My Favorite Murder with Karen Kilgariff and Georgia Hardstark - MFM Minisode 92

Episode Date: October 15, 2018

This week’s hometowns from the Pacific Northwest include a flip phone ghost story and a death bed confession.See Privacy Policy at https://art19.com/privacy and California Privacy Notice at https://art19.com/privacy#do-not-sell-my-info.

This is exactly right. 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. Hi. And hello.

And welcome to my favorite murder. The menu soda. Where we read you your shit. These are your stories of true crime, the ones you grew up with. The ones you experienced first. The ghost stories that your mom won't stop talking about. Things that happen in your family that are big secrets that aren't anymore. Really funny weird shit you found in walls.

Other stories that have nothing to do with true crime. This is a random mini-sode about whatever we decide. Do you want me to go first? Go. Because I'm just chomping at this one. Oh, I love it. It's great when we're reading these and then one of us like reading them to ourselves to find out which ones we're going to tell and one of us starts cracking up.

Yes. It's like, yay. This is going to be fun. There's a lot. The subject line in this is the chainsaw chicken. Fuck yeah. Hi, Georgia Karen, Steven and Furry podcasters. No, absolutely not.

Love it. My hometown murder isn't exactly a murder, but it's pretty freaking crazy and I feel like you'll both enjoy it. I grew up in a small town outside of Portland, Oregon. When I was in middle school, a string of unexplained acts of vandalism shook my little town to its core. For several weeks under the cover of night, a mysterious individual would take a chainsaw and cut down various trees and utility pole, causing them to land on nearby country roads

and even fall across the town's main four lane highway familiar to many as highway 26. The perpetrator always evaded capture and the trees and utility poles often would cause power outages across the whole rural countryside. Oh my God. My friend's older sister even drove her car head on into a fell tree because she didn't notice it in time. That's what I was going to say. It was super dangerous.

Oh my God. It says in parentheses, don't worry, she survived with minor injuries. The individual was nicknamed the chainsaw chicken by the town and the local news stations. I know, super catchy. I love it. Finally, the vandalizer, is that a word in parentheses, was arrested and turned out to be none other than a boy from my middle school. What?

Oh, you little fucking shit. Go to your room. Who wants a couple grades younger than me? Wow. He would use his family's chainsaw and disappear into the night, possibly committing these crimes as some kind of outlet. I really didn't know him that well, but he always seemed to be pretty quiet, but kind and unfortunately rather friendless.

After his arrest, he disappeared into the juvenile detention system. For all I know, he could be out of juvie by now, I would hope so. But like I said, this all happened in middle school, which was like eight years ago. Anyway, thank you for your time and always remember to stay sexy and don't hang out with chainsaws or chickens by eight, Maddie. Oh my God. What if he's like a forester now or like works for the utility company? Whatever he's doing now, I need him to know that I'm in love with him.

The spirit, the audacity it takes to get up in the middle of the night and grab your parents chainsaw. It's just wreaking havoc, just what a little shit, the loudest havoc he could wreak. And how do you not get caught? He's a super genius. Like you're, you're taking down an electrical pole and you seem to get away before anyone spots you. And then suddenly you're a 12 year old, like out of the blue, it's just like, boom, I'm

12. Fuck you, motherfucker. I'm 12 bitches. Do you think he rode around on his tip, like on his BMX bike with the chainsaw around like I like a guitar on his back. I love him so much. What's his name? I bet it's like, it's Jimmy, Derek, Jimmy, Jimmy, it's something with a Y.

Yeah. Jimmy. It's yeah, it's something like that. Yeah. Or like, uh, Cody, Cody, that's a Cody move. That's such a Cody move. Taking a chainsaw. Cody, you little shit.

Cody, your room. Cody. Cody. God damn it, Cody. Cody has like six other brothers, so he has no choice. It's just like, well, I get beaten up every day, so I need to take a chainsaw or something. This is the only thing I can do to get any, I can't tell you how many times in my childhood I wanted to take a chainsaw to everything in the town.

Because of your sister, Laura, go to your fucking room. Laura, you made me. This is a founded walls story. Oh shit. What we always love. It's a pretty good one. Okay. Hi, MFM crew.

My husband is a contractor in Seattle. Oh, these are all Portland, Seattle, and Vancouver stories since we're going to be there this weekend for live shows. We're teeing it up. What's up? Uh, what's up? My husband is a contractor in Seattle and recently started working on a new project renovating a commercial space set is on a busy road in town.

Yes. He began demolishing the walls and those few odd small vials fall out of one. The vials are pinky sized, clear, and with some white powdery residue inside. Cocaine. They're also very old. Old cocaine. Yes. Just perfect.

