The NoSleep Podcast - S20 Ep23: NoSleep Podcast S20E23

Episode Date: March 17, 2024

It’s Episode 23 of Season 20. Come join us around the campfire with tales about killers who give us thrillers.“Liar’s Lie” written by Andrew Punzo (Story starts around 00:03:40)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Bobby – Reagen Tacker, Warden Nast – Jesse Cornett, Francine – Sarah Thomas, Jordan – Atticus Jackson, Pastor Dowd – Mike DelGaudio“The Confession” written by by C Lenz (Story starts around 00:22:15)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jeff ClementCast: Mark Dunne – Jeff Clement“See Me” written by M Scott (Story starts around 00:39:55)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Jesse CornettCast: Narrator – Erin Lillis“A Dry Heat” written by Kevin Bachar (Story starts around 01:17:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Narrator – David Cummings, Neal – Peter Lewis“Time Management” written by Bob Johnston (Story starts around 01:36:35)Produced by: Phil MichalskiCast: Davies – David Ault, Danny Rowe – James Cleveland, McLean – Andy Cresswell, Kevin – Jake Benson“The Bystander” written by LP Hernandez (Story starts around 01:56:20)TRIGGER WARNING!Produced & scored by: David CummingsCast: Avery – Kyle Akers, Mom – Kristen DiMercurio, Gary 2 – Graham Rowat, Uncle Dale – Dan Zappulla, Rita – Wafiyyah WhiteThis episode is sponsored by:Surfshark - Take your online security to new heights by using Surfshark VPN. Surf the web without tracking, secure your devices from malware, guard your accountsí security, and take personal data off the market by going to surfshark.deals/NOSLEEPPODRocket Money - Rocket Money is the app that helps you identify and stop paying for subscriptions you donít need, want, or simply forgot about. Stop wasting money on things you donít use. Cancel your unwanted subscriptions by going to RocketMoney.com/nosleepClick here to learn more about The NoSleep Podcast teamClick here to learn more about Kevin BacharClick here to learn more about Bob JohnstonClick here to learn more about LP HernandezExecutive Producer & Host: David CummingsMusical score composed by: Brandon Boone“The Confession” illustration courtesy of Catriel TallaricoAudio program ©2024 – Creative Reason Media Inc. – All Rights Reserved – No reproduction or use of this content is permitted without the express written consent of Creative Reason Media Inc. The copyrights for each story are held by the respective authors.

From our earliest days, we've gathered around the fire for warmth and comfort. But beyond the light of the dying embers, there is the darkness. And it's in the darkness of the night where we find ourselves, waiting, yearning for the dawn to banish our fears. But our campfire holds more than fireless. for with us you will hear the tales that make the nightmares engulf you and you dare not close your eyes brace yourself for the no sleep podcast welcome to the no sleep podcast i'm your host david cummings you know how there's a slang way to say something was really great like you go to a show and when you're asked how it was, you say, ah, dude, it was a killer show. When stand-up comedians do a really good

set, people say, they killed. Maybe you do a really good presentation at work, and afterwards, a coworker tells you, you killed it. Isn't it odd how we take the concept of killing something and turn it into something positive? I guess language is funny like that. Almost as funny as when someone actually kills someone else. Ha ha ha. I pretend murder is funny for horror purposes only. But yes, this is a horror podcast, and so this week we present tales

featuring people who see fit to take the life or lives of other people. It's hard to imagine what drives someone to do that. It also makes me wonder why we as a society have become so desensitized to it. I mean, for the most part, that is. I'll give you a glimpse behind a, curtain here. Over the years, I have received some angry emails from listeners when the content of

certain stories upsets them. If you take a look at the trigger warnings we've implemented, they try to warn people about the topics which upset people the most. Things like the death of children or animals. Things like sexual or parental abuse, suicide, all things some people want to be forewarned about. And if they're not, I get angry letters. But I've often wondered, many of the stories we've done in the almost 13 years of the show, I've never had anyone upset by a story with a plain old ordinary murder, even when the killing is calculated, cold-blooded, or overly cruel. It seems murder and killing is an accepted part of horror. I suppose that's good for horror creators, but I wonder if it means we as a collective society have become a little too blasé about it.

Let me know what you think in the comments below. And don't forget to subscribe and smash that like button. And so, we hope that this episode about killers will leave you saying that episode killed. It would be the most fitting response, after all. And now, the sun has set. The fire glows bright.

Brace yourself for the darkness of the night. In our first tale, we meet Bobby, a prison guard who has been chosen to flip the switch, which will execute a convicted killer. But Bobby is human, after all, and he's conflicted by this assignment. And in this tale, shared with us by author Andrew Poonzo,

we learn that all attempts to help Bobby deal with this profound task aren't helping his conscience much at all. Performing this tale are Reagan Tacker, Jesse Cornett, Sarah Thomas, Atticus Jackson, and Mike Delgado. So there may be some ultimate truth out there to contend with. But for now, you have to accept that liars lie. When Getty Robinson came into the chamber, he was still screaming that he ain't done a damn thing.

