Do you ever wonder if you’ve met a serial killer? Bet you do. If TV is anything to go by, there are hundreds of them, thousands of them. Bodies piling up week after week. Every week.
But never fear; most of the TV serial killers are caught or killed by the end of the episode–or the story arc, or the series.
What about the ones you’ve met, though? The real ones. The serial killers that, statistically speaking (and everyone knows statistics can’t lie!) you saw at Starbuck’s, or met walking the dog, or in hot-naked-yoga class. Maybe he was the hairy guy in the corner, the one that farted a lot.
Anyway, let’s assume you’ve met at least one serial killer, and so have I. Here are 3 of my suspects:
Carl (not his real name, do you think I’m crazy?), was otherwise known as the guy who didn’t have an iguana. The iguana (the one Carl didn’t have) didn’t have a name. And if it had had a name, it wouldn’t have been “Spartacus.” Carl lived in my dorm (I just typed that “doom,” and had to fix it. Hope that isn’t significant), where iguanas named Spartacus were strictly forbidden.
When my best friend (whose name definitely wasn’t Kiki) and I would go down to the lobby to wait for our midnight pizza delivery, Carl would sometimes be down there, all by himself, sitting cross-legged on top of the soda machine. I don’t know where Spartacus was, because he didn’t exist. If he had existed, he would’ve lived in a cracked aquarium in Carl’s room, staying warm under his pot-grow lamp, and even Carl, potential serial killer that he was, wouldn’t have dragged him down to the lobby on a chain leash attached to his spike collar, because Spartacus would have frozen to death.
Carl mostly grunted from his perch on the soda machine, but sometimes his grunts were poems. He was the only other person I knew, besides me, who had memorized the Lewis Caroll poem, “Jabberwocky.” Neither of us had made a conscious effort to memorize it; we’d just read it too many times, I guess. Of course, Carl could have been lying about that. He could have lain awake nights, memorizing nonsense poems and plotting his next kill.
- Mr. Something Italian.
Mr. Something Italian was an old guy who came into the (lightly staffed) museum where I worked as receptionist (on Saturdays) and Registrar (the rest of the time). Even in July, Mr. Something Italian wore a fedora and a heavy wool coat, and most people would put him on their list of “Pedophiles I have Known” or “Flashers I have Known.” But Mr. Something Italian had something unexpected in his pocket–a rubber snake. If you ever saw Mr. Something Italian walking on the sidewalk toward you, more often than not, he’d take that snake out of his pocket, fling it into the grass, and then make a show of picking it up, making it wriggle and writhe like it was a real snake: a snake he’d surely just rescued you from. Then he’d tuck the snake back in his pocket, tip his fedora and be on his way.
Or would he?
- Will B. Nerdly.
The very creepy Will B. Nerdly was a housemate of someone I knew (not me!!!!) in college. She kept her door locked (and barricaded), after an interesting debate with said Mr. Nerdly, whose position on the subject of rape was that it didn’t exist (because there’s no way that a 5’2″ slightly inebriated teenage girl couldn’t fight off a 6’2″ guy who thought her tits were public property, so if things got “nasty” it was because she wanted it and she wanted it bad).
This guy may just be a serial rapist, not a serial killer, but he’s definitely in jail. I hope.
So that’s my short list for “Serial Killers I have Known.” What’s yours?