, thinking it would be taken for a tool-kit, which it was in a sense.

I walked up to the door and just popped that buzzer like it was virgin-hussy’s cherry. And what a nice surprise. Stacy was, bleach-blonde, petite, pretty and could not have been over 26; dressed in tight fitting jeans, pumps, a Rolling Stones tee (which accentuated her smallish, but firm breasts nicely). I had already worked out my opening gambit, which was to ask to use the restroom, which most people will allow. She greeted me in a friendly manner, like having someone come to see her during those daytime TV hours was a blessing. She even asked me if I would like some iced tea, it being a hot day. Yes, she was genuinely a sweet little thing, even if she was a little on the poor and dumb side of the tracks. I said I’d like some of her tea, but the restroom first and she was happy with that.

Let’s cut to the chase. I overpowered her, raped her, beat her a little, robbed her. It interested me the way her face changed from that dumb, default contentment with a simple, innocent but satisfying life, to realisation of utter, unbelievable horror. She had discovered that nightmares are real, and one had come to her in the flesh.

Suffice to say I did that sort of thing a lot. But there’s no need to detail every one of those classified ad rapes I committed, especially when there were rapes and murders to follow, which I’m sure you want to read about a lot more.

Now here is an interesting thing about those crimes. I got arrested for some of them, and that was to be expected; hey, I looked like a rapist, pretty much the stereotype of one, and I had been seen so often, that the description must have got a good deal of coverage. They caught me. I was tried and you would have thought that given what I’d done, would have been found guilty, sent to prison for the rest of my days. Well, the American justice system can be pretty ropey at times. In my case, I got convicted, but got a retrial and let off Scot free. A remarkable result, for which I thanked that glorious justice system heartily. I guess, if you don’t want to get raped, don’t let people who look like rapists, carrying suspect bags, into your home, for a ‘leak’. We all live and learn. Or die.

WHORES D’OUEVRES

I don’t think I invented the term ‘whores d’ouevres’, but I would have liked to. It is what I felt was the mere raping phase of my career. But wait, there was something in between the ad rapes and worst stuff with the whores. Quite odd really, even to me. I moved to Long Beach, California, which I called ‘Long Bitch’, on account of all those stuck up slender pretty Nordic chicks riding around on their rollers, like they were royalty, like they wouldn’t give you the time of day unless you were a male model. Like they’d think that you trying to buy them a drink was some form of proto-rape, or molestation. Fuck em, and I hope some monster does. And there, I met this mysterious girl, but somewhere way from that bitch-beach

I didn’t have any libido for little girls, whose bodies aren’t up to muster, unlike that pervert teacher from that book, who thought 17 was middle aged or some shit. This one I spotted was too old for him, and truth be told, too young for me. She was Kathy and she was 17, and she was very pretty, natural blonde, slim, tall, but looked like a slut from a broken home, where her father was probably as dirty as that man in the book, or dirtier.

From the housing block on Eucalyptus Avenue, I could see her from my window, strutting around the opposite street, coming and going from her trashy little family house, and I did wonder from the ways she walked about in her cheap and gaudy clothes, whether she was a tryout prostitute, or maybe aiming for the entertainment industry, and if the latter was so, even I could have told her that she was more naturally destined for the former, and if she really wanted to make it in the latter, then she’d have to do so many sexual favours that she’d be a whore anyhow. So just be a whore.

I liked the look of her, and felt a little bit sad for her. I also wanted to screw her. But not rape her.

So, I was going to proposition her and try and get her to come into my place, and see if she would hang around. I had to think about what she might want enough for that. She looked like she might be/most likely was on drugs, at least some M.J., and could use some booze; and I could get those things sorted out. I was going to simply approach her with a bottle and tell her I’d seen her from across the road, and did she want to come and share some of this stuff and smoke a joint, watch some T.V. and shoot the shit? And hey, even if your dirty daddy wanted to come along, I would be game, it would be like having my old Pa back.

A warm, Thursday early evening, and she was leaving the house. I wanted to see her return from some way down the road and then head out. It was over an hour wait, when she returned clutching a paper bag full of provisions. And then I pounced. I don’t think she saw me coming or if she did, had any inkling of what I was about. I simply went straight up to her, reeled of my spiel and showed her the bottle, which was in a canvas bag. I blocked her and thought she would just bolt. But my luck was in and she was swayed by my rather crude chat up line. What a whore!

