29 Mar Big Jim Morgan’s Thrills and Chills

Drac’s head had been bashed to such an extent that he was barely recognizable. He was Zack’s firstborn and the one he adored more than any of his other children. He’d just turned ten when his mutilated body was discovered lying on the floor of Zack’s camper. Now the puppet’s black tuxedo and red-lined cape lay in tatters, shredded beyond repair. Count Dracula was no more, and Zack was devastated by his passing.

As he later explained, he’d lovingly crafted Drac’s creepy, papier-mâché head out of yellowed obit pages taken from back issues of The Chicago Tribune he’d swiped from a local library. He then reinforced the head with chicken wire to give it better form and substance. Next, he applied thin layers of vellum to finish the creature’s striking, gruesome face, carefully shaping and molding the pieces into place until he was pleased with his handiwork. Paints and costumes followed until artistic perfection. Zack excelled in creating ghoulish hand puppets for his thrice-daily performances at Morgan’s sideshow of the weird and bizarre.

Zack admitted his sense of sardonic humor was a little offbeat, but nonetheless he enjoyed the dark side of human nature, the more morbid the better. He said it suited his spooky, off-putting persona as the Puppet Master of the Macabre.

* * * * * *

Zackary Woolsey was a carny through and through. He’d spent his adult life traversing the country to places decided by Big Jim Morgan, the owner of Morgan’s Thrills & Chills Amusements. As a child, Zack’s father worked the midways at some of the largest carnivals of the time. His dad usually worked as a shill because he was so damn good in the role: one blessed with an uncanny knack to easily spot the marks among the townies. Like all workers, he was expected to do other jobs as well. In his father’s case, this could mean operating the Wheel, Flying Jenny, or roller coaster as a ride jock, or working as a roustie putting up and taking down tents and rides. His mom worked odd jobs in the towns they visited to help support the family. She homeschooled Zack, but he believed the carnival, with its quirky, insightful people, was the best education one could receive, certainly in the lessons of human behavior and psychology. It was the carnival’s gypsy life that appealed so much to him. This had been Zack’s world and home. He never wanted to leave.

* * * * * *

Zack talked to his puppets more than he did with his friends and colleagues working the carny for Big Jim. That struck some people as odd, but the carny was home to many freaks and oddballs who generally got along well with each other. A high tolerance for quirkiness among the performers was the hallmark of those who made a career out of this lowbrow form of entertainment. Zack was still considered by his coworkers to be at the far end of the spectrum of what might be considered normal. He was a carnival kid who was fully accepted by his peers in the community despite his aloofness and solitariness. He simply didn’t mix and mingle well with others. He was just shy, some thought. Maybe he was just downright crazy, others suggested. Regardless, he was one of them to the core of his being.

* * * * * *

Zack still mourned Drac’s death like a loving father should. He didn’t know who or why someone killed him in such a vicious, savage way. Someone who held a grudge? Someone bent on closing his act? Someone who was jealous of his talents? Zack didn’t know, but his other puppets were whispering questions that he couldn’t truthfully answer. Brussius, the Spawn of Satan, asked if there would be more puppet deaths and if Zack could protect them. The worry and anxiety level was high among his troupe. Brussius was a favorite who scared the bejesus out of the audiences with his demonic countenance and frightening demeanor. His shtick was to warn humankind of the end of days coming to the plains of Megiddo, urging humans to choose wisely between the light and dark forces before the war to end all wars called Armageddon.

Others expressed their concerns as well. Chira, the she-wolf, mentioned similar worries about her safety and that of her fellow puppets. Zack did his best to reassure them they were all safe with him, but he still had doubts that he didn’t bother to mention. The truth was he simply didn’t know what to expect. His children’s voices rumbling through his head only confused his thoughts as he tried to sort out this most puzzling event in his mind: Drac’s death and its possible consequences for Zack going forward. Had someone learned of his harmless mind games involving brutal deaths? He pondered the possible answers and couldn’t make sense of any of them.

