Pogo

I've had…a hard life.

I was born in Chicago to a loving family. Well, almost. I wasn't universally hated or given indifference by the entire household, only my father. He was a bloody drunk. Calling him abusive is an understatement in general, it didn't matter who it was, my mother, my sister, and especially me. I don't recall why he was particularly disdainful of me, I try not to think about it. His verbal assaults where the least of my worries. In fact my earliest childhood memory was him, unprovoked, beating me unconscious with his belt for disturbing some sprawled out components of a car engine. I was only four.

I shit you not.

You kind of get used to this, but it never stopped hurting. When I was nine, I was molested. He was a good family friend, drove a nice big truck he used for work. He often gave me rides as a matter of fact.

I had a pretty severe heart condition, I could play any sports, no matter how I longed to. This definitely didn't give my classmates and neighbors a reason to lay off. It didn't help I was overweight. I was a good kid, any teacher could vouch for that. Around the fourth grade I started suffering blackouts. Soon followed the seizures, for most of which I needed to be hospitalized. Then my appendix burst. By the time I was 18 I had spent over a year and a half in the hospital. And yet, despite all of this, my father, before my mother, sister, and any worker in the immediate area, pointed at me and accused me of baiting for sympathy. And they all watched, and did nothing. I at the very least never blamed my family, I knew why they stood idly by.

So, life went on. Sun rose, Sun set, I went to school and came home to a shitstorm, people born, people died. I joined the Democrats, and one can only imagine how my father reacted. Bastard didn't even allow me to keep the car keys when I failed to live up to his spontaneous and never stated expectations. My only love came from the corpses I oversaw while I worked in the mortuary. My only current memory of his well being was allowing me to come back home after all those years. I hadn't even finished high school when I entered college. I finally did find love, and wed many years later. I joined the local Jaycees, and unfortunately took part in their seedy and clandestine activities.

Long after my wife I turned to other activities. Children mostly. The things I did…in my mind at least, bring me a strange sense of delight.

Eventually, after I served my sentence, I came across Timmy. He was just a regular guy trying to get to Omaha. I took him through the city. I drive him to his house and asked if I could stay the night. He agreed, and all was good.

I awoke the next morning with a jolt to find him standing in the doorway toting a kitchen knife. I jumped up and tried to pounce, and he threw his arms up. The knife cut me near the wrist. In retrospect, I realize this was not his intent. I banged his head on the wall, and with a great force his slammed his foot into my gut, but I managed to topple him yet. I plunged it down into his chest, and something strange occurred. A gripping, but undeniable feeling slowly overtook me.

It felt good.

I took the knife again

Stab.

Gripped the blade once more.

Stab.

Plunged the blood drenched weapon right back into his chest.

STAB!

And then…release.

It wasn't long before I killed again. Most of them are down there with him, in the crawl space. I really should find another place to store these corpses, but I'd hate to abandon my friends just yet.

Looking back on that night, I still find one lingering thought as funny as I did then.

After I was finished with him and I descended the stairs, I found something. Something I actually have come to thank, for revealing to me the ultimate thrill. I found an open carton of eggs and a thick slab of unsliced bacon. With it, a table set for two. Timmy was just coming up to say breakfast was ready.

- While this pasta does contain some embellished material, there is a bit of truth to this story. Actually, it's all true. On January 2nd, 1972, 15-year-old Timothy Jack McCoy was last seen alive entering the car of a stranger. Timothy was stabbed to death in his home by the driver of that car, the guest in his home. It was a misunderstanding, and indeed happened as this pasta described. And unfortunately, the man who killed him did in fact go on to kill many more men and boys and bury them in his crawlspace. This mas was abused as a child, this man was molested at nine, this kid was overweight and suffering from seizures and appendicitis with an overbearing alcoholic father. And this man was convicted for indecent activities with children. That man's name?

John Wayne Gacy.