About an hour back, his voice had gone horse on him, and his eyes rolled all like a wild mare in a thunderstorm. Didn't make my job any easier, but it was really warden asked who wasn't helping none. Liars lie. And killers fry. He'd said it for about the 20th time through his black hood, nodding as Getty's arms were tethered, and the pan with the sponge soaked in brine was strapped to his head.

I was sweating through my own hood, suffocating myself in fabric that turned hot and heavy in a second flat. Wasn't just the heat. I never had any qualms with working in a prison. But after we drew matches for the electrocution, I told the warden I had some hesitations. Now look here, Bobby. He sat me down in a big leather chair across his desk.

The other guards had left, and I was still looking at the headless matchstick, wondering how it was I got there. Ain't two ways about it. Man's been tried by a jury, full and fair, and his appeal went to the Texas Supreme Court. I even spoke with Les and Trisha at the ACLU, and they said they'd about thrown in the towel on it, too. and you know those folks in me don't always see eye to eye.

I know. I shifted in the chair, sticking to it through my tan prison duds. Listen, I know you're a Christian man, but this ain't the way you're making it out to be. You ain't throwing a pistol to his head. You ain't sitting down on the beach while he drowns. All you're doing is flipping the switch. Turn it on your kitchen light. That's all it is.

He paused before he said what he swore sideways was in the Bible. Besides, liars lie and killers fry. Ain't that how it's written? Getty's legs were bound while three faceless guards held his arms and shoulders. He was a lean fella. Couldn't have been more than a buck 60, no taller than 5'10. and mid-50s or thereabouts. But seeing the chair made him superhuman.

Must have been four, five guards working him over with the billy sticks in the ante room just to get him through the door. I'd never seen a man put up a fight like that. The day before the execution, I'd gone back into Warden Nast's office. I was feeling sick to my stomach all week. Can't seem to get on over it, huh, Bobby?

Well, I'll do respect, Mr. Nast. He says he's innocent. Ain't changed his tune once in all these years. I still don't feel right being the one to pull the switch on him. I mean, ain't that just the same as... But what Daniel Jennings keeps saying when they couldn't find them girls, the next thing you know, they're pulling them up by the pig tails out of his well. And how about Macy Morgensen and all that business about taking the collar and being reformed?

and on the evil parole he strangles lesser with the blue flaming rosary? I remember. He pulled out a paisley kerchief that was as red as his plum-blooded face. Well, you do well to remember this, Bobby. Liars. Lie. Gettie's arms snapped loose from its tethers and something silver flashed from his sock before anyone could get a hold of him. The guard scrambled out of his way and the warden hollered, and I jerked down.

Hold him down. No less a reflex than the compunction that I felt turning in my belly up to my gullet, hanging down my tubes like a lead snake. Lighting arced and cracked and the loose arm flailed, and the clamoring and hollering didn't stop until Getty stopped jiving, and the black soot stink of quarter-cooked meat filled the air. The fork that Getty had sharpened down into a shiv lay near Warden ass's feet, Metal tinged with purple and black rings, still coursing with an edge of blue electricity.

Killers. Fry! I couldn't sleep that night, and Francine saw I was distressed. I didn't like to talk work with her, but she'd read the newspaper, and the buzz about Getty had been all over town two weeks before the paper scooped it. You ain't done nothing bad now, Bobby. She rubbed my shoulders above the sheets. I know. Well, then why can't you rest your eyes?

I know. Every time I closed them, I saw the fork fall into the floor, dancing live with blue sparks. Well, maybe you can go see Pastor Dowd's sometime this week. He'll set you straight. Not that you need setting. You're as straight as is. I know. He was a bad man, Bobby.

The fork proves it. Can't you imagine what he would have done with it had you in? He didn't flip the switch on him? I don't know. The next morning I was up before her and walking out on the street. Warden had let me off for the week, paying all. Normally, I'd have been happy to sleep in, but when I woke near dawn, sleep wouldn't come to me.

I wasn't keen on going out, but just lying there thinking was too much. Besides, Francine needed her waitressing uniforms picked up. At first, it was nice to be out of doors. But ours is an early rising town and more than a few folks passed me by on the street. They knew me and I knew them, and it seemed they knew what I'd done, the way their heads turned and followed me, the way their eyes lingered on a little too long. They still said hello just the same. There was a heaviness that ain't been there the day before.

I felt marked. I felt like how Getty must have felt walking down the hall to the execution chamber. I pushed the door to the cleaners open and slipped inside, glad to be off the street. I had expected to see Clement behind the counter, someone who could give a left hand about the gossip arming around town. But he wasn't there. Instead, it was a man about my age who'd I'd never seen before. Morning. Morning. Can I do for you? Where's Clem? I'd sick. I'm his son-in-law, Jordan. Are you all right?

You don't want me saying? I nodded and put my hands on the counter. Picking up uniforms for my wife. I handed him the ticket. He went to the mechanical garment rack, working the foot pedal to move the plastic shrouded clothes along the track. It wered and the clothes wished as they moved. For a while, that's all there was, other than the silence.