* * * * * *

I signed on with Big Jim straight out of college. Morgan’s was encamped in a farmer’s field on the far north side of DeKalb, Illinois. DeKalb was best known for its corn seed and for being the place where barbed wire was invented. One more thing, too—it was home to my alma mater, Northern Illinois University. I had always been drawn to a carnival’s shabby glitz and gritty glamour, and Morgan’s didn’t disappoint in those respects. I wasn’t sure why, but I’d been hooked for years, attracted to them since I was a kid. I never wanted to run away from home to join the circus, but I didn’t want to pass up a chance to be a carny and satisfy my wanderlust and excitement for adventure. Moreover, I wanted to wait a while before growing up and joining the dulling, nine-to-five treadmill like my fellow classmates.

My name is Sven Larsen, a fourth-generation Swede who was raised as an only child on a small dairy farm about 20 or so miles west of DeKalb. In the Swedish communities in northern Illinois, there were many Svens, and I was just one more. Lars was another popular name. Thankfully, my parents didn’t name me Lars. I always thought that pairing of names would have been too Scandihoovian even for them.

My first gig for Big Jim was as a 24-Hour Man, or Jumper, traveling ahead to the next lot and posting arrow signs directing traffic to the carnival site. I’d also place posters in storefront windows and tack handbills to telephone poles and the like. It was simply the carny way of advertising. The job didn’t pay much, about on par with what I could earn with my BA degree in Psychology, except I got free meals and a bed to boot. So, it was a better deal after all. That was my first job as an honest-to-goodness carny, and many more would follow over the next couple of years as I moved upward into Big Jim’s eclectic family.

* * * * * *

It was showtime, and Zack managed the first performance of the day as best he could under the circumstances without Drac. He had been the host for Zack’s sideshow act in the Puppet Master of the Macabre. Now Zack had to improvise by selecting Magda, The Crone of Transylvania, as the new MC and changing the script to integrate her new role in the telling of spooky stories. She cackled with delight and waggled her broomstick as she narrated two Grimm’s fairy tales, albeit altered, darker renderings with more gruesome details to pump up the horror a notch or two for the audience. Rumpelstiltskin was a ghoulish character, more monster than human in appearance. Snow White was still beautiful, but the dwarfs resembled scary-looking trolls. Zack had chosen well, and Magda was a big hit with the children of Podunk, or whatever town the carnival might be in now. Zack didn’t remember anything except for what he’d done the night before. He remembered that particular play very clearly and savored the action over and over in his mind. Those delicious memories and the fond thoughts of his beloved children were what mattered in his life.

* * * * * *

Three hots and a cot: that is what the floaters who moved from one carny to another called Big Jim’s proffered bunkhouse sleeping quarters and meal chits in the backyard of the lot. It was part of the benefits package that went along with the job, in addition to a little walking-around money. The money could last a while if you knew the right grifts, as I quickly learned. My favorite one was to put together a Michigan Bankroll with a ten-dollar bill wrapped around a wad of singles. I would go into a fast-food joint and flash the bundle so the cashier could easily see it, often laying down a ten-spot on the counter in plain view. As the cashier took my order, I replaced the ten with a one-dollar bill in the same spot. Often, I’d get change for ten. Those few extra dollars helped stretch my poke.

My meeting and subsequent befriending of Zackary Woolsey began when I was assigned as the lecturer for The Baby Show, an odditorium located directly across from his puppet stage on Sideshow Alley. For a dollar per rube, patrons could enter the tent and view stillborn babies and aborted fetuses, some with umbilical cords still attached, displayed in large glass bottles filled with formaldehyde. We insiders called it the Pickled Punk Show. Little did the gullible realize that most of the jars contained nothing more than bouncers, rubberized reproductions of real things. That helped keep the authorities off our backs with their annoying laws and pesky regulations. The show’s main attraction was the Devil Baby: a gaffed exhibit, ostensibly a freak, featuring hoofed feet, horns, fangs, and claws. It was constructed to appear mummified or otherwise aged to give it authenticity. The Devil Baby was the centerpiece of the show and the one the townies found most disgusting and exciting. They sometimes lost their lunch or dinner peering at the faux creature. Unfortunately, it was up to me to clean up their messes afterward.

