Sociopathic Childhood Pals

We've all had 'em. I'm not talking about bullies. I've enjoyed those, too, mostly because I was an overweight kid. (Fun fact: bullies hate fat. It's like being overweight personally affronts their otherwise good-natured, fun-loving, huggable temperaments). No, I'm talking about the kids we befriended as children who turned out to be Jeffrey Dahmers.

I was contemplating this the other night during a particularly nasty bout of insomnia and discovered that I've had quite a few in my upbringing (Hey, counting psychotic children is much more lucrative than wasting time counting those endless, infernal bleating sheep jump over a fence.) 

I'll start with my first because you never forget your first. We'll call him Dickie Hutchinson. I first befriended Dickie in the sixth grade where I found out that he had a collection of ultra-rare forties comic-books in his attic. Pleading with him to see these rarities, he continued making excuses about how he can't reach them or they fell into a crevice that would destroy the house trying to get at them. So, we found other things to waste time with (because that's what kids do; waste time. We can't drive, don't want to rely on parents, haven't quite discovered the opposite sex outside of nice smiles or cool attitudes, and haven't yet found a way to get beer). One day, Dickie and I were out walking past a suburban neighborhood privacy fence. Beyond the fence, a huge menacing dog growled, scrabbled at the wood, barked, and basically wanted to tear our throats out. A few minutes later, a collared cat wanders up to us. Dickie picks it up and pitches it over the fence. Then runs. I'm stunned, shocked. Felt horrible, but ran away as horrific yowls and meows ensued.

When I caught up to Dickie, I read him the riot act. "Why in the hell did you do that, you dick? (Sixth grade was when I discovered the fun of naughty words; still couldn't bring myself to drop any "f-bombs," though.)"

Dickie just shrugs, tries to turn it around on me. "Whatever. Don't be a pussy."

I storm off with these parting words, "You're a dick! And a liar 'cause your comic books don't exist!"

That was the end of that friendship. I had no idea he derived pleasure in torturing animals and I spent many a worried night about that cat.

See what I mean? That's how Jeffrey Dahmer got started.

But as I grew older, the sociopathic slant of my childhood friends changed as well. Animal torture was out. But turning on your so-called friends was the "new cool!"

Meet Barry Burgenstock. I did in eighth grade. He was new to school and even though a lowly "sevvy (seventh grader)," I soon discovered he shared an offbeat sense of humor with me. I just had to befriend him. For a while, everything was cool. We snuck into some R-rated films, had some laughs, cruised the mean streets of suburban Kansas at night and lived to tell about it.

Until one afternoon, I brought Barry home with me. My parents were at work, so we went outside to hang in the backyard. My friendly, retired neighbor was out. I hollered hello, introduced Barry. 

The neighbor said, "Hi Barry, how are you?"

Barry, with a stupid innocent grin, says, "Eat shit."

Crickets. Sooooooo many crickets.

Again, I was gobsmacked. As was the neighbor who blinked, turned snow white, than fire engine red, furrowed up that brow, and stormed inside. Once again, I yelled at my "friend" for doing this. He just grinned and said, "What's the problem? You're being a pussy." (Amongst boys, that word's the ultimate insult. I haven't used that derogatory term since high school, haven't even heard it until our ex-orange-president made it vogue again.)

Later on, I had to apologize to the neighbor one-on-one for my buddy's behavior. But stupidly, I gave Barry a second chance.

A couple nights later we were walking down the street. He'd found a metal pipe and started swinging it around. Suddenly he swung it at me a few times like a ninja with involuntary spasms.

"What're you doing?" My false smile trembled.

"I'm going to kick your ass." He swung it a few more times in front of my face. Then he threw it down. "I don't need that to beat your ass."

Through it all, I attempted to maintain my unsteady grin, thinking that surely he was pulling my leg. He wasn't. 

I walked away as he continued to hurl insults after me. 

I went through a LOT of "friendships" in my youth.

Finally, I'm reminded of Steve Brynner. Now, Steve was actually my brother's best friend (both one grade below me), and we'd started hanging out together a couple times over the summer after I graduated. All of us eighteen at the time, we discovered the joy of beer!

After one night in a bar, we walked back to the car, and Steve starts telling us how he could kick both our asses. Inwardly, I sigh. I've been down this path before, but can't lose face because I'm a year older. My brother just watches and Steve grabs me, throws me to the ground and starts wrestling with me as a huge crowd of teens gather to watch. No punches were hurled, but it was highly embarrassing, not to mention unnecessary. I didn't get it.

Later, my brother said he was a psycho and that he always turned on a dime.

Figures. A trait the West boys shared: really cool friends.

Cut to a year later, when I ran into Steve in Westport, the local summer College bar hang-out area. Outside of a bar he wanted to talk. I just sorta laughed him off, shook my head derisively, said, "whatever," and walked off with my friends.

Steve wasn't having it. In the crowded street, he starts screaming nonsense, howling like a madman as I sped up to get out of there. Seriously deranged, yelling weird things like, "You used to be my best friends brotherrrrrrr! And now I want to killllllllll youuuuuuuuu!" It went on and on, echoing throughout the buildings until his voice started choking with sobs and rage-filled tears.

Thankfully, that was the last either of us ever saw of him (even though he didn't live too far from us). Probably ended up taking his rage overseas. Or to prison.

There were several others, but these guys were the highlights. And I wouldn't be surprised if one or more didn't go the route of Jeffrey Dahmer. Maybe they did and just haven't been caught.

Maybe I need to be more careful in who I befriend. I don't want to ride out my golden years as a serial killer magnet.

While we're on the topic of serial killers, have you guys read my serial killer thriller trilogy, Killers Incorporated? There're more serial killers than you can shake a stick at in these pages. Watch as they stalk, betray, befriend, and annoy one another. Heads are chopped, dropped, and swapped! In other words, good wholesome fun for the entire family. (And I'm pretty sure I'm friends with at least four of these guys). Check out the first book in the series, Secret Society, right here!