I remember when Gramps used to take me out trout fishing on Sunday
mornings. I was probably about eight or nine years old and cute
as a button. He'd tell me stories about the old days and give me
advice about my own life. Sometimes when he talked about his wife
- my grandma - who'd been dead for nearly twenty years, a single
glistening tear would trace its way down his cheek and drip off
the end of his chin. He'd call her his 'angel,' then wipe the tear
away and pretend that he was fine, but I knew better. We were best
buds, he'd tell me, and together we'd fish and laugh and share the
ham sandwiches Aunt Moxie made until the sun dropped below the horizon
late in the early evening. Those sure were the days.
routine got so damn boring that I stuck a filet knife in his chest
and hacked his lifeless body to pieces! The old coot made great
Well, that was
my first murder, and let me tell you, it was just so exhilarating!!
The gushing blood, the look of helpless fear and gut-wrenching terror
- it was all so intoxicating!! After that I knew - I just knew in
the deep pit of my soul - that I was going to be a serial killer.
Let the other kids become doctors or lawyers or astronauts - I was
going to be different! I was destined to march to the beat of my
own drummer by kidnapping poor, unsuspecting victims, torturing
them for days in my basement dungeon, killing them with a blunt
instrument and then disposing of their mutilated carcasses in a
nearby abandoned field. How touching, and, indeed, how truly courageous
it is to follow that dream that calls you from deep within your
But after years
of pursuing my vocation, I had to admit that there was still something
missing in my life. My therapist thought maybe I was directing too
much of my energy toward mutilating my victims, but I knew it was
really something deeper than that. What I turned out to be was just
plain lonely. Yes, for all my love of kidnapping and killing and
taunting police with grisly clues like pieces of fingers and livers
and stuff, I had no one to share my passion with - no one who truly
understood who I was on a deep level. It was a lonely life, I tell
you.Until that fateful day.
I remember it
like it was yesterday. (Actually, I have no recollection whatsoever
of yesterday, but that's another matter.) I was busy dismembering
another victim out behind Old Mister Sampson's junkyard when I heard
the sound of approaching footsteps. Jumping quickly behind an abandoned
car, fearful of snooping detectives, my eyes soon met a sight they
will never forget. There, trudging along not twenty feet away, was
a woman in a green jump suit and brown workboots, carrying in her
hand a blood-stained axe. She seemed to be dragging some sort of
heavy load behind her, and over her face she wore a blood-flecked
it be?" I asked myself. "Could I have found the answer at last?"
I took a quick breath and approached her.
"Hey there beautiful," I called out.
She stopped dead in her tracks and looked straight at me.
"What's a lovely lady like you doing in a place like this?" I was
surprised to find myself quite the charmer.
"Who wants to know?" she shot back.
hand, I introduced myself, and thus our friendship was born. Her
name was Gladys, and, like me, she'd been killing serially. (We
tend to prefer this politically correct moniker to distinguish ourselves
from those low-lifes who kill for money or passion or whatever.)
She too looked on it as a noble calling and passion. Originally
from Des Moines, she'd drifted across the country, leaving behind
her a bloody trail of bodies and a gruesome collection of clues.
She told me her professional name was 'Jane the Ripper,' but most
of her close friends and family still called her Gladys. She was
- to say the least - everything I wanted in a living woman.
I was crazy about her after I presented her with an ear and part
of a kidney on our one-month anniversary. It took some time, but
she and I inevitably became lovers and soulmates. Often we'd share
intimate secrets and discuss the tricks of the trade long into the
night, and sometimes as a treat we'd help one another with a job.
Once as a birthday present she let me strangle and skin a terrified
middle-aged man she'd abducted from outside a local watering hole.
What a hopeless romantic she was! She got such delight watching
me press my hands around the guy's throat and squeeze the last gasp
of life out of him. When I'd finished, together we weighted his
body down and tossed it in the creek. How lovely she looked in the
moonlight. Pure bliss!
So you see there's
hope for us all. I finally found peace and fulfillment after a long
and agonizing search and so can you. In fact, there's absolutely
no reason why we can't all hold tight to our professional dreams
and still find that true soul mate - just look at Oprah. My life
is now suffused with unimaginable joy and love.
does have a happy ending!
forget these other exciting Chicken Soup books: Chicken Soup
for Happy, Fuzzy Bunny Rabbits, Chicken Soup for Chickens,
and Chicken Soup for the Parents of Gays and Lesbians!!!
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