I approached Zack after one of his shows, sincerely complimenting him on the performance and especially on the beautiful workmanship that went into his puppets. They were works of art, or so it seemed to me. His mastery of manipulating the puppets in a choreographed sequence of moves, all the while telling a story, was simply amazing. I envied his ability to create the various characters from scratch and make them perform as perfectly as they did. The voices were equally impressive, switching seamlessly from falsetto to basso profundo to precisely match each puppet’s lines. The range of his intonation was amazing. He was an expert puppeteer in all respects, and I told him so. Although pleased, he bemoaned his limited ability to do more with his hand puppets, as he had only two hands to operate them. I took the opening to offer my help, at least on a part-time basis. He readily accepted, and that’s how I joined Zack, the Puppet Master of the Macabre. Our relationship would only get more complicated and bizarre over time.

* * * * * *

Life at the carnival continued at a usual, hectic pace. The one-day shows were particularly brutal on everyone. Bring everything down, set it up in the next town, and then do it all over again. These were sixteen-hour days with early morning lot calls for every member of the troupe. No one was exempt from the punishing schedule. We all looked forward to a longer stand where we could settle back into a more normal routine, staying at least a week in one location before moving on once again.

On those rare occasions we had some downtime, I’d draw the awnings and help Zack with his puppet show. He’d created a collection of twenty or so, and each was a work of art. He tutored me in the manipulation of the live-hand puppets, saying that his hand puppets were his family and no one else could work them. Live-hand puppets were larger than the hand variety and required two people to operate them. This was the type of puppeteer Zack wanted me to be since it would broaden the range of his storytelling. I found Zack’s comment about his family strange, but I didn’t object since I was getting a free education in this art form. I just believed he was a bit eccentric, even more so when he spoke to his children as if I wasn’t present. All the carnies knew he was a loner and recluse, but never suspected he was much more than an ordinary puppeteer.

* * * * * *

Alison’s body had been found a couple of days after Big Jim’s carnival had torn down and jumped DeKalb for the next town. Reportedly, she was a beautiful twenty-year-old sophomore at the same school from which I graduated. Her disappearance from her dorm room at Douglas Hall was reported to the police by her roommate. Her partially clothed body was discovered in a cornfield by the farmer who owned the patch. The location was only a quarter of a mile from her dorm, and the cops theorized she’d been forcibly taken to the spot, tortured, and then strangled to death with her own panties. Burn marks from lit cigarettes dotted her face and neck. She hadn’t been sexually assaulted, but the authorities were puzzled about her disfigurement, wondering about the underlying psychological motive for the vicious act.

I first heard of her death from Jimbo, the A&S Man. He was the age-and-scale operator just off the main arch, who guessed the ages and weights of the chumps. I was reading the midway with my head down, looking for a ground score of lost change or other valuables. I’d gotten into this habit some time ago, and it occasionally paid off with a piece of jewelry or, if I was really lucky, a fiver. He said the police had been asking questions around the lot about Alison’s murder, given that the carnival had recently shown there. I was surprised the cops hadn’t questioned me since I was a NIU grad who’d lived in DeKalb before joining Big Jim. Alison’s investigation went nowhere, and she soon faded from my thoughts.

* * * * * *

Every trouper who worked a full season had a unique handle. Mine was Svengali, a play on my given name. It made sense to the other carnies. Zack’s was Wooly Bully, a play on his surname and the popular ‘60s song by Sam the Sham and the Pharaohs. My handle was shortened to just Golly, and Zack’s to Wooly. That was simply how we addressed each other on the lot. No one used their real names for anonymity. Perhaps they were running from cops, creditors, and/or ex-wives. Nonetheless, it was a long-standing carnival tradition. So, Golly and Wooly it would be until we parted ways.

I sometimes dated townie girls I’d met at The Baby Show. Surprisingly, female suckers outnumbered males about two to one. I wasn’t sure why; perhaps it was a maternal thing that drew them to the show. I’d hook up with them for a one-night stand and maybe more if I was really lucky. Wooly let me know that he wasn’t pleased with the dating because it took me away from his tutelage and my practice sessions with the puppets. He was like a jealous, petulant lover, and I resented his peevishness. But I did pare back my dating to spend more time learning his craft. I really enjoyed working the puppets, and I had to admit that Wooly was a patient, first-rate teacher. One morning, he mentioned I was almost ready for my first performance. I was pleased, but I’d already performed once to my satisfaction. Hopefully, there would be an encore to follow.