She came around that same night, like a refugee.

(We had some drinking and smoking. We managed to form a relationship of sorts, but with me much older, it wasn’t going to work out, and anyway, I was getting the itch to go to the whore-hunting grounds. So, we parted company, amicably I am sure.)
IF YOU REFUSE ME YOU’RE GOING IN THE REFUSE

No more ‘whores d’ouevres’ for me. My mind had developed a little more towards its inevitable conclusion since that relationship with Kathy. I had moved to Tampa in 1983. I have since learned that the area was then averaging 30-35 homicides a year. Makes you wonder what was going on, who and who and why. I imagined it was whores and pimps, or whores and client-predators, and some other stuff. Anyway, I was going to change their statistics somewhat.

I didn’t waste much time finding my prey and planning the hunt. By now, I had pretty much worked out the process, or M.O. in Police parlance. I think I must have been seriously fucked up by then, through the prism of all these long and hoary years. I think that that was the transition proper.

So, you have to scout the hunting grounds to see how it feels and how it might change, before you start venturing there to hunt, the cunts. I did that for a few weeks, and learnt a lot about those whores and their microcosm. But I don’t think they learnt anything about me, or people like me. A clever Bobby makes for a happy Bobby, was what I felt. Just take your time and think it out properly, like with the ‘Classified’s’. All good things come to those who wait (rape).

I GOT DRUNK & CRIED

I don’t know if I had a mini-breakdown. I think it was a maybe. But what doesn’t kill you makes you stronger. And I also came to believe that killing people made you stronger, like you were absorbing their souls, making yours greater. And that made me think I might be God, all the more.

One night, I bought a quart of bourbon and started drinking it, and when I went to sleep I didn’t know, but when I woke up, it was 2 am, and half the bourbon was gone. Then I started crying and continued drinking, and passed out – or fell asleep – and when I woke all the bourbon was gone and I was still crying and making a noise you’d think came from an animal in distress. I thought I knew what had happened: I had been wrestling with my conscience again, and it had fought me well, but I had won, and decided that, once and for all, the whores had to die. I shouted, ‘THE FUCKING WHORES MUST DIE!’ Again, and again, loud and for maybe fifteen minutes. And a neighbour started banging on the wall. And I thought, that’s what you’d do if I was fucking a whore and she was making too much loving noise; and that seemed a cruel circularity.

HUNTING THE GAUDY BEASTS

When I was finally composed, I decided it was time to hunt. I wanted to pick up dejected whores who were at the bottom of the heap. You see, there is a hierarchy with whores. You don’t go into a premier lounge and pick some ‘escort’ who has management, and a goddamn bevy of high rollers on her books. People are going to notice. You don’t pick the smart, classy whores who rule the roost, because people are going to notice, and anyway some of those fallen bitches have family who actually give a damn about them and are going to want answers, and look for them, with the help of private dicks. Anyway, I wasn’t going to get those former categories into my wheels of Mr justice, since a smart whore knows a maniac rapist off the bat. And boy did I look like one; and it shows, like a tapestry of sins. Dumb and desperate whores on the other hand, are pretty illiterate on that front.

I set out in the ‘Rape Mobile’, and felt a great sense of adventure. I was like a fighter pilot heading into a maelstrom of lead and flak, to fight like a lion and come out the other side with polishing my medals, with spit. I admit that I was in fact a little apprehensive at the time, about what I was committed to do, but I was going to do it – there was not backing down. I hoped with all my heart that I wouldn’t flub it and end up regretting the sortee, even call the whole thing off. Imagine that! You’ve decided you’re going to be one of the worst forms of humanity, get the immense thrill commensurate with the heinous act, then you decide no. It was an impossible prospect. I had to go through with it, or I might as well kill myself through shame.