It's the big sea. Pardon? Clem. Sick with the big. Big C. He's got cancer? The rack stopped moving and Jordan looked down at his foot. I shouldn't have said nothing. Just been weighing on my mind like you wouldn't believe. I can believe. He found the uniforms, pulled him off, and placed him on the counter. 240. I put up the bills and while he made change, he looked once more at the ticket and then looked at me.

Your wife, Francine? Yes. That makes you Bobby? It does. Mind if I ask you something? I already started to gather up the clothes because I knew I was about to hear something I wouldn't want to. You're the man who did it on Gattie? I said nothing.

My hands felt hot. I wondered why they bothered to make us wear the hood's in the chamber. I can appreciate that. But I can't make sense of how it's come to be Clem's time so soon when that horse and takes 16 years to fry. I turned toward the door, leaving the change on the counter. I ain't looking for answers. Just been weighing on my mind like you wouldn't believe. I went straight home and gave Francine her uniforms and stayed indoors for four whole days.

I tried the television and books and magazines to take my mind off of things, but the images and words just sort of washed over and out of me rather than take on any real meaning. I didn't feel right. Half the time I'd walk into a room and not know why I went in, and the other half I'd find myself in a room and not know how I got there. Francine came and went, but we didn't talk much and I took no calls. On the fifth day, I gave up and went to see. see Pastor doubt. It was hot and dusty outside, but the church was cool stone, wood, and

dull-leaded glass. Me and pastor said in our father, and then I told him what the trouble was. I asked if he'd hear a confession, but he said he wouldn't because that was a matter between me and God, and in any case I hadn't committed a sin he'd ever heard of. I said I'd feel better if he did anyway. He sighed and afterwards sat me down in his office. Robert, Getty Robinson was a bad man, a very bad man. Yes, sir. Warden and my wife says the same, even the ACLU. Yes. He would have done more bad things. He would have hurt more people. And God only knows how many more. You saw the fork. Yes, sir, that ain't wrong and I don't doubt it now. But my point is, I'm having a health. I'm having a hesitation I can't get over. I never once wanted to kill a man, even a bad one. But I flipped the

switch, and in my way of thinking, that's just the same. Wait. He labored mightily over his next sentence. Do you know the trolley dilemma? No. See, my seminary believed philosophy every bit as important as a study of God. I nodded, not when to speak and ruin the spell that Pastor Dow would get to work himself into when he gave a good sermon. It's a moral dilemma, a thought experiment. You're on a trolley that's going down a track, flying down it so fast that up ahead comes quicker than you'd like, and looking to your side all you see is a blur.

And you can't stop because the break is broken. Now, there's five men working on the track up ahead, and they don't know you're coming because the whistle's broken too. But there's a switch on the trolley, and you have time to hit that switch before you come up on those five men. And if you hit the switch, the trolley goes down a fork in the track where there's only one man working. See, so there's no choice. Morally, you need to hit the switch.

Morally, it's the right thing to kill one to save five. I sat, still in quiet. I took his point and I wasn't confused, but he'd been expecting I would have jumped up and hollered Jehovah like a man who had a coming two moment. So it's just like you flipping that switch. You had to kill one to save him. more. No one had fault you for that. There's no moral wrong. You didn't do a bad thing. Matter of it is, you did a good thing. The best thing. Yes, sir. Warden and my wife says the same.

Never mind the fact that Getty's trolley was a long time coming. You said it yourself that even the ACLU agrees. It's like how you're warden over there puts it. Lyers lie and killers fry. That's the best five-word summary of the Old Testament is Oliver here. But it ain't in the Old Testament. Well, no. You ought to tell that to him. Pastor Dowd shifted uncomfortably and kept looking at me down his nose. Is there anything else, Robert?

What about jumping? What's that? Ain't the whole mess avoided by jumping? From what? From the trolley. I ain't much for philosophy, but out of judge it, you could have just jumped off the trolley in the first instance and solved the whole mess. The five men were.

would still die, Robert. It wouldn't solve anything. Sorry, Pastor. I was meaning for the trolley driver. Solves the whole mess for him. He doesn't need to flip the switch and kill nobody, and the trolley just does what it was going to do all along, at least according to your hypothetical. Pastor Dowd's mouth open, slow and careful like always, but this time no words came out. How'd the meeting with Pastor Doubt go? Good. Well, how are you feeling? Feeling right as rain.

Francine beamed. See? I knew that would do you well, but that's something I always knew. I nodded as she stood and began clearing dishes for dessert. When the phone rang and she ran off to the living room, I turned my attention more fully to the fork. I'd been fixing on it all dinner.

The last bits of smoked pork were hanging on its times, times that I had no trouble bending. I bent all but one and held it up, marvelling at the sleek silver shape of it as it flashed in the light like a creek-shiner. So kind for asking. He's doing just fine, fine. Matter of fact, Warden asked, he'll be even better knowing you had it in your heart to call on him. I stood and shuffled into the kitchen where the devil's food was cooling on the sill. The pork sat, wet pink and charred on the cutting board. Using the shiv, I turned on the light switch and stood looking at the electrical outlet next to it on the wall. Well, you know him, warden. You know my Bobby. He's a man of principles. Upstanding is putting at least, Mr. Nast. I'm talking about scruples, about true morality. And he's always been that way, something these politicians. Yet he got what he deserved. His trolley was a long time coming. And besides that, he's always that. He's always been that.

