Six Degrees of Bob Berdella, Kansas City serial killer

Kansas City's had its share of notorious serial killers. Terry Blair killed at least seven women in the KC metro area. There's good ol' Robert J. Gross, who'd been happily stalking and killing massage parlor workers for decades, before finally being caught. How about Lorenzo Gilyard, a trash company supervisor, who was suspected of killing 13 women, colorfully known as The Kansas City Strangler? I guess working trash must've been stressful. Casting the net further, of course, Kansas gave birth to the BTK Strangler. You're welcome! Oh, and the Westboro Baptist Church.

But perhaps the killer with the most notoriety was Bob Berdella, aka The Kansas City Butcher, aka The Collector. Or at least he scared me the most. For I had several near encounters with him, my version of Six Degrees of Kevin Bacon, I suppose.

For those who don't know, the short story is Bob was actually a relatively well-known Kansas City fixture, hiding in plain sight. Many knew him as a civic-minded citizen, who helped to form the Hyde Park Neighborhood Crime and Watch Program. Long out of the closet, he took in young male hustlers and attempted to get them off of drugs. Soon he started capturing, torturing (for up to six weeks!), and killing young gay men, disposing of them in handy-sized chunks in trash bags at the landfill. All of this took place at his home at 4315 Charlotte Street.

Now, at the same time, one of my closest friends lived directly one block over at 4315 Harrison Street. It was ideal for our group of pals, as A) he was the only one with a house at the time and we could all crash there (it had, like, four floors and endless rooms!); and B) it was within walking distance of our favorite nightlife area, Westport.

Many wee hours were spent stumbling home from the bars to the house on Harrison while Bob was busy directly behind us pouring Drano down a poor hapless victim's throat. Even scarier was another friend, who was particularly directionally-challenged after drinking, spent the night mistakenly on Bob's front porch! Lucky for him, Bob must've slept through his intrusion, otherwise he would've seen it as a Christmas miracle, no doubt.

But you know, in our stupid and immature youthful naivety and false feelings of invulnerability, we never worried about the crime-ridden neighborhood, let alone ending up as shish-ka-Bob-Berdellaed!

Speaking of Westport, Bob ran a booth down there called "Bob's Bizarre Bazaar." The little shop specialized in selling odd items from around the world. Now, the booth was inside another building called "The Westport Flea Market," a very unusual joint comprised of dozens of booths lining three walls and a hamburger restaurant (that had crab races on Sunday nights!) in the center. I spent many an afternoon and night in that joint while Bob undoubtedly watched me gnawing on a burger. (The place still prides itself as "the best burger in KC," but the Berdella fallout wasn't the greatest publicity for meat-eaters, as you can imagine.)

I never went into his booth, but was familiar with it. I'm pretty sure I even saw him sitting on a stool there a couple times. Another friend of mine did visit there once with a date (talk about a memorable date!), where Bob displayed a human skull for sale. At the time my pal thought it was fake, now, not so much. One thing about Bob, he had clever ways of getting rid of his victims.

When the story broke, we all watched it from the perceived safety of the house on Harrison Street. Suddenly, it didn't feel so safe any longer.

On the topic of serial killers, check out my darkly-humorous trilogy of thrillers about beleaguered serial killers under fire. And they're the good guys! (Wait until you meet the bad guys...) That's Secret Society, Strike, and Killer King. Ask for them by name!

When Cats Talk, Worlds Collide!

My cat's been long gone for many years.

Yet the other night, I had a dream. He and I were back at my parent's house in my bedroom. A tough "teddy" gang of Latino cats started hooting from the street. I whipped up the blinds, saw all kinds of bling and attitude. Cats weren't just frontin'. Truth up, yo.

"C'mon, Tiger, come out and play-ay-ay!" the cats said, evoking that annoying guy from the movie, The Warriors. "Run with us!"

My cat, Tiger, turned to me, said, "Stuart, can I go out with them?"

In astonishment, I replied, "I didn't know you could talk!"

"You never asked me."

You know, some of my dreams just shouldn't be turned into books. Unlike the upcoming Chili Run, a true Freudian nightmare.

But more on that soon... 

Pokeman NO!

I'll let you in on a little secret...I was sick of Pokemon 20 years ago. Honestly, I'd thought it'd crested the wave of popularity. But it's come screaming back with a vengeance, that damn Pikachu popping up everywhere you look.