* * * * * *

We were operating a Sunday Schooler, a toned-down, less raunchy show, in Kokomo, Indiana, on an April morning when it happened. An F-2 twister from the southwest popped up out of nowhere and cut a swath of destruction as it slowly moved through the city. The sky had been overcast, but otherwise the weather was calm, perhaps too calm, thinking back on the event. Just before we saw it, the sky turned a weird, greenish-gray color. We didn’t have time to secure the tents, banners, or much of anything else before we took shelter. Fortunately, we were closed to the public. It was the beginning of the tornado season, and it was the one thing that frightened all of us.

It was over in just a few minutes, but what the blowdown left behind on the lot was devastating. The arcade tent housing the coin-operated games was a complete loss. Big Eli, the Ferris wheel, had tilted to one side, and its stanchions had been uprooted in the process. Tent canvases had been ripped and lifted off their anchors. The large, colorful Bally Cloth ones with text and drawings suffered the most. Our living lot behind the show was damaged as well. The sucker netting separating the two sites was completely gone. A stretch of lineup concession booths, located close to the arch, were blown apart as well. The only good news was that no one had been killed or injured. That was a miracle, and we rejoiced in our luck despite the property damage. It took us six long days working a soft lot to put the layout back together. Big Jim’s commercial liability insurance covered most of the repairs, even the sundry fees from the blank days when we were closed for business. His legal mender would later go back and suck the last bit of moola out of the insurance company. That was the way Big Jim operated, a tough taskmaster in some respects, but otherwise a decent and fair boss.

The show must go on, and it did when we opened a week after the tornado. It was my night to assist Wooly with a loose adaptation of Rapunzel. We’d worked together to manipulate the oversized puppet and practiced long and hard to put on a great show. I even had a small voice part, a short line spoken in my normal voice. I’d enlisted Crock, The Gator Man, to spell me at The Baby Show. I really liked the guy, as he was an affable, down-to-earth human being who’d been damned at birth with ichthyosis, giving his skin a scaly, reptilian appearance. Crock was just one more freak and geek in a home that warmly welcomed them.

I admitted to being a little anxious since I didn’t want to disappoint Wooly or myself. As I recalled, Rapunzel grew up to be the most beautiful child in the world with long golden hair, or so the Brothers Grimm story went. When she reaches her twelfth year, the witch shuts her away in a tower with neither stairs nor door, only one room with one window. When the witch visits Rapunzel beneath the tower, she calls out: “Rapunzel, Rapunzel, let down your long hair so I may climb your stairs.” Of course, Rapunzel does as commanded.

So far, Wooly’s story hewed to the original version. Now a handsome prince rides by the tower and hears Rapunzel’s lovely, ethereal singing, and he is immediately smitten. He begged her to let down her hair so he could climb her stairs and see her beautiful visage. But when he reached the room and saw Rapunzel’s face, he was repulsed. She was an old, ugly hag! It was so horrible that he couldn’t imagine her countenance in his worst nightmares. She then promptly pushed the prince out the window, and he fell to his death. It turned out Rapunzel was a seductive siren who lured men to her room and their doom. She loved the witch, who was her surrogate mother, and would never leave the tower without her permission: an obedient, good girl, but with a very wicked heart and a perverted sense of humor. That was Wooly’s twist on the storyline. He’d constructed the castle tower out of plywood and cardboard, and it was a fabulous prop. I congratulated him on his work and storytelling and thanked him for letting me participate in this most macabre fairy tale. I was still amazed at his many talents and told him I could relate to his Rapunzel because I’d been raised by an evil witch as well.

As I looked out across the alley, I could see the teaser curtain to the Cootch Show. Despite the pitchman’s spiel, the women’s performances tonight would be rather tame, mundane; no real skin, just flesh-colored tights to entice the male audience. It was a tease and nothing more. But the men still loved the performance despite being shortchanged on the flesh. Just perhaps, in another time and place, they might have seen the real thing and indulged their fantasies, but not tonight. That wouldn’t happen, to their collective dismay, because Big Jim had ordered the whole show to be operated on the up-and-up: no skin or prostitution, rigged games, or other gaffs. The local cops had refused his juice, so the show couldn’t operate wide open. The carnival’s profits would have to suffer as a result. Big Jim would miss making his nut for a while.