He was guilty as sin. I closed my eyes and saw blue sparks dancing on the edge of the shiv again, purple and black rings like the space between the stars. Of course, you're a man who knows a thing or two about morals, Mr. Nast. What's that line you're always saying? Pastor Dowd even used it preaching. I felt my arm stretching forward, and the Getty smell in the kitchen became heavy and putrid.

Mm-hmm, that's right. Liars lie. I open my eyes. And killers fry. I'll flip the switch. Sometimes, no matter how good your intentions are, things take an unexpected turn into the darkness. Just ask Mark, who set out to do good and ended up having to tell us where it all went wrong. And in this tale, shared with us by author, C Lens, we hear Mark tell us that after all these things that I've done,

sometimes the guilt is overwhelming for everyone. Performing this tale is Jeff Clement. So they say the road to hell is paved with good intentions. I'm sure Mark will agree as he shares the confession. My name is Mark Dunn. I live in apartment 102, 23. Oh, you just need me to say my name. Okay.

in the confession. Well, like I said, you're going to be disappointed. I'm going to confess, but not to murder. What happened was, I guess you'd say, an accident? It was... I'm not sure how to describe it. I mean, I didn't mean for it to happen. Hell, I called the ambulance.

Just start at the beginning. I broke into Gerald Sharp's sweet, pretty... easily. Hotels don't really pay that much attention to who comes and goes and who's on what floor. And those card readers they have, they aren't super secure. It was a huge suite and it didn't look like Sharp was using most of the rooms, so I hid it in one of the ones without any luggage or anything until he was back and waited until he went to sleep. I had a knife because I figured it would be more intimidating. I wasn't planning on kill. killing him, but a knife looks like you're planning on keeping it quiet and getting away with it.

No. Obviously, I didn't have a personal connection with Gerald Sharp. Does it look like we'd hang out? Well, yeah, of course, I knew of him. Don't you? You know how I knew of him. Do I really need to tell you? From the news, geez.

His company bought a patent for an HIV medication and up the price by 6,000% so that now anyone living with HIV can't afford to, you know, live. No, I don't think he deserved to die for that. Not really. No, I didn't. Even if he was killing people, like actively at all times. You ever heard that hypothetical question about whether you'd push a button for a million dollars, but one random person who you'd never met will die.

Yeah, well, like that Cameron Diaz movie. It was a Twilight Zone episode first, you know. Whatever. It doesn't matter. Would you press it? It doesn't matter. Your answer is going to be yes or no. Any normal, healthy human's answer is going to be yes or no. What it's not the fuck going to be is to sit in front of the button

and wail on it non-stop all day every day. But that's what Sharp was doing. No, I told you, I don't think he deserved to die. Well, maybe a little, but not enough to actually do it. I didn't go there to kill him. Come to think of it, is he even dead? He was still breathing when I called 911. Hell, he was still standing, and I don't know if doing that would kill you.

Like I said, I didn't murder him. And don't give me any of that manslaughter bullshit either. He did it to himself. All I did was give him the spiked water. Figured you guys would have known about that by now. I guess you haven't had a chance to check his blood yet. All right. So after I broke in, I forced him to.

to drink a bottle of water that I dissolved acid and ecstasy into beforehand. Why? Because I didn't want to get caught blatantly carrying a bunch of drugs. Oh, why the drugs? Okay, so, have you ever heard that story about the libertarian who took ecstasy for the first time, realized other people had emotions and totally changed his beliefs? Well, I thought maybe it would work. unsharp. The LSD was to try to boost the effects and maybe cover my ass if he made a statement to the police.

You know, there was a study once where they gave half the participants $5 and gave the control group nothing, then told them they could either split another $5 with someone else. It was an actor, but they thought it was another test participant. Or keep all the money. You know who agreed to split it? The control group. The ones who had already been given $5 kept the other five for themselves. I swear to God, money breaks your brain.

If five bucks can do that to you, can you imagine what it's like to be a millionaire? Or a billionaire? Wealth is a mental illness. Fuck you, jealousy. Yeah, I wish I had a million dollars, so does everyone. but I'm not jealous of a sick fuck, like Sharp. What would you do with a million dollars? Or whatever amount no one could ever spend in their lifetime,

no matter how hard they tried. Probably like a hundred mill. No, come on. Trying to prove a point. Retire to the Bahamas. Damn, that sounds nice. You? Travel.

Nice. I'd quit my job. job, but I'd like to think I'd also start an animal shelter. I've always fostered pets, but I've only ever had the money to do one at a time. And yeah, I'd basically pay everyone else to do all the actual work, but, you know, it's still some good in the world. But I get it when people say they'd start a business. You know, the people who want to design clothes or own an art gallery or do something for love that they never had a shot at until they weren't one paycheck from starving? I get it.