You see, 20 years ago, my young daughter was into the cartoon when it first hit the airwaves. So, dutifully, I suffered through every episode with her. We graduated to trading cards, manga, expensive plush toys imported from Japan. It got to the point where I could practically name the first 100 of the little b@$*ards myself. Gave me nightmares. I mean...Jigglypuff? A round, pink big-eyed monstrosity that lulled everyone to sleep with its demonic siren song. But...that's what parents do: suffer for their children.

So I thought I'd seen the last of the little yellow, horned devil. Even had an impromptu (yet cathartic and fun!) funeral for one of the Pikachu plushies while recently cleaning out the basement. How I tortured that toy made me kinda wonder about myself.

Anyway, I digress. Now Pokemon mania has swept the nation like a plague. This time affecting adults and children alike. Everywhere you go, cars are crashing, people are fighting , Pokemon victims stumble into wells and stroll into busy traffic. Total anarchy in the streets! Why? Because the Pokemon are on the loose. Gotta catch them all! Gah! The game, "Pokemon Go," is unavoidable. And here I thought  people "inviting" me to play Candy Crush (whatever that is) were annoying.

Now, as in every hot topic issue, not all sides are clear. Given that I'm fair-minded, let's look at the positives. Some doctors ("experts" as they're referred to) say "Pokemon Go" is a good thing. It's getting people outside and walking. I'm all for that. But look up from your smart phone every once in a while!

And let's give the conspiracy guys their due diligence.  They're saying "Pokemon Go" is a Government Spook. They may not be wrong. Not only are players allowing access to their location and camera, but possibly even their Google account. Scary that the game was created by Niantic, a company founded by John Hanke. According to my research (and, as always, I believe everything I read on the internet), if you trace Hanke's work career, he's heavily involved in Government-funded capital firms and security organizations. Whew.

And according to my research assistant, Mr. Google, the following is buried in "Pokemon Go's" privacy policy:

We may disclose any information about you (or your authorized child) that is in our possession or control to government or law enforcement officials or private parties.

Big Brother is here! And he looks like Squirtle!   

Enough is enough! It's time to take back the streets! People! Pokemon aren't real! Pursue something worthwhile, like, I dunno, snipes or Bigfoot or something! 

(Psst...don't tell anyone but I'm kinda jealous. After watching my bro-in-law play "Pokemon Go" this weekend, I thought the game looked kinda fun. But Luddite that I am, I only have a flip-phone, circa 2001. Probably a good thing. I'd get addicted, I just know it! Gotta catch 'em all!).

When Ribs Go Bad...

So my wife was in the kitchen, ponderously staring at the third slab of ribs we hadn't devoured. She said, "they smell funny."

I thought "funny" how? I took a whiff. Big, beefy, bouncy & meaty. A little strong, sure, but hey, my olfactory senses aren't the best. Smelled like a dead cow. (Um, probably a little too much).

She says, "I'm not going to eat this." I say, "that's ridiculous, we're not gonna waste the meat." To back up my statement, I corralled a jury composed of my daughter, her boyfriend, my niece and nephew. All took turns sniffing it, one after the other. Consensus was it smelled fine. My daughter's boyfriend laconically shrugged his shoulders, said, "I'd eat it." Of course that doesn't mean a lot as he can eat an entire cow by himself.

So a couple nights ago, I tried some "risky ribs." Blasted 'em in the microwave to bone-dropping perfection. The next morning, I woke up, extremely self-satisfied, told my wife, "See? Nothing to worry about. I survived the potential rip melt-down." She replies, "No way am I eating those." Cockily, the hen in the house, I said, "your loss."

Was I ever wrong.

I visited the bathroom many times later. Extremely unpleasant.

I  need to trust my wife's olfactory senses. Tell her she was right. As much as it pains me.

I am...the Great Indoorsman

Let's get something straight. I don't camp. The closest to camp I come is watching the old Batman TV series.

I'm a civilized chap, rather fond of climate control and beds. Beds were created for a reason. I believe it blasphemous not to use them. And cable TV, a must for survival.

Several years back, my wife talked me into a camping trip. We're talking really roughing it. Staying in a cabin in the wild woods of Oklahoma. The sheer Jeremiah Johnson-ish of it all! Sure, the cabin had a hot tub and a VCR player, but, man, I felt so...primitive. I mean, honestly! A VCR player, for cryin' out loud!

It was at this savage cabin I saw my first "walkingstick." Totally freaked me out. Screamed like one of Jason's victims. Sticks aren't supposed to walk. And people can't understand why I don't camp. Duh.