Age to perfection cocaine. Age to perfection cocaine. Oh, this tastes like a 1912. Oh, yes. In the Basque region of France. A few of the vials have labels that are still intact and very clearly legible and say, quote, the name is Zonators. My husband immediately thought it was something meant to go in a nose to stop nosebleeds like

cocaine. Oh, yeah. He found one with a complete label. He realized he was wrong. These are old school vaginal suppositories. What? Then it says WTF. That is correct.

I work at a nearby clinic and he rushed over to show everyone and we had a good time speculating about what they did for the vagina. And more importantly, why they'd be in a wall. Perhaps the space used to be a pharmacy, a medical clinic, a brothel, some old gal's secret stash. A quick internet search gave us more info about what but not why. According to the National Museum of American History, these date back to the mid fifties and were meant as a feminine hygiene deodorizing product, duct, and the shit that women are

supposed to put up their pusses. It's not good. It's never good. It's bad for you. The main ingredient was chloramine, which is no longer used on or in our bodies as it is similar to chlorine. Oh, no. Then there's one exclamation mark in parentheses and can cause tumors to grow.

It sounds like these poor women were bleaching their vaginas. Here's a copy of the vintage ad we found stating. Are you ready for this? Yes. The only vaginal support system for feminine hygiene, zonators completely deodorizes. They keep your person so dainty and feminine, a blessing to fastidious young wives. Oh, my God. No.

I work with women in my, I work with women in my clinic. So we all thought it was pretty fitting, a pretty fitting find. I have a couple of the vials now on display in my office and I giggle every time I see them. They keep me entertained on my commutes to stay sexy and keep your vag dainty, Melissa. Really? Just keep it as dainty as possible. I honestly wanted you and was hoping to God you were going to say it was like cod liver

oil or some old fashioned like parable medicine. Oh, yeah. To say the idea that it was bleach is so fucking tragic. I know. I know. It's disgusting. Yeah. Motherfuckers.

God damn it. The patriarchy. Go to your fucking room. Get out of there. Go to your room with Cody. Take Cody. Bleach your fucking system. Fucking cut you down with a chainsaw, motherfuckers.

No wonder I take a chainsaw at every goddamn light pole in my tiny country town. Okay. The subject line of this one is, my dad kicked Paul Snyder out of a bar. Hi all. Everyone's great. Onto the story. Yes. Perfect.

My dad was born in Vancouver. In his 20s, he worked and played a lot in the more infamous bars and nightclubs like the Marble Arch and the number five orange. Oh, that's a good name. Those sounds like they're a fun time. That's a real cigarette holder kind of a place. Yeah. Those are, they got jazz cigarettes there.

Let's go get baked at the number five orange. Absolutely. He was a bartender for many years before me and my siblings, before me and my siblings came along. Sorry. I asked him if he'd ever had to break up a movie style bar brawl. He did. That's how he met my mom.

Aw. That's hilarious. And awesome. And if he'd ever had to kick anyone famous out, his answer, I nearly got glassed by that a-hole who killed Dorothy Stratton. What? Of course, being a murderer, no, my ears pricked up and I asked for more details. Paul Snyder, the eventual estranged husband and murderer of Canadian playmate and actress

Dorothy Stratton, was once a regular on the Vancouver night scene. My dad didn't know him, but said that no one seemed to actually like him. No, he was a piece of shit. Everyone knows. I bet his mom did. Okay. Despite this, I actually started this book about her and it goes into detail of what he was like.

Wow. And he is like the guy, well, I'll read this, because she, her dad knows best. Okay. My dad didn't know him, oh wait. My dad didn't know him, but said that no one seemed to like him. Despite this, he had connections and access, so maybe they couldn't get rid of him. I'm kind of picturing a Canadian beg bee from trains botting. Oh yeah.

It's hilarious. According to my dad, he had a reputation for trying to pick up girls in bars and clubs and sometimes add them to his stable of sex workers that he kept as a small time pimp. He was even known to wear a long fur coat. One night Snyder was at a club my dad worked at and he was being super loud and obnoxious. My dad finally had enough and asked him to leave, but instead Snyder tried to break a glass across my dad's head, a bunch of people jumped in and helped my dad and get him out. The woman Snyder had been trying to get to leave with him.

Thank my dad and offered him some cocaine and thanks as thanks. My dad is full of crazy stories like this. He said that when he and his friends heard that Dorothy Stratton had been killed, they like many others in the community felt a sense of guilt and loss. Like they'd let their little sister get eaten by the big bad wolf. Well, that's fun. Anyways, thanks for reading. I'm so excited to see you in Vancouver in a few weeks and my boyfriend is flying in

from England to see you too. England? As the GM. Jill. Bloody old English. Bloody old English. Oh, well, well. England, go to your room.