What I don't get, and what you guys and I would never do with $100 million is spend all our time hanging out with politicians, trying to make sure that that number never has to go down. We only have a limited amount of time on earth, no matter how much money we have. Why would we waste it on making a number go up once the number's already big enough that we can't hope to use it all? No, I'm serious. Doesn't that sound sick? Like, actually, mentally, unwell? Like, what kind of intense distress could compel you to spend all your time

in a boardroom with other old rich fucks instead of on a beach? Would you even want to talk to one of those, diaper-wearing geysers in Congress for a second, let alone go to lunch with them? I mean, there's something seriously wrong with dudes like Gerald Sharp. Okay, yeah, if I got rich, I'd probably end up doing the same thing. That's the point. If I did heroin for a week, I'd be addicted to that, too. But that's not an argument for heroin.

Fair enough, I'm stalling. What can I say? I don't want to relive it. You saw what happened. Well, actually, if you just saw the aftermath, you guys probably have no idea what happened. So I forced Sharp to drink the entire water bottle, watched him make sure he swallowed,

and then I duct taped him to a chair. Taped his mouth shut, too, so he couldn't scream for help or try to throw up. And then I left the room for an hour. To let the drugs kick in, obviously, and to get him good and scared. I did leave him with a really vague threat about him paying for his crimes. I wanted him thinking about what he'd done for this to happen to him,

what I might do to him, whether he'd maybe hurt one of my loved ones. You know, just sitting there. doing. I was trying to give him the mother of all long midnights of the soul. So I figured he needed some time for the uncertainty to really amp him up. When I came back, his pupils were huge. I showed him the knife, told him not to scream, and ripped the duct tape off. I could tell he was high as hell, because he wouldn't stop babbling.

But it was all in this super exaggerated whisper. Like he had no idea what his real volume was at. I figured better he's not being loud. Cut the tape off his arms and legs and shoved him into the bathroom. I made him look into the mirror. And then I said, I don't remember exactly, but pretty much what I've been saying to you guys about him. some stuff about how he had cut himself off from humanity in order to profit off of death

because he couldn't do that while feeling empathy for his victims. I told him that the process was reciprocal, and it was why no normal human could feel empathy for him anymore. And then I told him that he had two choices, either look at himself in the mirror and fully accept what he'd done, or eat it. No, not like, eat it, like die. Eat the mirror.

Although, I guess I can see why you'd be confused. And that was it. I didn't do anything else to him. That was when I left. At least tried to. Fine, I'll tell you what happened next. But you better get me a court-appointed psychiatrist or something. Because I never want to have to describe this.

again, unless it's to a professional. Okay. So, I'm backing out of the bathroom, making sure Sharp keeps his eyes on the mirror. I know it's mean to give someone a bunch of drugs and then have them look at themselves

in the mirror, but, like I said, I was trying to give him a long, dark midnight of the soul. That, and I didn't want him to try to call for help before I was gone. I reached the doorway and turned to go. Sharp's already crying, so I figure I have a bunch of time to get out of there. But the second I look away, I hear a thud.

I look back, and Sharp is punching the mirror over and over, just hitting the same spot until it starts cracking. His hands all cut up, and parts of the glass are falling into the sink, and he's just sobbing. Like, about how this is impossible and how can I expect him to eat a mirror and stuff. And I'm just standing there. Like, dude, you're missing the point, but I don't even know if you can hear me. He's just scraping shards of the glass out of the wall, slicing his hands open, begging me to let him stop.

And I'm screaming back about how he can stop, how it's okay. I don't want to do anything to him. But he starts pounding on the glass on the counter. Like he's trying to crush it up really fine. Like he thinks that maybe if it's a powder, he can swallow it. I think he tried to. It was hard to tell because the bits of glass were all mixed with his blood and it looked thick and chunky,

but maybe that's just what happens when you're smearing blood everywhere. But he gathered up like a glob of something and shoved it in his mouth and forced himself to swallow. There was blood all over his face. God, I don't know if it was from his hand or the scraped shards

glass over his skin when he rubbed his hand over his mouth, but he looked like a mess. And then he picks up this one shard. It was long, but thin. Like about the size and shape of a finger.

I don't know why he thought he could. maybe he thought he could just slide it down his throat? I have no idea. I'm like begging him not to do it at this point. I tossed the knife onto the ground right next to his feet so he knows I'm not a threat anymore so that he could threaten me if he wanted it.

It... Oh, God. There was already so much blood dripping down from the sink, from his hands, from his face. God, I can still see the knife just landing in that puddle. He opens his mouth and puts that shard in. Holy Christ, I couldn't watch. That was when I got out of there and I called you guys.

I could have left, you know. The whole time I was on the phone, I could hear his gagging and sobbing and all this fucking gurgling. And I still had to listen to that while I was waiting for the ambulance to show up. Jesus Christ, all I wanted was for him to feel all the guilt he truly deserves to feel. But I guess he wasn't built to handle it, if anyone is. It can be chilling to hear a serial killer being interviewed about their crimes.