I suppose my Great Indoorsmanship began at an early age. Against my better judgment (and because kids are never given a choice), I was set to go on a cub scout weekend camping trip. Thankfully I came down with a stomach virus and missed the "adventure." On that ill-fated trip, my fellow scouts blundered into a wasp's nest and rolled through a thatch of poison ivy. If I even look at poison ivy, huge blisters develop on my eyelids.

Invariably when people try to convince me how wonderful camping is they fall short of selling it. Usually, their tales are rife with horror (Mosquitos! Flooding! All sorts of Biblical plagues!), hardly a convincing argument.

When you wake up freezing or sweating (both equally awful sensations), I hardly see that as a bonus. Campers are just opening themselves up to the Zika virus or a Bigfoot ravaging. Not to mention the various demented serial killers who lurk in the woods. I know, I've done my research. I've watched lots of horror movies.

I gained my Indoorsman legs the hard, practiced way...on the sofa. Many hours spent on many a different sofa have toughened me into the sofa-sitting man I am today.

Colonoscopies are fun!

I've been in hospitals a lot. Never as a patient, though, not until recently.

My doctor decided I needed a colonoscopy. Quite a lovely hospital visit actually. I was treated as a King. As I sprawled out in comfort and all my glory on the hospital bed, a nurse asked if I wanted a toasty blanky. A toasty blanky! Then she inquired if I'd like nice socks for my feet. Man, you can't pay for such pampering. Wonderful. For sure, I thought a manicure was up next.

The feeling of being wheeled into the Special Room on a gurney was peculiarly freeing. Doing absolutely nothing, yet still mobile. Goosebumps. A nurse swayed me in with a Brylcream smile and a game-show hostess hand gesture. Very welcoming.

The procedure itself was a blast. None of that nonsense about counting down to ten while you go under. The anesthesiologist told me to breathe deeply. Boom. And out!

Then my wondrous day of being pampered took a dark turn.

Next thing I know Nurse Ratched is standing over me, screaming that it's time to wake up and get the hell out her hospital. My reign as King of the day didn't last for long. But it was good to be King. At least for a little while.

Still, all in all, for such an intrusively invasive procedure (considering there was a snaky camera up my wazoo), it was nothing.

It's the prep work that'll kill ya. Seriously.

Good Lord, I didn't know I had that much to give. And give and give. I know giving is kind, but come on, even Jesus had his limits. Endless bathroom agony.

I'm still trying to adjust. Things like this usually only happen to people who are abducted by aliens (why aliens have a strange attraction to anal probes is beyond me.). My butt doctor said she'll see me in ten years. I dread it already.

And I promise this is the last time I'll blog about my bum. I swear! (Maybe).

Fat guy in a kiddie swimming pool!

I know it sounds like the title of my newest horror novel or something. But herein lies true horrors.

Every Summer, I've worked hard at putting up an inflatable 20 foot swimming pool in the backyard. Nothing's better than floating on a raft, drinking a beer during 98 degrees sweltering days. It started off as something for my daughter and her friends, but I've continued the proud tradition long after my daughter moved out.

But. Clearly I'm not taking into consideration my neighbors. I'm sure I've burned their retinas out. Who wants to see an old fat guy in a kiddie swimming pool? (Well, I kinda do, but I'm too close to the subject). Besides, I don't want them calling in "Quint" from Jaws to take care of the Great White in Kansas.

Recently, my wife said, "Maybe you're getting a little old for that."

Huh. Man.

So. To pool or not to pool, the eternal question.

Of course there's an alternative scenario. With all the rain we've been having in Kansas lately, our old house can't weather the storm. Our basement's flooded.

Adult swim! I think the mice will make excellent swimming companions.

Anyway. What say you, readers? I'm putting it out there for a vote. If you chime in with a "yay" vote, I promise to post selfies all over the intronets so you can  enjoy the spectacle!

Welcome to the Geriatric Ward!

Last week I celebrated a birthday. Well. "Celebrate's" probably not the right term.

From Florida, my mom calls to wish me a happy day.

"So...how old are you today?" she asks.

"I don't know."

"Yes, you do. Come on."

I didn't know, I really didn't. Just because my mom played at being 39 for many decades didn't mean I had to join in her  games. Somewhere along the way, I sorta quit counting.

So I said, "Well, lessee...subtract 1961 from 2016...carry the number..." I used my air chalkboard. "Wow. Guess I'm 55."

"Then today you're officially in the senior discount age bracket."

Huh. She said it like it was a rite of passage, a badge of honor to get that 10% off a bag of chips. But...how did that happen? More importantly, when did it happen? Seems like just yesterday, I was living like a teenager. Carefree and not an ache in my body. And now I can get a senior discount. How...awful.