* * * * * *

The DeKalb detectives were back, and this time with a vengeance. They’d compiled a concise list of their potential suspects, and Wooly and I were on their radar screen. Someone at the carny had tipped our names to the cops. I worried how Wooly would hold up under the pressure of an interrogation. He’d withdraw further into himself, or I should say selves, since he would carry on lengthy conversations and interactions with his puppet family. Those exchanges didn’t have anything to do with the plays, but rather other topics that popped into his head. Frighteningly, many of them involved violent rape scenarios where the puppets, i.e., Wooly, acted out dark, disturbing scenes. Wooly’s mind was being split into unusual parts, sort of a multiple personality disorder as I recalled from studying the DSM-5 as an undergraduate. Perhaps he was suffering from post-traumatic stress from the death of Drac. My professional diagnosis was that Wooly had gone bonkers. He was mentally impaired and vulnerable, a perfect patsy for the cops. The note he’d received only worsened his state of mind.

Wooly found the note one morning taped to the back of his small stage. The letters had been cut from the carny’s various handbills and pasted on a single sheet of paper. It simply read: We know what you are. It was unsigned, which wasn’t surprising. He showed it to me and asked what was going on, first Drac’s murder and now this. He was confused and scared, and I continued to worry about his sanity. We discussed people who may have a grudge against Wooly for some slight or wrongdoing in the past. He thought of a couple of candidates, but couldn’t believe they were responsible for the acts. He mentioned carny people were family, and it would be like a brother or sister viciously turning on him. The first name he offered was Needles, the human pincushion, who operated a Bed of Nails joint down the alleyway. A few months back, Wooly watched his show and then chatted with him afterward. For reasons unknown, Needles badly dissed Wooly and treated him like a rube when Wooly asked how he’d done the trick. That was something very much against the unwritten carny code of conduct; again, it was a family thing. Sort of like saying “you don’t bullshit a bullshitter.” Perhaps Needles still harbored a beef. A second possibility was Madame Nina, the bearded lady whom Wooly was romantically attracted to, but she didn’t feel the same toward him. She finally told Wooly to quit hitting on her, and that was that. I had a tough time understanding Wooly’s love interest in a bearded lady. It didn’t seem to fit with the person I knew, but I didn’t argue the point. I told him that Needles might be the culprit, although I didn’t believe it likely. A beef was usually settled by talking things out to square disputes rather than exacting revenge or resorting to violence. That was the way carnies managed the heat among themselves.

* * * * * *

Our separate interrogations with the DeKalb cops were held at the Kokomo, Indiana, Police Headquarters. I was asked the usual questions about my whereabouts at the time of her murder: Did I have an alibi? Did I know her? Did I attend classes with her? Had I ever visited Douglas Hall? Did I kill her? Would I consent to a polygraph exam? I agreed to take the exam. I suspected Wooly was being asked comparable questions and wondered how he was holding up emotionally. I’d later learn he didn’t do so well. Fortunately, I wasn’t told not to leave town because our next jump was only a few days away.

Wooly told me he was flustered under police questioning. He said the two detectives did a Mutt-and-Jeff routine: the good cop and the bad cop. He wasn’t sure what he’d told them, but said he didn’t kill Alison. Wooly claimed they twisted his words and, on occasion, outright lied to him to elicit a confession. He was frightened of them and unsure if he could get through another interrogation. He mentioned he’d taken Valium and smoked a joint before reporting to the station and said his nerves were shot to hell: Drac, the note, and now the cops.

* * * * * *

Heidi Caruthers was a lot lizard who operated a notch joint out of the back end of her beater minivan. Her burned-out van was found on the outskirts of Kokomo with her inside. She’d been known to the local police and had been busted a couple of times for soliciting before she turned nineteen. The night of her murder, she was working in the backyard lot of the show and probably bribed someone for the privilege of parking there. It was a lucrative business if you were young, blond, pretty, and willing to take risks. By all accounts, she met all the criteria. Her autopsy disclosed that her face was dissolved by formic acid postmortem, but it was the crushing of her hyoid bone in her neck that was the presumptive cause of death. She’d been strangled. The subsequent burning of her body was an attempt to eliminate any forensic evidence left by her murderer. I learned that formic acid was used in leather production and in the dyeing and finishing of textiles. I’d seen a large bottle of it in Wooly’s camper and now pondered reporting the fact to the cops. He’d been my friend, and I was torn about ratting him out.