You can watch them on many documentaries as they sit there, usually without much compunction, telling us why they did what they did to all those victims. And in this tale, shared with us by author M. Scott, we meet an uncommon kind of serial killer, a woman who explains why she did what she did. Performing this tale is Aaron Lillis. So when you're out in public, smile like you mean it. You never know if you're going to encounter a killer who is asking you to, See me.

each and every note creating a cacophony of joyful sound. After the opening song sequence, we sat silently relishing every colorful scene, the silence only ever being broken by intermittent giggles. As the show was about to end, my heart would always begin to beat faster in anticipation of my absolute favorite part of the show. The old lady would hold up of magic mirror to see the children who were watching the show. She would call out a handful of names each episode, pointing and telling the viewers who she saw. You get the idea. Every single time she held that mirror because I knew that today was going to be the day when she would see me. And every Saturday of rejection, as she failed to call my

name, watching the show, I would get over this indignation rather quickly, usually just stumping. She did not call my name again. But after a while, began to become things turned to screaming, screaming, turned in a smack in my brother in the face. That was the final straw, of course. I lost TV privileges for two weeks, and my mother forbade me to watch that show ever again. Time that her punishment came too late. How could she have realized that something had splintered in her child? Something had broken beyond repair.

How would she have attempted to change things if she had the foresight to know that this TV show that she had forbidden me to see had all her. already fractured part of me that would lead to what the papers referred to as horrific events. That during those formative years, the years were life events mold mines like clay. The rejection I felt bled through to all areas of my life, like melted butter filtering its way into every nook and cranny of my being. A bitch on the show never saw that my father left us to be with a new family. My mother blamed me.

I know she did. After the surges of my outbursts intensified, I would hear my parents arguing about me night after night. When my grades at school started to decline, I heard each parent blaming the other for my behavior. With each argument, the barbed insults that they hurled toward each other shot closer to their mark. It was not a slow death, as it only took six months from that point for my parents. parents to pull the plug on their marriage and on me. Inside me began to fest the now empty husk that I called mother, effectively maintained a blunted effect, greeting me with only a few and fleeting superficial smiles.

For empty wine glass. School afforded me no sanctuary as I was all but invisible there too. Sitting alone at the lunch table, watching the little horrors talk about their boyfriends, Boy Band was coming to town and barely glanced my way And when they did, they were looking through me Never invited to any parties Not that I had wanted to go

The treachery of Heist mother had checked out So completely at this point She barely raised her head to siphon the fluid From her bottle jack So it did not surprise me that she took no notice Of my full-time truancy from academia A population of which I was the sole member, I amicably navigated into adulthood. A genial job that I obtained shortly after I dropped out, continued to cultivate the abhorrent isolation that had always been my single constant companion.

I was never chosen for employee of the month. I was overlooked for every promotion despite my seniority. I had utterly been forced to remain in this existence of singularity. I tried online dating. I'm human, despite the newspapers making contrary assessments. I do have certain basic human needs that had up to this point never been met. There would be no e-harmony matches for me, no walks on the beach, or running slow motion in the rain. Don't give him wrong, there was a lot.

running and it was always done by my date before the first course had time to digest. What did you say? Don't worry about that. Play-by-play of every extraction. We are willingly agreeing to this interview, aggression, understand why I did it. Now, where was I? The Bulls of the World. You find comfort where you can find it. Discovered it with true crime. A completely innocent diversion from not alone in this as evidenced by the number of true crime television programs and pour over books about Bundy and Gay Dahmer, Chickatillo, I read about them all. I felt a connection to any of them, but I felt a sense of understanding with some that when you are forced to lurk in the shadows for so long, it makes sense that after a while you begin to

adapt to the darkness to what you have waiting for. I prefaced it by saying that while most people try to put me in the same category as the serial killers I mentioned, that would be a mistake. I was referring to me as sociopaths and early child introversion over the years. Rather love animals at home. Dream of Harmon. You would love to categorize me about my first time. That is what you really want to hear, right? Fall night in October 2001, Halloween has anything to do with it.

On the number seven bus leaving work in the direction of home. One bedroom's duty, it was not an unusual night, not a particularly bad or good night. Just another routine ride on public transportation is if I ever had a chance in hell of getting a vehicle of my own. We'll see minding my own business as I always did. It confines of a Stephen King novel, which won. As I said, I was reading Carrie, and I was engrossed in it. It is one of my favorites. I'm reading and the bus stopped.

I instinctively looked up as I knew my stop was coming up soon, but almost simultaneously returned to my book, realizing that I was two stops yet from my apartment building. I barely noticed the man that walked on to the bus. Never forget him. After all, you never forget your first. Who police were eventually and painstakingly able to identify, as Steve Blake walked on to the bus.

As he passed by me, I heard shuffled heavy footsteps, but it was not until I felt a steel-toed boat pushed hard against my unexpected foot that I looked up at him for the first, and as you know, certainly won't be the last time. I'm wincing in the kind of pain that shoots through you like lightning, so fast that it takes moments for your throat to vocalize that pain. But as the yelp of momentary debilitation, only half glanced at me and disingenuously said, Sorry, I didn't see you. And I didn't even register enough for him to look at me.