Thanks Mom!

Of course I mulled it over all day long. That night my wife took me out for a great birthday meal where I ate like my life depended on it. Pretty much felt like it did, too.

On the way home through the Plaza in Kansas City, Missouri, I watched all of the teenage hipsters strolling through the streets.

"Look at 'em," I ranted. "Wearing their shorts and sandals and T-Shirts and beanies, walking around like they're invulnerable to aging! Bah!"

My wife said, "Wow, this is bothering you. Do you really feel like a senior citizen?"

"Right now I feel bloated, stuffed like a turkey and in a brain coma from eating too much seafood lasagna! My shoulder and arm ache because I slept on it 'funny!' And there's nothing 'funny' about it! And it's 7:00 and we're going home and all I feel like doing is rolling into bed! So, yeah...I do feel like a senior citizen!"

Great Caesar's ghost!

I'll save you a spot in the nursing home. I hear Bingo Night's a real hoot.

ONE CLICK AWAY FROM DARK COMEDY!

Where do birds go when they die?

Occasionally, I'll see bird bodies upon the side of the road, an unfortunate meeting with a car windshield. When new buildings are built, I'll see a smattering of bodies.

"Hey, Carl," says Lennie in mid-flight, "let's fly our usual route and--"

Booph!

"Carl? C'mon, get up. Quit horsin' around. Um...Carl?" 

A hard road to fly.

But there're a lotta birds flying the skies. Tons and tons and tons. The math doesn't add up. There should be bird bodies everywhere when their time is up. But...I don't see them. Anywhere.

Now, I know what happens to dogs and cats; their owners take care of them. And some varmints burrow underground to die. Cows and chickens? Best not to dwell on it, particularly for vegans.

But what happens to our feathered friends when their lives end? The earth can't swallow them up that fast. Is there some secret bird graveyard? Does a bird-God swoop 'em up? Is there a jump-suited guy advertising on Craig's List offering bird clean-up services?

Macabre, yes, but these are the sort of questions that keep me up at night.

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Bad wine accident in Kansas!

I thought I could hold my alcohol. Until I tried to go glass to glass of wine with my sister-in-law. 

Nearly thirty years of living in my house and nearly as many years drinking responsibly, I've never had an accident.

And then things took a turn for the worse.

Everything was going great. We were having fun. Drinking wine (which I'm not that used to, being a beer kinda guy). Watching bad '80's horror films. 2:30 A.M., time to pack it in.

On my way up to bed, though, the stairs turned traitor on me. 

Bram! Crunch! Brmble, brmble, brmble....

"Hmm...Ow."

It all happened in a flash. Yet, I remember it like it was last Tuesday. Which it was, but that's not the point. I caused an avalanche of noise, a destruction of body. The house was full of six people and no one heard my wine-imposed earthquake. I was twisted down on the floor about six feet away from my sibling-in-laws, my foot yanked back in a very unnatural manner. Lightning charged through my body, mental sensors screaming at my nerve endings. I became very intimate with pain. Not a good kind of intimacy.

My wife wasn't very happy with me the next day. But we're gonna skip that part of the story.

Now my foot is larger than the Elephant Man's head and sports all the colors of the rainbow. I'm hobbling around on a cane, doing a Dr. House impression. Here, look...gross, right?

The doctor visit was pretty bad.

"How'd this happen?"

"Um, bad horror movie accident," I offered while shifting my gaze away.

"WHAT?"

Let this be a cautionary tale to all of you kids. Don't watch bad horror movies late into the night. (And don't drink with my sister-in-law.)

Assteroid Apocalypse!

I have a secret. A dirty, dark secret. For twenty years, I've been living a lie. I've been putting on a happy front but have been covertly living in agony.

Hemorrhoids.

Okay, let's all get it out in the open, have a chuckle or two about it. Hang on a minute, I have a picture from my ANALysis here somewhere...

You know what it's like to sit on razor blades? I do!

Why, you ask, have I suffered in silence for twenty years without doing a dang thing about it? Chalk it up to stupid male pride. And embarrassment. I mean, honestly, who wants to 'fess up to having bottom issues? Even worse, spreading cheeks wide for a stranger. Gah. Besides, when I'm on the slender side of things, the pain subsides. But, human yo-yo that I am and currently tipping the scales again, the pain came raging back. With a fiery, itchy vengeance.

I thought to myself, "Hmm. Something's not right down south."