My that strip was a dirty ole street-scene after 10pm, as bad as any film could make it look, like that one with the taxi driver guy. You would shield your children’s eyes coming into the Tampa Red Light District (hey kids. I don’t think we’re in Kansas anymore). Those whores were out in surfeits, in shameless attire, brazen; as if they were wearing sandwich boards advertising their dirty services. You could look down the alleys and see them working their clients, just about, in the shadows. Even the cops seemed to be friendly with them, chatting through the window at them, probably asking for freebies. I didn’t think anyone would notice me at all, nor the disappearance of maybe a dozen of the whores. Take a few out, and it’s business as usual, a few more just pop up, because the demand never ceases, and broken homes are here to stay.

I always liked the way whores dress up, from foot to hair, what adorns their sick and sordid, drug-addled, sex-possessed heads. If I had a perfect whore on a desert island, she would have those sluttiest high heels, some black fishnet tights, a nice knee-length skirt (don’t want to poison the pudding), a nice lowcut PVC top, beneath a tacky waist-length patent leather jacket to hide and reveal her dirty wares. Heavily made up. Apart from her hose, in those carnal shades of red and pink, and of course the black, which is the colour of sin, and they are sinners as much as I am. I thought I’d got a pretty good idea of who were the dumber ones, undiscerning, reckless, as if I was becoming a bit of a connoisseur, or a shepherd who knows his flock intimately (and by God some of them do). The sort that would get into my ‘Rape-Mobile’, how many of them were there? Answer, probably most of the street ones, at least on some streets. So, I’d done the background checks and got a pretty good idea, and now it was decision time.

So, here she was. She was all that – all that I wanted for my purposes that night. She was white, tall, dressed to kill (be killed); like an arch slut, corporate as she was. O.k. maybe not that bad. She was about 19, had red high heels legged up to just below her knees, black fishnets, and then, a red, knee-length PVC skirt, and then as fake fur jacket (couldn’t see what was beneath). Her face was painted nicely, kohled, crimson lips, and her hair was slightly skanky bleached blond given the crest of roots. She looked like a mother’s despair, unless her mother was a whore also, and it was the family trade, which can happen. I did think about those parents and what they might have thought about their harlot daughters. But it wasn’t my business to mend society, no, I was going to help to rend it.

I pulled up to her, window lowered and said “I got forty five bucks. You think we can ride for that?” and she just came around to the passenger side. (I sometimes wondered what a whore would charge to let you kill her, after a few years of the high life. Hey, some people meet up after agreeing to kill one of them and eat them. So, some people are even crazier than me). So here was Honeybuns in the ‘Rape-Mobile’, and it was soon to become the ‘Death-Mobile’

We rode in silence for a while and then she asked me where we were headed, and what did I want, which I felt was a little impudent for moment, but then I came to my senses and considered that they were very fair questions, given that I wasn’t going to pay her, was liable to rob her, in multiple ways. So, I explained that I knew a place and that it wasn’t too far away, and that if she had misgivings, we could call the whole thing off. She was silent; like a teenager in a mild strop; well, bitch, I didn’t make you become a whore did I, you know what Hobson’s choice is, I’m pretty sure I do, it means take it or leave it. Which was irrelevant, because she was going to die.

I found a wasteland that had once been a diner, and was now a ‘Frankendiner’, just littered with junk and rubble, and weeds and brush, and God knows what desolate crap. She did seem not a little nervous, so I gave her a twenty (which I was going to get back). She snapped it up like a hound dog would a slice of steak before its grovelly chops.

We sat in silence for a very short while and I took in her whore-stink and wondered if they bought it by the pint, but then the moment for action came. She said, “Can we please just get this over with”, like she was some prissy actress who hated her lines.

I punched her in the head with a rage that didn’t quite seem entirely my own. I thought she was dead then, but I had to make sure. I dragged her out, and battered her head with a piece of masonry. And then I dragged her limp and bleeding body into the scrubland, where so much human detritus lay. Where she would rot and stink, and the animals and insects would have their turn on her like all the johns she’d taken for a ride. I was exhilarated. I was sure I was going to do this a lot more.

Getting back home I was in a trance. That night, I had to masturbate five times. I had three very peculiar dreams. In one, I dreamt that I was a male prostitute who then pretended to be a female one and was beaten up by a gang of pimps and one of them was Al Capone. In the second, I dreamt I was a pimp, who was small and deformed, and had only one arm, and was brutally raped and dismembered by the ‘Cunt Brigade’, who I had tried to take under my control. And in the final one, I dreamt that my mother was fellating me while my father encouraged it, saying it was ‘education’. That is the distillation of those dreams, since no one wants to read about anyone else’s dreams anymore than they want to suck on their farts. I woke up with an erection, but was spent, and gluey about my navel.