When I asked Wooly about the bottle of formic acid, he said he used it from time to time to tan leather accessories and to treat the fabrics he used to make the puppet costumes. He mentioned that he must have used more than usual, since the bottle was now two-thirds empty and he couldn’t remember why he’d used such a large quantity. I knew, but he didn’t have a clue why I asked him about it, now believing Wooly was guilty of the murders of two young women. Given his mental condition, he’d likely blocked out the horrific events: self-induced, selective amnesia. I was also convinced he’d murdered Drac and written the note to himself while in an altered state of mind. Or that someone was setting him up for a hard fall. I knew which, of course, but I wasn’t about to tell just yet.

Big Jim Morgan was understandably upset with the police attention his carnival had been getting and urged every carny to report any relevant information to the cops. This was very bad for business and only invited more scrutiny of his performers and his sketchy operations. He relied on anonymity to grease the palms of the local authorities to make an honest buck. After Heidi Caruthers’s murder, attendance and gate receipts had fallen off. Big Jim couldn’t wait to jump to the next town and put all of this nastiness behind him. He rightly worried that his show could be embroiled in a scandal that might, just might, put him out of business. He’d worked too hard and long to let that happen. He was a pragmatic businessperson when it came down to the bottom line and his carnival’s financial viability. It was all about show business and not show art, as Big Jim liked to remind. I was the one who saved his carny from financial ruin, and Jim’s been indebted to me ever since. I was to be his savior and Wooly’s Judas.

* * * * * *

I contacted the DeKalb detectives and the Kokomo police after receiving Big Jim’s plea for cooperation. The two organizations had joined together to create a task force because of the strong similarities between the two murders and the belief that someone at the carnival was responsible. I didn’t enjoy the experience, but I knew it had to be done to prevent future murders. Wooly needed to be stopped before he could kill again. It was a moral duty as I saw it, and one I couldn’t shirk no matter how much it pained me. I had no choice but to report what I knew and believed about Wooly and his crimes.

My story to the cops was straightforward: Wooly was mentally unstable; he had a penchant for the macabre; he was at the sites of the two murders; he engaged in violent role-playing with his puppets; and he had a bottle of formic acid in his little trailer with a large portion of it unaccounted for. It was all circumstantial evidence, but sufficient for an arrest warrant. Wooly was placed under arrest and again questioned, but this time more vigorously. The poor schmuck didn’t bother to ask for a lawyer. It was a slam-dunk situation for the cops. After relentless badgering, Wooly broke down and confessed to what he’d done. He claimed he must have blocked out the events because he couldn’t remember any specifics of the acts. He acknowledged what the police already knew: he was one extremely sick pup who needed help. That was exactly my plan: to confuse the authorities.

I visited Wooly in jail once before he was extradited back to Illinois to face the charge of aggravated murder in the death of Alison. He was confused and not particularly lucid, which wasn’t surprising given the circumstances. He’d been put through the wringer by the cops, and it showed in his bloodshot eyes and haggard face. The phrase “deer in the headlights” came to mind when I looked at him. Wooly said he didn’t understand what was going on and simply wanted to go home to his children. I told him that wasn’t possible now and maybe never. The best he could hope for was a judgment of insanity, and I thought he had an excellent shot at avoiding the death penalty. Before I left, he asked if I would adopt his family and care for his children as he would. I readily agreed. It was the least I could do for my best friend and mentor. I wished him well. Right, sure. Wooly was no more savvy than his puppets.

* * * * * *

God, Wooly was such an easy mark to score and manipulate to my ends. Early on I pegged him as having a borderline personality disorder given his reclusive, almost paranoid behavior. He was emotionally unstable to begin with, and my plan was to push him over the edge into madness. Looking back, the strategy worked well and was much faster than I expected. I was the one who broke into Wooly’s camper and murdered Drac after learning from other carnies that he was Wooly’s favorite puppet. I wrote the cryptic note to ratchet up the pressure on him and to keep him off balance. I anonymously tipped the police about Wooly and me as people of interest. I stole the formic acid and used it for good purposes. Oh, by the way, I murdered the two young women and disfigured their faces. All in all, I’d done well, or so I thought. Wooly was simply a pawn in my scheme to avoid arrest: give them another suspect.

