My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 225

Episode Date: May 3, 2021

This week’s hometowns include a dartboard and a Marty story.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

We at Wondery live, breathe and downright obsess over true crime and now we're launching the ultimate true crime fan experience, Exhibit C. Join now by following Wondery, Exhibit C on Facebook and listen to true crime on Wondery and Amazon Music, Exhibit C. It's truly criminal. Hello and welcome to my favorite murder. It's the mini-soes. Oh, this is someone where you send us stories and we read them aloud back to you. We sure do. You want to go first? Sure. The subject line of this email that we got sent is, silly branding almost killed me. Hi, Karen, Georgia and the rest of y'all. Hope all is well and everyone is staying safe and getting vaccinated. I grew up in upstate New York, the Adirondacks, during the early 2000s. So,

I was always exploring and the kid who everyone thought was kidnapped during hide and seek because I hid for a little too long. As a kid, I was nonverbal, so that didn't help. And then in parentheses it says, teachers thought I was deaf, so they sent me to a deaf academy and realized I wasn't deaf when I stood up when a fire alarm was going on. Oh my gosh. Amazing. Then it just says that being said, dot, dot, dot. One summer day, my four-year-old self was playing in my family friend's shed when I saw a large metal can with soda branding on it. Of course, I decided to drink it because I'm stupid. My mom's friend, Tita, found me in her yard, passed out a few minutes later here, because I accidentally drank racing fuel gasoline. The race car on the can's label was

sponsored by Pepsi. Oh. I couldn't verbalize what happened, but I pointed to the can when my Tita woke me up. Oh. She didn't want to call 911 because she was undocumented. So, she gave me Ipacac syrup, put her fingers down my little throat, and pushed on my stomach until she smelled the fuel come back up. Oh my gosh. I ended up throwing up all over her yard. And she thought that was the end of that, but that night, her dog ended up eating my vomit and then in parentheses, sorry, this is gross. Oh my God. And got sick as well. Thankfully, the dog and I survived that day because of my Tita. Now, I'm 22 years old and graduated with my BFA in graphic design working as a branding slash packaging designer. So, hopefully, I won't make

the same mistake as that branding designer made. Thank you both for always cheering up my days with your excellent storytelling and humor. Stay safe. Don't put food slash soda labels on lethal fluids and then parentheses. I think this type of branding is illegal now. Yeah, I was going to say. But also, don't be the kid who drinks it with love, Melanie. It's Melanie, not on you. What an epic story of why, I can't believe in the early 2000s, they weren't better at diagnosing and sending them to specialists, first of all, because she could have gotten so much help that wasn't available because of simple adults not fucking doing their jobs, right? Look, the American school system is at issue at the top of this. But to me,

I think what Melanie learned the lesson of what we should all keep in mind is if you're in an old shed, drink nothing. Yes, yes. There's a context clue situation here where, yes, there was Pepsi branding, but that's going to happen sometimes in life. And you have to know if you're in a shed, there's no beverages. There's no fresh beverages. I bet she never made that mistake again, A, so it was a learning experience. I also, now can we move on to the topic of immigration and how this is what happens when people are too scared, same with sex work, too scared to report their issues because they'll be, they'll be the issue and be victimized. Let's talk about that, so many issues. And let's praise Epicac, everyone who has children. Yeah, I was going to say, now the final

issue, letting your dog eat bar, which is right, we can't be with them all the time. I, you know, this is, this is a jam packed, fully layered email from Melanie. I don't know. Then has like the beautiful lesson at the end of like, now I'm a graphic designer, so that never happens to any child in a shed ever again. It's a story of hope. Melanie, thank you for writing about it. What a gorgeous layered story. She did it. Thank you for writing that to us. All right, this is all minor about parents, which is always a good thing. This is called the time my husband blew up his best friend. Hey, hey, all y'all and welcome to the clan cookie. Thank you. In a recent many so'd, you asked for the dumbest thing you saw another kid do when you were a kid or something like that.