BOBBY GOES PRO

You have to kill again, you have to kill again, said the mind, or the mind within the mind. I had to kill again. Once you pop, you just can’t stop. But come on, if you want to be a professional, you have to think about this like a professional. My guess was that a decent cull of the whore population of Tampa would go unnoticed, and so would I. I guessed, that maybe as many fatal victims as I had raped would be excessive. I’m not saying that I had a figure in mind, or a limit; but, I was thinking that you could only get away with so much, because this world is mostly under the control of God, as incompetent and uncaring as he may be.

I took some time to think this over. And I was thinking about those whores and their drug habits and how they were taking their drugs to get closer to God, and become the light that would suck them in to his mouth. And then I shouted this out: “Their veins are fucking sewers”, and I sobbed, for them and me.

A very warm night Friday night in August,1983. I wanted a coloured girl, somewhere amid the spectrum, as that Jim Crow racist might have measured it, and said No. About 40% of them were, or somewhere thereabouts. Hey, I wasn’t a racist, I’d rape, and or kill irrespective, isn’t that a nice, egalitarian attitude! They held their whore-court away from the white ones, the Latinos, and the few Asians seemed to adhere to the whites.

I had spied the coloured girls before and I had actually inquired about prices, and found them to be about the same as for the whites (It is objectively a very strange way to conduct business, like saying ‘my kid brother wants a fuck, what’s the deal?’. But hey, we all need some sex education, and they would do almost anything if you paid the right price, capitalists that they are.)

As it happened, I skulked in a street that seemed to be a kind of multi-race zone. And that is where I found my night’s reward.

I sipped my bourbon and kept an eye out, but soon realised that they weren’t going to come to me. So, I just drove around until I saw one I liked and invited her into the ‘Death-Mobile’ with the promise of $40. She was no older than 19. Tall and slim – great figure. She was almost all in a lascivious and carnal cerise (her cherry probably gone aged 10); high-heels, skirt, top; her jacket was black, of some cheap or fake leather. She wore white fishnet tights. And she was going to be mine. And die.

She came in with a smile – her last. Her name was Cindy, which was of course a lie, because no one calls their daughter’s Cindy, because the whores stole the name, so if you called your daughter, Cindy, or Cherry, or Bernice, you are basically branding them a whore for later life.

There was a hammer in this scenario.

(The hammer in question came from Walmart, and they sold many other things that I imagined might have been of use in my activities. They sold those red, stick flares. I didn’t consider myself a sadist, as such, because I actually wanted to get the job done with little or no fuss, maybe humanely if that’s not a contradiction, but somewhere in my mind an idea was born, and that was to ignite that thing and put it, where the Son - was born. I completely decided against that, and let’s leave it there. “Have a nice day” the fat and ugly checkout girl said to me that day. But I knew she didn’t mean it, because she felt too pretty in her own mind, and well brought up to get in to my company. I think that once you have raped circa forty women, killed a woman whore by battery, your face tells a story. Anyway…)

….I digress.

I drove her off from her little whore-amnion. I said that we had to go to this spot. And I felt that being taken away from her dirty little slut-realm aggrieved her some, like it was an elastic band being stretched, that would naturally pull her back, and that if I took her too far, it would snap and she would be all at sea. Well, she looked exactly like a whore and when you do, you can’t really live outside whoreville can you? Just think what would happen if I dropped her off in some sleepy little town!

We entered another desolate and seriously depressing wasteland, as if it had been modelled such. But this time, there were kids up to dickens, probably taking drugs and drinking and screwing. I turned and pulled out and wondered where else we could go, knowing that this whore was probably getting quite angsty about the diversion. I told her I’d pay her another 20, which I think salved her enough.