Boiling up inside, caused my tongue. From my feet to my chest. I know that anyone sitting by me could feel the heat emanating from my body. breathing heavy of small beads of sweat formed on my brow. I felt years of being overlooked and ignored going from a simmer to a rolling boil. And I was moments from losing my shit right then there. I didn't. Instead, the strangest thing happened.

And the surreal calm came over me. And for the first time, a sense of purpose. I knew exactly what had to be done. I missed my bun. that night. I waited. I waited for Stevie Boy to get off the bus, and I was praying the God that he was getting off alone. Lined, Stevie Boy did get off all by his lonesome, and as if all the gods were smiling down on me, there was no one outside. And wouldn't you know it? He never even noticed me. I didn't know at the time to be done in the place. He walked up to this tiny, what they

call shotgun home. There were no cars in the driveway. At that point, I don't think I would have started to climb the almost dilapidated stairs to get to his shanty. I noticed that he was less than steady on his feet. That my nostrils picked up on the stale beer that wafted from his greasy pole. I stood behind him silently so close that I just knew he was. Had been successful in deactivating his spy senses. I did a quick survey of the porch to see if there was an object that I could use to incapacitate him. In my mind, I half expected to see a banjo next to a rocking chair, but instead it was a heavy planter filled with weeds that caught my eye. As Stevie Boy unlocked his door, I simultaneously grabbed that planner and smashed it hard against his

balding scalp. He stumbled a few feet in the house. Completely clear in the entryway. Fear from getting caught. He killed that. It was not premeditated. My narrow fingers navigated through the full feel for a pulse. Surprisingly strong, and I remember bursting out in cathartic laughter, but quickly got a hold of myself. Kitchen to the right. Although he was more than a few whoppers bigger than me, I was able to move him quite after. furtlessly, but through me. Kind of like those mothers who lived heavy cars. Logic prevailed over emotion at that moment, and I left him lying on the floor to do a quick perimeter search. He certainly lived alone, judging by his bulging midsection, an unkempt hair,

unruly beard, and the fact that he smelled as if he'd been baptized in Budweiser, the kitchen to mentally sketch out to you, please, trifle through the house and search of something to tie him up with. Moments later, I retrieved several lengths of extension cords that were used to connect his ancient TV to the wall. I tied his hands together tightly first. They dug into his wrists, reminded me of the cartoons where the dog has long rope of sausages. Next, I tied his legs, and again, with less effort than I anticipated, I was able to get him up into one of the kitchen chairs. I'll snugly prop between the table and the wall. That across from his...

unconscious form, anticipating the moment he woke up and saw me. The moment reminded me of my childhood as I waited for that bitch to look in the mirror and call my name. I knew that I would be seen, watching and waiting. It was so quiet that I could hear the second hand of a nearby clock, moving in tandem with my heartbeat. It was in that moment I realized that my stomach was all so audible. since it seemed that he would not be returning to consciousness in the next few moments,

I decided to do some reconnaissance in the refrigerator. After all, I would surely need my strength. Cations were low as to what I would find in the refrigerator, and for the most part, I was correct in this assertion. As of what was probably a six-pack this morning, some half-empty condiment jars, and a box of pizza. I grabbed the box from the fridge, left at the top to reveal two slices with seem to be pepperoni pizza.

Perhaps against my better judgment, I popped a slice into Stevie Boy's microwave. The seconds ticked away on his antiquated cooking appliance. It occurred to me that I had no, I had not fully mapped out what I was going to do to Stevie. I knew it would require an instrument to do it in the drawers of the kitchen, looking for something that would serve a purpose. I was at first disappointed to find only a single dull steak knife, that he had certainly pilfer from some truck stop diner. My disappointment quickly gave weight of excitement once more

as I realized the dullness of the blade. While causing more elbow grease on my part would also mean more pain for good old Stevie. Jostled out of my reverie by the sound of the micro-oven beeping. I quickly glanced over at Stevie Boy, hoping the sound may have roused him from slumber. But alas, it had not crossed from him once more, taking a bite of the pizza.

I was thinking that for leftover pizza, ooh, is quite delicious. I instinctively looked at the box again to file the name into my long-term memory. Mama Joe's pizza, it really is good. Point of fact, I would frequent Mama Joe's multiple occasions over the next few weeks. The taste of it always filled me with erotic nostalgia. of my first time with Stevie Boy. As he continued to drift with the confines of

unconsciousness, I savored each bite of pizza. But at that moment, my gratification did not come from the taste of the slice, but rather from the thoughts that undulated across my mind. I began to imagine

what I would do when you woke up. What I would say, for some reason, I had a fleeting thought of Hannibal Lecter as he brilliantly served justice with just the right amount of seasoning. Of course, had no interest in devouring human flesh. I'm not crazy. Let me remind you.

But the thought of Stevie Boy, hanging on a hook with his ribs exposed like a rack of lamb, he'd chuckle a bit, if I'm to be honest. So there I was salivating over what I would do, when finally I heard the sound of a steel-toe boot shuffling against the worn-tiled floor. My heart began to pump blood furiously through my body as he slowly opened, blackened eyes. We're virtually swollen shut. At that moment, he resembled a raccoon, and I almost felt pity for him. But he wasn't a raccoon, and I didn't feel sorry.