I don't, I know you probably don't remember exactly and anything goes at this point. So I'm not going back and transcribe it verbatim. Hey, no one's asking it to calm down. Very defensive. This isn't technically that, but is the dumbest thing I've ever heard of a kid doing and it involves my husband more than a decade before I would meet him. This is a little graphic, by the way. Let's set the scene. It is 1983 in suburban Philadelphia, a middle class neighborhood whose residents were mostly cops and firefighters and where all the children were latchkey. My husband was 12 and his neighborhood best friend at the time was C will use initials to protect the dumbassness, the son of a cop and Philly like in most big cities, fireworks were contraband and the police

would regularly stop kids and confiscate their stashes. Once confiscated, at least back in the 80s, some cops would not destroy said fireworks or put them away for safekeeping in some Indiana Jones style warehouse, but instead bring them home to their own kids to play with. And it says, try not to be too shocked at the hypocrisy. So C has a access to all of these stolen fireworks and somehow my husband managed to convince C to not set them off as soon as we they were brought home, but instead hoard them and like the child with the most self control in the marshmallow experiment, save them for a bigger, better reward. Now where this is going. My husband, as he tells it, had a vision. He had a plan. And that plan was that my husband, along with C and T, another accomplice,

would dig a giant hole in my husband's backyard, a deep hole that would require three protein boys to dig. They would then fill the hole with fireworks, cover the pile of illegal explosives explosives with a mound of dirt, light a long wick placed in the hole from a safe distance, and then enjoy the fruits of their labor, a fireworks display worthy of the city that birthed independence. How well is this written? Well, great. But I was going to say, this is straight up Wiley Coyote shit of like, these are boys that watched a cartoon. Sorry, where are you getting that wick? That's made up out like, yeah, all of this is is completely from cartoons. Well, if one of them has a firefighter dad, then they probably know how to make it out of tools that

I can't even pretend to make up. As a person with a firefighter dad, I say probably not. Chances are probably not. Okay, fair enough. And then it says, however, period. I know that that's going C place the fish, the finishing touches on the mound of dirt covering the hole. And against my husband's instructions, see lit the wick while standing over the mound. This is why children should not have access. There was an explosion. They got that part right. And it blew sea across the yard, taking most of the skin on his legs with it. Yeah. Bear men. Are you not surprised by this? Okay. But the dumbassery, but the dumbassery doesn't stop there because my husband and T the other kid fully realizing the gravity of this situation. God, these stories are for stories are so similar.

Did not call an ambulance or even see his parents. Instead, they helped him back across the street to his own home, put sea on the couch, sprayed his legs down with solocane. No, solar came. What is that? Sunburns. It's a sunburn. I didn't know that. I'm from California and I didn't know that, which explains a lot. Because you can't you can't you don't burn the childhood of sunburns. But yeah, solar came on exposed broken skin. We got epicac. We got solar care. We got kids. Okay. Covered him with a blanket, which is so bad for burnt skin, of course. And there's gonna be a lot a lot of lint in those open wounds. Yeah. Yes. And turned on the people's court. And then these two kids, they went to the movies. Bye. Bye. When when C's mother who thank God was a nurse

came home hours later, she found C in shock and covered in third degree burns. Yeah. Yeah. And she called the much needed ambulance. C spent the rest of the summer in the hospital, having skin removed from his ass to create skin grafts for his legs, his little legs. This is why we don't do latchkey anymore. No, yeah. This is why fireworks are illegal. This is why cartoons aren't the same as these. Right. Like there's so many. This is so it's an anachronistic little anecdote of horror. Yeah. And yet see, he never snitched. And my husband indeed never faced any consequences for blowing C up and leaving him for dead. Wait, so okay. Kids, man, what you say it, you're totally right, whatever it is. Just then what cover store I blew my own legs up alone. I think so, man. This

kid wouldn't snitch. He's no rat. You know, he's in Philadelphia. I feel like you get taught. But it'd be one thing if they were all like, oh, we're super scared and we're upset and this is horrible. Those two motherfuckers went to the movies. Yeah. I wonder what they saw in the antigens. Yeah, Indiana Jones. And then when the part where they open the arc in the guy's face melts, I hope they both started crying. Oh my God. Oops. Yeah. Kids, man. Thank you all for the podcast, your humor, your friendship, your compassion and your honesty. You've been a safe harbor during this dark storm. Stay sexy and don't blow up your friends. Therese. Oh, yeah, tail. I mean, I hopefully was it see the burned child? Yes. I mean, hopefully this is like

a story he enjoys telling these days. And it's that vibe. It's quite a if he's the best man and and she or whoever's wedding. That's his speech is here's how much I love him. I never snitched mom. Guess what? I'm not seeing that those friendships, you know, continuing through into junior high. I'm just not. It doesn't seem likely. It's a rough tale to tell. Maybe I should have told you as you lay as you lay in that hospital, you just be like, huh? Yeah. Maybe better decisions. I don't think so. Or in my future. You know what? It's because we asked for these. That's why this all is like a theme. Which I kind of love. Yeah. So continuing with Oh, I won't read you this up. Thanks. It gives it away to says it something violent. And then