I found a track road that seemed to go to nowhere, and was deserted. I told her what I wanted and I undid my fly, and she lowered her head. I brought the hammer out from beside the seat on the door-side and brought it down on her head with maniac force, and she was out for the count if not dead. I then took her outside and raped what was left of her living body, then finished her off with around eight hammer blows, until she was a bloody mess about the head. Then I tossed her corpse down into the brush, into a place that looked exactly the sort of place you’d find a dead whore, as though if you went there, you’d be expecting to find one and if you did, you’d think, not such a surprise. Let the animals have her now. Maggot fodder.

That night I got quite drunk and took four Obetrol pills. I was thinking that I might die, and that maybe I should at least put myself at such a risk given that I’d taken two lives and ruined many more. But hoped I wouldn’t. In this weird scenario, if I survived, I would be proofed, maybe with God’s blessing, and then free to continue my killing without remorse. It made about as much sense as killing whores for fun, or pain, or whatever purpose.

I must have passed out, but when I came to, I was in the bath and there was puke all over the place. But I felt very content nonetheless. It was only 11am and I wanted to continue boozing, because I felt that I had been given the thumbs up by either God or my own inner light, to kill as much as I wanted. So, I drank the bottle of Thunderbird I hadn’t yet touched and quickly. The next time I came to, I was naked and standing at the window overlooking the street. I must have been seen by some passers-by, but the ledge was higher than my dignity.

The next day, I considered that I might be an alcoholic, and wondered what they might be able to do to help me quit the booze and live a more wholesome life. I didn’t know exactly what went on at their meetings, but had a fair idea that there was a confessional aspect to it. ‘Hi. My names Bobby. And I’m an alcoholic. I took my first drink when I was 11 or 12 and drank steadily, disastrously for the next 15 years. And my wife left me with the children. And by the way, I lost my job(s). Oh, and by the way, I’ve been raping women a lot, and…Yes, murdering them too’. It was a hiding to nothing.

I was ready to go hunting again. This time, I wanted one of the Skandi-Kandis who operated around Murdoch St. They were the priciest as far as I had come to be aware, at least, they dressed the most expensively, and kept themselves to themselves, as if they were some goddamn fucking sorority, instead of a bunch of fucked up, drug-addled whores, whose parents would die of shame if they saw them. (Jesus Christ, Light of The World, imagine that, your parents see you on the streets, selling your skunk-hole and the same mouth that fed on Mommy’s bumpers, and their bumpers.) They had dreams of seeing you graduate, but now this, a ‘Degraduation’!

I had a few faces on my mind. I reckoned Hitler was right about those people - they are better looking. If Hitler had created a set of playing cards, he would have made a platinum blonde Swede the ace (high), and I don’t need to explain the rest.

But she would be a skeleton in a week or two. I admit that it was a harder prospect than picking up the other whores, because, as I have stated, these ones, didn’t really think they were whores, but ‘escorts’ or ‘friends’, or whatever bullshit they came up with to disguise their true nature, which was whores.

I set out at the usual time on Saturday. It had been raining an awful lot the day before and I couldn’t see them sticking it out then, but the rain had cleared. It was sultry. Maybe the weather changes the moods of those girls. I could see a gaggle of them outside of a hotel which was just a brothel really. I did think that it would be quite hard to persuade one of them to get in my car and go somewhere unfamiliar. But that is why I opted to offer $200, and I had that on me. I guess for that money, they will take the risk. $200 will keep you in drugs for a week, certainly back then.

I drove to them and pulled up and with the bills in my right hand, said. “I need one of you gorgeous girls for an hour, no more. I am lonely and could do with a ‘counselling session’. It has to be away from here though” (which was a corny, self-abasing, gruesome chat up line, for a bunch of whores). At first, they seemed chary of me, as if I was the ugly schoolboy at the prom who deigned to say a word to the Queen of the Prom. But then, one, girl, who I took to be about 18, a rookie whore, came forward and said, “where do you want to go?” And I just said, somewhere secluded, a few miles away, and get this, I actually offered to pay one of her whoreiety gals $100 as security. But she said, “No. It’s O.K., I’ll come”, as if she were some sort of Joan of Arc figure, a martyr for the whore-cause, or, more likely, she didn’t trust her blondie whore-friends. She did look to her other Skandi-Kandi whores and muttered something I didn’t catch, that might have been ‘Don’t expect me to come out alive from this one’, which would have been prescient, Joan of Narc.