So. After much cajoling from my wife and constant burning torture, I bit the bullet. Made an appointment with a rectal specialist. (And what a thankless job that's gotta be, right?)

Here's the thing...I was expecting a mean, round, elderly doctor. Who wouldn't be dour after looking at troubled arses year round? Alas, she was younger, nearly a super-model. Uh-oh. I didn't sign up for that.

With great hesitation, I dropped trou. The doctor then brought in her entourage, two other women. More women came in, nurses, receptionists, next door neighbors, gawkers. I think even the janitor moseyed in.

"Hey, you gotta check out this guy's butt, Allison! It's one for the record book!"

A party! Everyone checking out my bottom. Just, you know, not in a good way. I was prodded, poked, probed, pickled and deeply mortified. The physical pain was unbearable. But when the doctor exclaimed, "Oh!" things took a decided turn toward the dark side (not my dark side, but...ah, never mind).

Ladies and gentlemen, I hit the anal trifecta! Huzzah! The doctor was frankly stymied, said it was unusual for anyone to have the three--three, count 'em, three!--arse trauma issues I suffered.

I won't bludgeon you with the gory details. (Where are those damn photos?) But, through the miracle of modern science and operations, over the months to come I should make a recovery. Don't know if my fragile male ego will, though.

Click here for thrills, chills, spills and good deals!

How in the World Did I Kill Abe Vigoda?

You heard me right.

But, please, readers, before you judge me too harshly, allow me to present my case to you...

Not too long ago, my wife and I were discussing Abe Vigoda. Not really sure why. It's not like he comes up a lot in daily conversation.

I asked, "When did Abe Vigoda die?"

"I think he's still alive," my wife replied.

Immediately, I flashed back to childhood years, watching
Barney Miller episodes. "That can't be! He looked like a walking corpse back in 1974! He was like...what, 90, or something! Just not possible."

My wife's fingers flew across her IPad as she searched for proof. "Yep. Says he's still alive."

"Huh," I said.

Two days later, Abe Vigoda died.

I know, I know, right? Clearly, I don't know the extent of my full-on psychic powers. But it was an accident! I swear! I didn't even know Mr. Vigoda, let alone wish him harm. 

My wife and I held a small memorial. Mostly to assuage my guilt. 

I'm not even going to tell you how we discussed David Bowie's new CD and how old he was. We all know how that ended. To which I'm incredibly sorry.

So, my wife says, "We've really got to quit talking about celebrities."

I thought about it, said, "What about Trump? Can we talk about Trump? Lots and lotsa talk about Trump?"

"Let's talk about Trump!"

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STRIKE: Killers Incorporated, Book #2!

AVAILABLE FOR PURCHASE...NOW!

The killers are back in town.

Leon Garber’s an accountant and occasional assassin.  But he’s one of the good guys.  See, Leon’s only interested in taking out abusers. He’s not the only serial killer on a mission, though. His past employer, Like Minded Individuals, Inc. (LMI for short), employs quite a few. 

Mostly, Leon was a model employee. Or at least, he was until that little falling-out he had with them last year.  Now he’s got a target on his back.  He’s seriously out-numbered, but even worse, LMI has hired Leon’s former associate, Cody Spangler, to track him down. Unfortunately for Leon, someone else from Leon’s past, someone he never wanted to see again, has other ideas for Leon’s welfare. 

But now’s the time to strike. Old allies and dangerous new acquaintances join together to fight back. A team of disgruntled killers have banded together. The operative? Take down LMI. Or die trying.

Strike: Killers Incorporated Book #2

Serial killers have never been so much fun. Trust me. Many more dysfunctional and nutty characters are introduced: Nanette, the black widow; The I-35 Vampire; The Dobermann Pincher; Mr. Sensitivity; Bug; and, of course, my favorite: The Man with the Shoebox.

BOOK #ONE AVAILABLE HERE!

If you haven't already, get in on the ground floor with the first book, Secret Society. The only book to come with a "punch in the face" guarantee!* That's right! If you don't like Secret Society, I'll come to your house and you can punch me in the face!*

*Disclaimer: The reader must live within a one block range of said author's residence. Traveling is expensive. Plus, as much as I love this book, I also kinda like my face. Warning: Don't read Secret Society while driving heavy machinery. Don't mix prescription drugs with Secret Society. If drowsiness ensues, then you're not reading Secret Society. Pregnant women should not read Secret Society unless consulting me first and I say it's okay. If a rash persists while reading Secret Society, call your doctor and tell him to read Secret Society.