it says lighthearted. Hello. My brother and I spent our early childhood in southern Alaska. And for that reason, we were usually running wild and playing in the woods around the property line. I was about five and my brother was like three ish when one day we were climbing a tree that had half fallen. You don't want it falling all the way because that would be too safe. Yeah, that'd be that'd be too close to the ground for a three and five year old. We got three. Three. Oh, we're in charge. Five year old. Yeah. Good luck. And, you know, all you know, those things you don't know anything about like horrifying slivers or poisonous spiders. Go find out on your own. Oh my God. Okay. So it says it was slanting enough to where two little

kids could shimmy up and hang about five feet from the ground. Who knows what he was doing, but my brother did something to make me mad and I gave him a shove. He fell right out of the tree and onto his back. I immediately did the oh shit, you're okay, you're okay routine. When my brother sat up with a big grin on his face, do that again. He cried happily. He's a toddler. Sorry. He's not a kid. That is a toddler. So I called him back up. He shimmy stood up on the fallen tree and I gave him another good shot. He's like, that makes my brain feel good when it wobbles. He fell again. Oh my God. It was right then that my mom looked out the kitchen window convinced I was trying to actively kill my

brother, parentheses and her favorite child. Let's be honest. She sped walked out the front door toward us in that specific way moms do when you're about to fucking get it. Oh my God. It's very specific. I tried to explain myself, but she was already checking on my brother and simultaneously telling me off. I'm sure I was grounded or something, but I can't really remember past the part where my mom caught me pushing a literal three-year-old out of a tree because he asked me to stay sexy and don't push your siblings off of anything. Even if they ask you to, Grace, here's what here's how I would end that. If you put a five-year-old in charge, it's your fault as the adult that they did something not their fault until they're like 16. It's on you

parent. It's yeah, because if she had sent those two kids out into just an empty flat field, then everything's good. But if you're looking out into that field and there's all kinds of like active nature, danger, yeah, you can't really. She knew the terrain. Number one. Either the sister was going to push him out of the tree or nature was going to push him out of the tree. Remember when we would babysit at babies at 11, at 10 years old at an 11? Sure. And then they'd put two of them together that were friends. So it's like a 22-year-old if you add their ages together. If that's the way it works. Sure. That's a way you could rationalize it. All right. Okay. Spray first. Apologize later. Light-hearted. What up, MFM? I'll try to keep this as reader's digest version

as I can. My mom and I are very close, meaning she wasn't the best at parenting. So we hung out quite a bit. That's how it goes. And we had to move around a lot due to insufficient funds literally all the time. At one point, we were moving and my mom and I had a couple of Mike's special lemonade's going through our junk to, quote, get rid of and, quote, no, wait, I might use that soon now that I'm looking at it. In which I found a pepper spray can. I had never actually used one before and I began inspection to get me out of actually packing. Mom was talking to me about how she had it just in case. But let's be real. It was in a box of tangled string and loose clips. Really safe. I had seen an expiration date of three years prior to when this happened. So I

laughed out loud and said to mom, Hey, I wonder if this still works. Then I proceeded to lightly tap the trigger thing. And then all caps. I pepper sprayed my mom. She was creaching like a Banshee and I couldn't help that awkward combo of I'm so sorry through hardcore laughing. Yes. After I had full of minutes, we managed to get her eyes to open comfortably. Thank whoever she was laughing at the end too. I can't help but think about your ladies relationships with your mothers. And maybe Georgia can get a better closeness with her mom if she peppers braid her. Definitely. Thank you all for everything. And sincerely, I love listening and showing my mom your episodes while we hang out. I truly am happy. You guys exist. Karen, I hope your mom won't look down at me and be mad

that I didn't offer to take my mother to the hospital, which probably should have been an option. Stay sexy and pepper spray your mom, Brooklyn. It's a good learning experience. What I think is funny is Brooklyn never said how old they were. So at the beginning when the mic's hard lemonade thing came up, I'm like, is this girl nine? Yeah, one of those kind of stories. Well, yeah, I bet she worked her years of resentments when one quick pepper spray. Looking for a better cooking routine? With meal planning, shopping and prepping handled, Hello Fresh has you covered. Hello Fresh makes home cooking easy and affordable so you can stay on