She was a clichéd Scandinavian whore. She resembled a skinny version of Marylin Monroe who’d been in a concentration camp for a few months. She was attired in high heels, white tights, a white PVC onesuit that ended as a miniskirt and began as a lowcut. She looked great, in fact, she might even have passed as an upstanding member of society and been allowed into a nice restaurant. She might actually have passed as a nurse, but probably only in some sordid club.

She was not the garrulous type, and that is probably true of most of them. She said her name was Crystal, airily, as if she were a character from some fantasy novel or something. We drove off to a place I’d scouted out, which was an old parking lot gone to rack and ruin and back to nature, which was where she was going shortly. She looked increasingly concerned about this, and I thought she would panic and start complaining, then screaming. I put some music on, some classical shit, Tchaikovsky. It seemed to give an illusion of decorum. I kept the money on my lap, so she could be rest assured she’d get her goodies.

I punched her in the head six times and dragged her out. She wasn’t unconscious, just dazed. We were by the trunk, and I just wanted to kill her there and then, no sex. I was thinking about why I didn’t want sex with her, and I couldn’t do it with someone so good looking; it felt like sacrilege. I started to strangle her and she started screaming, in a way that made you think she had subconsciously expected this fate all along. And I started screaming. And we matched each other in horror and volume, until it was a diabolical duet. And then she died. Which was a relief for me, probably for her parents; what she felt about it only she could have known.

I dumped her lovely body amongst myriad trash, so that it almost resembled a museum of trash and here was the Madame Tussauds inclusion, but not for long. I went home feeling elated, and a little contemplative. Because, it occurred to me, that that girl did likely have parents who actually cared about her, because she was so goddamn pretty. I thought about this scenario:

It is a summer party at the ‘Larson’ house. There are many well to do guests, many of them fine-looking Scandinavian-Americans. Aren’t they peach-proud of themselves. Mr Larson is talking to one of the guests, who is a bit snotty, and snide, and he asks: ‘Miles, what’s your daughter up to these days? We haven’t seen her in quite a while, and Jake and Helen remember her fondly. Did you say she’d gone down to Florida, or was it New York? Finance, right?’ and Larson’s blood curdles, his face is just managing to restrain from showing his risen hackles. He says ‘Yeah. She works in Risk Management, in Florida’. And that tells the guest that she is not working in finance, and that whatever she is up to is something Larson doesn’t want to talk about, which says it all.

Prostitutes should work in risk management, and then they wouldn’t have to become victims of someone like me. Crystal should have had better risk management for sure.

I was getting quite good at this business. Because it was in my D.N.A. I was a rapist, born. A tiger has tiger D.N.A. and, unsurprisingly, is very good at being a tiger. But I had already left considerable amounts of meat in the wastes, to rot and stink, and the smell of a rotting prostitute is likely to attract the attention of not only scavenger animals, but nosey people. In the Florida heat, which can easily be over 80F any time of the year, and over 100 in summer, the rotting takes place quickly, and then it is a case of a load of bones in a costume, which is still something the human mind will spot and alight on in an instant. I had to think that this business of killing whores was not going to last long, anymore than that a man-eating tiger was going to get away with it for long, before the sepoys (or whoever they are over there), were going to come out and kill it.

Another Friday night and another girl. I suppose I was becoming a bit of whore myself; a lady’s man, a dead-ladies’ man. I had some bondage gear which I had found in a bag left by the street I lived on. Not for me; I had no idea how it came there, or what the backstory was, but with a little imagination, you could come to some highly amusing conclusions. And I was intending to use some of it on the next un-lucky lady. But I would work out how when the time came.

I drank a good glug of vodka and set out in the ‘Rape-Murder-Mobile’ at the usual hour, on a mild Friday. I did a few recce-runs until I saw the girl I wanted, who had just come out of a cheap hotel- cum-bordello (pun intended), after ‘cheating’ on me. I didn’t think there was any need for high talk with this teenaged scamp, so just pulled up and whistled at her like I was some horrid hillbilly incest father creep, who would call his daughter out from under the patio to have his foul way. She was probably 18, but looked as though she could pass for 15. Medium height and build, scarlet-dyed hair, no tights and well-shaved pins, a kind of Thai-dye miniskirt, a denim jacket, under which was what appeared to be – and would later turn out to be – a halter top. She looked like her whore of a mother had dressed her for the job, a mother who’d learnt little about the business and had little to improve her whore-daughter.