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Goodbye. Hey, I'm Mike Corrie, the host of Wondery's podcast against the odds. In our next season, three masked men hijack a school bus full of children in the sleepy farm town of Chowchilla, California. They bury the children and their bus driver deep underground, planning to hold them for ransom. Local police and the FBI marshal a search effort, but the trail quickly runs dry. As the air supply for the trapped children dwindles, a pair of unlikely heroes emerges.

Follow against the odds wherever you get your podcasts. You can listen ad free on the Amazon Music or Wondery app. Let's see here. This is what people come for is the impression to be sent to their room. Okay. This one I think is the funniest one I've ever read. Okay. Okay, ready.

This is called the haunted flip phone. Perfect beginning. Hi, ladies and Steven. Just a really quick story. I had all but forgotten forever until it reappeared in my memory bank late last night in bed when I should have been sleeping. In the early 2000s, I was a preteen and very excited when I got my first flip phone, mostly just to call my family members and one friend every few weeks.

I remember receiving a text randomly from my mom one day that said, Terry is dead now. And Terry spelled T-E-R-Y. I was so confused and asked my mom and she said she definitely did not send that and had no idea who Terry was for weeks. My sister and I were so freaked out trying to figure out who Terry was and we were so worried she died or some and some creepy ghost or murderer texted me and I was the only one who knew. And I even thought of telling the police in this case, in case a woman named Terry had

turned up dead and I held a missing clue. Maybe this is the beginning of my true crime fascination. I lay in bed every night for a week so worried that Terry was dead and no one knew but me and the flip phone ghost might return to haunt my text messages. To me, it seemed like months like this went by. Maybe it was days. My memories are a little skewed from back then. Finally, one day after talking about dead Terry again, my mom suddenly had an epiphany.

She looked at her old text messages in her flip phone and started cracking up. She exclaimed that she had solved the Terry mystery. She showed us a text message that was supposed to be sent to me that said, my battery is dead now. Somehow, my bat part had been cut off and suddenly the biggest mystery of my life was solved. Shitty Cell Service had created the most creepy text that haunted my dreams, not a ghost or a murderer.

Terry was not dead. Always well in the world. I love you guys and can't wait to see you in Portland. I'm dragging my non-mirrorino friend along, so please tell very disturbing stories and freak the fuck out of her. Love, Samantha. Oh my God. Terry is dead now.

Terry is dead. I didn't send that. I deny everything. Also Terry is such a specific, it's like a British man from the 70s. Yeah, T-E-R-Y. It's like you can picture it. Yeah. Okay.

It's similar, but the subject line is deathbed confession light-hearted. No way. Georgia Karen, Steven Petz. Three years ago, my mom was in the last stages of dying of cancer. In the last week, she told me she had a confession to make that she had kept a secret from me for almost 30 years. Oh my God. I was expecting some sort of tragic accident or I was adopted or something.

No. When I was a kid, I wrote a letter to the Lucky Charms people that I had gotten a box of cereal with almost no marshmallows. The company sent me an apology letter and a coupon for a free box. My mom admitted to me that she had actually eaten all the marshmallows, but hadn't wanted to admit it for 30 years. Can't wait to see when Vancouver in October. Elizabeth.

Oh my God. And that she couldn't pass on without admitting it. She had to tell her the truth about the Lucky Charms. That was the sweetest, most adorable thing I've ever, and then she's like, and you're adopted too. Oh my God. Oh my God. Everyone needs to have a deathbed confession that's like, well, also don't save them for

the deathbed. Yeah. It's how funny would that have been? I mean, like it's still hilarious, but it's like, it also, you know what it is, it paints a picture of what her mom was like, because I immediately it was like, I bet you she's one of those moms she probably didn't overeat. She was like zoned out in the kitchen and started doing it and then caught herself and was freaked out.

Yeah. And then the next morning, her daughter was like, why are there and like her daughter freaked out about it and like wrote a letter and like, and she just had to stand there going, I don't know. It's great. There's no marshmallows. You know what you have to do in a situation like this. You have to stand up for yourself.

You stand up for yourself and you let those people know. Oh, unfair it is. Her name is Cody with an I. Cody, you need to write a letter, Cody, your room, send us your funny, weird, fucked up shit. Deathbed confessions are great. I love, I want to know more. They don't have to be good.

They can just be like that one. Yes, exactly. They don't have, well, they don't have to be like, great. I didn't mean good as in like, yeah, I'm not calling you Cody. I'm sorry. Okay. Look. It's Elizabeth.

Elizabeth. I'm sorry. I called you Cody. Cody is the codename for the destructoes. Cody short for Elizabeth. Isn't it? Yes. That's what up in the north, northwest in the Pacific Northwest, they do things a little

differently. They do things weird. So I know it's serious letters. My favorite murder, GMO. We want to just hear anything weird and funny. Yeah, and we can't wait to come and see you Pacific Northwest, the home of all murders. Stay sexy. And don't get murdered.

Goodbye. Elizabeth, want cookie? Goodbye.