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your first box at hellofresh.ca slash murder20 with code murder20. That's up to 20 free meals plus free shipping on your first box when you go to hellofresh.ca slash murder20 and use code murder20. Goodbye. What makes a person a murderer? Are they born to kill or are they made to kill? I'm Candice DeLong and on my new podcast Killer Psyche Daily, I share a quick 10-minute rundown every weekday on the motivations and behaviors of the criminal masterminds, psychopaths and cold-blooded killers you hear about in the news. I have decades of experience as a psychiatric nurse, FBI agent and criminal profiler. On Killer Psyche Daily, I'll give you insight into cases like Ryan Grantham and the newly arrested Stockton serial killer. I'll also bring on expert guests

to dive deeper into the details, share what it's like to work with a behavioral assessment unit at Quantico, answer some killer trivia and even host virtual Q&As where I'll answer your burning questions. Hey, Prime members, listen to the Amazon Music Exclusive Podcast Killer Psyche Daily in the Amazon Music app. Download the app today. Okay, this last one that I was so excited to get to, the subject line is the human dartboard. Oh, fuck. You asked for stories of crazy shit people have witnessed other people getting stuck in their bodies. Boy, I don't remember that and I don't know what it means. It's crazy shit people have witnessed other people getting stuck in their bodies. This must have been a riff on

all the things we were saying last time of like, because there was a bunch of great ones that were like, of course you idiot, like why would you do that kid stuff? Yeah, I think this was, this was like an addition to. I was thinking of when you have those night waking nightmares and you can't move your body and you're stuck in your body, not things stuck in your body. Now I understand. Oh, yeah, yeah, yeah. No, things coming from the outside and going in. Okay. Years ago, my friends and I lived immediately next to a college we never attended parentheses, but I am banned from different story. Naturally, our neighbors were a mix of party people, stoners and a few stray families. The school's lacrosse players lived across the way and we're

always doing unusual things in front of open windows. One afternoon in early spring, we decided to watch the block jocks while smoking weed as we refinished a coffee table. Think of a bunch of drunk 20 year olds tanning on a muddy lawn during what we call fake spring in Buffalo. Two guys were being particularly rowdy and one quickly stood up as if he were summoning the other guy to a duel. He gave the third guy his beer, motioned, watched this and walked a few paces as his opponent moved toward the center of the sidewalk. In one swift motion, lax bro, extraordinaire, launched a dart directly into his friend's bare chest. Yes, a real dart in his chest. Oh my God. This dude seemed kind of surprised and immediately looked down to see the dart

sticking out of his pectoral muscle. After taking a second to process what had just happened to him, the young gun decides to whip out his phone and take a selfie. I can only assume that was posted with an underwhelming hashtag. The party immediately resumed and he walked around with the dart in his chest for some unknown period of time thereafter. Obviously, we didn't do anything because our stoned asses were so shook that we weren't fully sure it happened in the first place. All in all, I'm glad he was fine. But damn, was that planned? Stay sexy and get consent before impaling your friends, Kate. I don't have words for that one. But it's pretty bro-ey. It's pretty intense and bro-ey. I like that we might go down a direction like this. It opens up a whole world of bro stories

that could be very fun. Bro stories. Also, I like the attitude of the guy that got darted, where he's just like, this is an important moment for all of us. Let's capture this and really remember it in the future. I'm not going to let dart thrower one at me. I'm going to wear this as a badge of honor inside of my body and maybe get an infection, but it's worth it. My last one is a little long, but I'm really happy to tell it because it's actually my dad's story. We were doing stories about jobs and parents and all sorts of things. I was like, tell me my favorite story about you. He told me since I was a kid, and he did it. I might cry. By Marty Hardstark, he wrote, like most of my high school buddies, no entry. I had no idea

what to do after graduating in the summer of 1963. I was in the best of students, so no plans for college. Besides, my family encouraged me to get a real estate license and join my uncle's residential development company in Los Angeles. That meant starting at the bottom, cleaning up construction sites. No thanks. Many of my friends were joining various military reserves, army, navy, air force, because besides a sense of adventure, it was a good way to get some training and experience for six months instead of the usual three or four year commitment. Also, we weren't at war with anyone at the time, which made it relatively safe. So at the tender age of 17.5 with my parents' permission, I signed up for the Army Reserve and shipped out to Fort Ord in Central