When she came to the window I gave her the most lascivious wink I could manage. She rolled her eyes, and that got my goat a little. But hey, she could have that little victory, and then I would have my magnificent one, and when her life was on the line, she might think that maybe the eye-rolling thing wasn’t so smart after all. Because I was the Grim Raper.

She got in. I drove off. I offered her a freshly opened 25cl bottle of bourbon I had in my jacket pocket, and she went for it great guns, and suckled that aperture in a way I found slightly obscene, objectively. She was silent for the ride. Now, I had decided to take her to a new location of the ones I had found on my scouting travels. This one was like some kind of bankrupt building plot, long grown over with various weeds, a regular dumping ground for all manner of waste; somewhere so depressing, that I doubt that many people would want anything to do with it, and truth be told, I could imagine that there had been other bodies dropped off here, it just had that feeling, like a makeshift, untoward graveyard.

To assuage any fears the girl had, I paid her a twenty. We parked up in this hellish place, and I asked her her name (not that I cared), and she said her name was “whatever you want”, so I said “Crystal” and she agreed. I won’t go into too much detail about what happened next, but suffice to say, I knocked her out with a blow to the head, then bound her in tape and then…And then I snapped her neck and threw her body into a culvert. I had forgotten all about the bondage gear, and threw the bag out into the plot, for some other screwed up soul to avail themselves of.

After that one, I was actually quite upset but it wasn’t specifically about her. I was just crying. I guess my brain had a part that was affected by taking the lives of whores. I wish it didn’t. And then at home, I went straight for the booze and got so drunk that I thought I was someone else altogether. I danced around my room listening to various 70s pop anthems including those by Parliament and Donna Summer. I woke up naked in the foetal position, in the kitchen, and there were small pools of tears beneath my face.

I decided then that I was going to take a break from killing whores. But I was still going to keep an eye on them, and prepare myself for a return to the sport. I was curious as to whether the vibe had changed in whoreville given the loss of those I’d killed. I hadn’t heard or read anything about dead whores. So, I felt that I’d gotten away with it thus far.

After a few weeks cruising the scene, I got a hardon in my head and decided that for once, I was actually going to pay a whore, give something back to society, so to speak. She was much older, late 20s. It was $50, and I said to her, can I suckle your bags of paradise while you pretend to be my Mom, and hold me tight? She seemed a little perturbed, maybe even disgusted, but when you’ve got a drug addiction to feed, maybe even a child, and other bills to pay, you will do most what a paying customer requests, and maybe even with a smile. She may have been a dejected whore, but she was one of the lucky ones, unless, someone else did for her. Maybe she works in finance now – she was still young, smart, and very pretty.

BOBBY AND THE MOON

I had been drinking terrifying amounts of alcohol. One night, no later than 8pm, I woke up with this terrible hurt in my head, and went to the window to see if I could see the moon. It was cloudy, but I still thought I could detect it, glaring down at me, glowering. Having worked out where it was I went back to sleep and had these horrible dreams about whores coming after me, a whole load of them, and one went like this: I was in my car in their realm, and they came and crowded around the ‘Moon-Mobile’, and they grabbed onto it and rocked it, as I tried to drive away, but to no avail, just burning rubber; and then they dragged me out, beat me up, scratched and kicked me, doused me in gasoline and were about to burn me alive. I woke screaming, so loud, that a neighbour came and knocked on my door, and shouted “keep the fucking noise down”, then, “Is everything alright?”. Was everything alright? No. I was starting to think that whores were out to kill me.

As the days went by, I was becoming increasingly reclusive. In the mornings and somewhat during the day, but always at night, I would look out for the moon and see what phase it was in, as if it determined what phase I was in. I began to think that the moon controlled my mind, the menstrual cycles of the whores, the number of whores out on the streets, and their prices, and their susceptibility to a rapist-murderer like me. Moons control tides and there were tides in my mind. So now, I was a lunatic. I thought that was pretty clichéd; but I wrongly concluded that if you were one, you had a Get-Out-of-Death-Row-Card. I guess I must have become accustomed to the moon, because, I went back to the killing grounds. In fact, I thought the moon was like a guiding light; my, how I would keep an eye out for it, nod at it, for reassurance. And feel that weight in my head, wrestling me.