He grasped what was happening. him probably felt like he had just woken up from a nightmare to light his face reflected pure upon me the damey square version of the english language but had not yet found coherence as he blinked away a bit of the grog he was able to weakly utter who are you what do you want for me was at least two octaves and next stand attention i wanted this moment so i got up from my chair and walked in deliberation towards him, looking back and settling to him. But it could not be help. My teeth felt cold as my tongue lapsed slowly against him.

I began circling him like a crow to carry him, tapping a dull knife against my sleeve as I did. In retrospect, this may have been a bit traumatic, but you have to understand for the first time in my life. minutes or so, this is what I did. And with each pass, I noticed another dollop of sweat, formulating on his mouth, beat red forehead, finally opened my mouth to speak. The pungent smell of urine permeated my nostrils. The sounds of his squeals were sauntered as snap-off as I popped each that saturated flat. the tip of the knife and gently slid it down the side of his face.

Not enough to make a cut, mind you. I simply wanted him to feel the coolness of the blade against his skin. I noticed that his chest began to ride in tandem with my own heartbeat. The synchronicity of this was exhilarating. And I became so excited that I had not noticed. I started to cut into the flesh of his cheek ever since. I stopped myself because I had already decided I did not want to. to cut just yet smell his act. Tell me that you don't remember me, darling. Devi looked up at me sheepishly and bleated. I can't.

Incoherent utterances, I removed his boot and stomped on his foot as far as I could. I stomp two or three times more until I could feel a crackle of displaced bone under my feet. Do you see me now? Because you certainly could not be bothered on the bus. When you crushed my foot? I don't know if it was a look of confusion.

His squealed response. You mean you have me here because I stepped on your foot? Disregard further sickens me. Everything about you sickens me. You literally walk over people while you live your life like an indulgent, lushe of a pig. What I said is I plunge my dagger over until the last of us. Knowing this would be the fire. and flow. The kitchen blade inched deeper into what I imagined to be his spleen, maybe's liver.

I never studied anatomy, but I know the dull blade had pierced something in his skull. I could almost feel the organ first as I dug whispering in his ear. Do you see me? Do you see me? The warm blood coated my hand. I realized this would be my glory. His life was being extinguished. Mine was replenished That his light had been snuffed out I noticed his eyes remained open I kneeled over him one more time and whispered You see me now

This sent me a fit of uncontrollable laughter And the irony of it I repeated it over The Jack Nicholson Joker Do you see me now Do you see me now? Do you see me now? Of his stare is what inspired what the media would refer to as my calling card.

I decided I needed to take something of his that would remind me of our intimate more token to take with me than an eye or two to force him to look upon me whenever I wanted. He began formulating hypotheses as how best to remove them. That plan is ahead of time, and it's not like I could go on YouTube to look up the best ways to extract someone's eyeballs. catalog a list of tools that would probably be the best to use. A knife, especially the dull one I had, would be too fine. I immediately thought a melon baller would most likely yield the results I was looking for.

Or the chances that a slobs to Stevie bloat have something as refined as a melon baller, I began rifling through his drawers to find something that I could use, became up empty. I resigned myself to the fact that I would have to have, to use the dull knife that I had used. I took a deep breath and realized that itself. It was more out of fear of damaging the goods to one inserted my knife under what I believed to be the bottom of his eyes bigger than I thought and I ended up piercing it. Readjusting the knife going lower.

This does not have to be done with such precision around the eye till I got to the bone. I could see how best to remove those eyes. It's not like you had to look pretty. their future. Red meat and until red meat turned to blood-tinched bow. The movie G-first realized it, but I was humming that song during the whole extraction. Laughing after I hung the part that asked, where'd you get those eyes? Short, I liked the bluntness of my tool. Some of my trophies, but they were my first.

Admiration at the work I had done, the cigarette at that moment, if I had souped to nuts, I had been in his house for just under two hours, and it was damn near 1 a.m. when I felt ready to about forensic evidence. Of course, I wasn't in the system. I was invisible. A ghost. And ghost didn't leave behind evidence. Walk out the door.

Another brilliant flash through my brain. I want people who think this was some... So the reason this piggy had to go to market. So I left a little clue. This would, of course, become another one of my signatures. I wriggled two fingers into the sockets of where Stevie Boy's eyes had once called home and dug until I had enough paint on my fingers to write the words on the wall behind his lifeless. I wiped my fingers on the tattered remains of his flannel and laugh once more as I look back

in my work with front door behind me and walk home. Whistling jeepers creepers low away, he's such a... That inevitably there came the crash. The feelings of that first hit. I wasn't sure what the news would say about what had transpired between Stevie Boy and myself. But much to my chagrin, it took four days before my artwork had been discovered. I guess Stevie Boy was more of a loser than I thought. According to the news report, it had been a wellness check after Stevie Boy had not shown up to work. The reporters immediately branded me a sociopath. One reporter had a psychologist on his show analyst.

Most likely a 30 to 35-year-old impotent male. Even when I want to say something about incest, here he couldn't see me. You know what? The end he did. In the light of dawn approaches, our tales must come to an end until the next time we gather.

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