California for basic training. I won't bore you with all the details of army life and weekend reserve unit meetings plus summer camp war games, but I must say that looking back at it all now, it was definitely a major blast, especially because I was in a tank unit. Unfortunately, the world changes and the United States becomes more and more involved in the Vietnam War. I had read a few things about the history of that country and their struggle for independence as a former French colony. I was against the war and would attend peace rallies knowing I might be arrested, beaten or even shot. In 1965, the number of troops being sent to Vietnam was going up fast and the feeling at the time was that it would continue to increase even more rapidly. The

draft did a lot of guys like a wet mop in the face. The possibility of combat in the jungles of Southeast Asia scared the shit out of millions of young men who couldn't get a deferment. The reserve units were now full and only a temporary shelter if President Johnson decided to call up the reserves and National Guard to active duty. Fast forward to 1967, there is now at least half a million US troops fighting in Vietnam and the number was still growing. That summer, not to my surprise, I received a certified letter from the Army Reserve Commander informing me that my unit had been disbanded and I had 30 days to join another reserve unit or be called to active duty. They needed bodies and this was a less dramatic way for the generals to activate the

reserves without the negative publicity of calling up entire units at the same time. The gig was up. After considerable detective work and networking, I was able to find an Air Force Reserve unit that needed a breakfast cook of all things. A breakfast specifically? Yeah, a breakfast cook. Weird, right? Lo and behold, I had worked part time at a local coffee shop washing dishes slash cooking and learn the art of omelette preparation. The place was famous for its four egg omelette loaded with your choice of condiments. But the most important part for the cook was being able to crack two eggs in each hand without a piece of shelf falling into the omelette. Fortunately, I was able to schedule an interview with the mess sergeant at an Air Force Reserve base a few hours

drive from my home. When I entered the mess hall, I was instructed to complete an application and wait until my name was called for a demonstration of my cooking skills in front of the mess sergeant. There must have been 25 other guys waiting their turn, some even wearing chef whites. Most of them were also reservists looking for a new unit. So basically they had to join another unit or they or it was disbanded, like all of them were disbanded. And then they get sent. So as I waited in line, I wondered what kind of cooking skills they wanted to see and began to doubt my ability to get the position, one of my common reactions to being under pressure. Then I remembered the words of my dear mother when I was in doubt about my ability to overcome major life obstacles,

bigger dummies than you have done it. With those words, I heard my name called and walked over to the grill in front of the mess sergeant who was sitting down with a cigar permanently stuck in the corner of his mouth. He looked me directly in the eyes and asked in the most serious tone what was my specialty. I told him that I could break two eggs in each hand at the same time while preparing a four egg omelette without a single piece of the shell falling into the pan. The mess sergeant was impressed since none of the other candidates offered to prepare a similar concoction. I surveyed the cooking area and decided to fry the eggs on the grill rather than a pan since all of them had already been used. This was unknown territory.

After washing my hands, putting on an apron and head cover, I cleaned the grill and spread cooking oil on a small section. I selected a bowl in which to mix the four eggs, then the moment of truth, cracking the eggs. There was an instant sense of relief when I looked down at all four eggs frying on the grill with not a single piece of eggshell. Can't be completely sure how it all happened, maybe just luck or a zen moment of letting go, but somehow I managed to get the job done. The mess sergeant was laughing and asked me where I learned to do that trick. I told him and he said he knew the place and would stop there when he was in that area of town. A few days later, I received a call from the mess sergeant's assistant informing me that I was selected

and rattled out the dates for weekend and summer camp duty for the next three years of my reserve service. A few years after the war and the draft ended, a college friend who served in a combat unit at the height of the Vietnam War told me most of the Army reservists in his unit were wounded or killed in action during the first few weeks after arrival. It seems that they were considered kind of like draft dodgers and not really trusted or included. Moral of the story, even the simple of actions, can make a difference in life. That is my Marty Hart Stark, my beloved father who never doesn't say he's proud of me when he gets off the phone with me, ever since he shouldn't have been proud of me as a younger person. Isn't that lovely? Yeah. So send your

stories of near misses, maybe. Yeah, absolutely. It's really open and available to whatever you have. If it's a good anecdote, something like that where Marty put in his hours at a diner and then those skills, those learned skills, him going and being like, I don't know what to do, but I better learn something. I better let people teach me something and then he could take those skills and actually do something with it later. It saved his life. And I believe in myself. He had a rough time of it, which I know in detail, I don't know what go into, but he didn't have a lot of options in life. He was from a rough background and he believed in himself, which I know is really hard for him. And he said that digger dummies than me thing is just, I think, a beautiful

saying by my grandma, Molly. Way to go, Marty. Marty. Send us write in your emails, all your stories, all the stuff you want to tell us about. And if you want to hear one more story or write in a story to the fan cult, we are doing one more each in the fan cult. So check that out. It's only fan cult stories and they're really fun. And stay sexy and don't get murdered. Goodbye. Elvis, do you want to cookie?