I think it was then in mid-1984 that I had a strange desire to go out and kill someone who probably wasn’t a prostitute, except you can never really tell, can you. I had some liquor at home and got some ligature materials together, like strong nylon cord (pretty much anything like that will do) and set out in the ‘Moon-Rape-Murder-Mobile’ headed, not to the obvious strutting grounds of the whores, but a little further afield, into what you might call the ‘Independent Business District’. It was just after 10 pm and I was thinking that there would be regular female workers knocking off from some of the late-hours businesses, and that I might try and offer one a lift. But, come on, would you really get into a creepy car driven by a creepy looking man at that hour, unless you were a godforsaken whore! I doubted that and didn’t consider it an M.O. Also, you’ve got to consider that such a woman passenger is liable to panic as soon as she’s not being taken where you said. And then you’d have to struggle in the car, which might not end well. So, no to that.

I cruised around a street with some diners, pizza parlours, a cinema, a few skanky-looking bars, and other businesses with their lights shining. I waited down a side alley and watched for a lone girl to come. I saw a few with men. And I saw some come but there were too many other people in the street and that was a no. But then, from behind, my angel came, young, nice figure, smartly dressed, corporate, and of course, alone. She was going to die, and I thought that that was almost certainly not something she had on her mind, since she looked pretty pleased with herself; maybe having got a promotion or something. Promotion! I was going to give her one of those, to the goddamn grave.

When she was just past my wheels, I leapt out and grabbed her around the mouth and neck and bundled her into the passenger side and smashed in the chops four times until she was subdued, more like stunned. I drove her to a new secluded spot. She came to and pleaded with me, like it was an audition for Orphan Annie or something. I was not to be moved by this. I went to the passenger side, fast, and she tried to move to the driver’s side, but I got her by the legs and dragged her out, like she was a coyote or something in its burrow, destined for its rightful death as a member of the vermin category. I beat her semi-unconscious again. And with the one hand over her mouth, the other working both our under garments open, I then raped her. I then strangled her to death with a force that seemed to be increased by the moon. I didn’t need to see the moon, because I knew where it was up there, burning into my soul. I was screaming and dancing, jumping up and down like a banshee. I was all over the emotions, crying, yelling, laughing, almost all at once. My shlong was flapping around like an elephant’s trunk after it had walked on a landmine. I think she died quite quickly, but my ministrations continued and continued. Then I noticed a bum watching me from the shadows. He looked derelict as Hell (he was wearing a jacket made of an old carpet), and as though he didn’t really know what he saw, whether it was true or a drunk vision, an epiphany from Hades. I said to him “Hey rummy...Quit boozing and you won’t have to see this sort of shit. Because it ain’t fucking real”. And he scampered off sharpish. Fucking rummies! I dumped her in some scrub, under a seriously filthy mattress someone else had left, which I sarcastically thought was thoughtful and laughed, though I was quite calm by then – spent.

I won’t bore you too much more about my adventures. I will tell you though that I did another kidnapping of a ‘civilian’, this time in the ‘Light-Mobile’ and for some reason I cannot quite fathom, I let her go. I think that to this day she probably has terrible nightmares, a terrible story to tell; well, join the club lady, things aren’t so great in here, and where I am liable to go, to the Death House, then to chez Beelzebub, worse, worse, worse!

The rest of my rape murder career was just a blur. Stuck between the goddamn moon and the whores, with booze and O-T-C drugs and marijuana thrown in. Got to kill them or they’ll kill you, else the moon be burning my soul, like voodoo chile.

And with all that gaudily attired meat out there in those desolate places, rotting, stinking the place up with their death-perfume, the cops looking for missing whores, something had to give. Yeah, I got caught. And here I am on Death Row to tell the tale. I guess, when we’re all light particles up there in space, I’ll see you, if light particles can see, and those whores I killed, will be up there and if they ask me to apologise, I’ll just say, “fuck you”.

Ta da.