We sociopaths had no compunctions about killing because we lacked the so-called qualities of empathy and remorse. Pathological lying was another of our virtues. I didn’t hesitate to submit to a polygraph test when asked by the cops. I knew what the outcome would be ahead of time. I passed with flying colors, as the expression goes. Most importantly, I had successfully placed the blame for my crimes squarely on the shoulders of my good friend Wooly.

* * * * * *

I needed to quickly get out of DeKalb before the police discovered Alison’s body and put out a dragnet to snare suspects. Joining Big Jim Morgan’s Thrills & Chills Amusements was the perfect opportunity to escape. It had worked well, but I expected the cops might eventually be able to place me at the scene of the crime using some forensic mumbo jumbo. I needed a plausible scapegoat, and Wooly was the perfect candidate for the job. Alison was my second victim, having killed another young woman about a year before in Sycamore, Illinois, and been questioned by the cops and released for lack of evidence. I’d bashed her face in with a Louisville Slugger until it turned into a messy pulp. The ceaseless battering of her head finally dissipated my fury, and I felt normal again. It took the coroner about a week to identify her. I couldn’t take the chance they’d come after me again.

It was always my rage that got me into trouble. When it reached the boiling point, I had to release it by killing attractive, young women who reminded me of my mother. Oh, mommy dearest, what a miserable cunt you were! I didn’t even bother attending your funeral some years ago since I didn’t mourn your passing in the slightest. Good riddance to bad rubbish. As a bitch, you deserved to die a painful, horrible death. Thankfully, that happened as the cancer slowly ate away at your once-beautiful body. But it was your dark, cold soul that I so well remembered as a child.

My mom, Greta Larsen, was gorgeous, a classic Swedish woman with a petite body, blue eyes, and blonde hair. She was a looker, as the word was used back then. She was a slut, as the word is used now. She and my dad married straight out of high school, and I was born a year or so later. I was to be their only child. My father inherited the dairy farm from his parents. His life revolved around the cows. My mom’s life revolved around the randy farmhands. Thinking back, I wasn’t sure who sired me.

I remember it starting when I was about four years old, when I first witnessed her servicing the farmhands. My loving mother locked me in the bedroom closet while giving a quickie to one of the workers who lingered a while after lunch, while my dad and the other hands returned to the milking barn. I could hear grunting, moans, and disgusting exclamations from their rutting even when I held my hands over my ears. I could still hear them today in my mind. At first, I thought someone was hurting my mother, but later learned the truth of the matter. I was confused and conflicted about what was happening on the other side of the door. She’d forgotten the old door had a skeleton keyhole, and I watched her sexual escapades and cuckolding of my father. I came to learn my mom wasn’t being punished but rather pleasured by the man in bed with her. After each tryst, she would beat my butt with a wire coat hanger until it welted to remind me not to tell my father about our little secret. Her duplicity and fucking continued for another couple of years until I went to kindergarten, when she would no longer have a coconspirator or witness around to tattle on her. My dad was completely oblivious of her extracurricular activities, and just as well, because I think it would have killed him. He was truly in love with her. On the other hand, she was truly in love with young, stiff dicks, and there was no dearth of them on our farm.

As a result of the physical scars and emotional trauma as a child, I grew up to be a bona fide, over-the-top misogynist. I hated women, especially good-looking ones with yellow hair. My rage would wax and wane for reasons I didn’t understand. Something or someone acted as a trigger, and I’d boil over with irrepressible anger. It was then that I felt the urge, the need to kill and obliterate the faces of my victims. With practice, I was getting better at disfiguring and killing my mother. As she’d say over and over again about my homework, “Sven, practice makes perfect.” I didn’t plan to disappoint her and looked forward to my next adventure.

* * * * * *

Big Jim was very appreciative of my removing a bothersome thorn from his side: Wooly and the negative publicity for the carnival following his arrest. Ironically, the press coverage drew more patrons than it turned away. Always the showman, Jim built a new joint featuring Wooly and his murderous exploits as a serial killer of young women. It was a flashy, lurid display in every respect, and the rubes loved it. As for me, I was rewarded with taking over Wooly’s show. I’d gotten rather good with the puppets, although it would be a one-man show with Wooly gone. No matter, I was confident I could do it and do it well. Eventually, I’d have to hire and train an assistant, but there was no hurry.

I was no longer Golly, but back to Svengali, the Master of the Macabre and Puppeteer Extraordinaire! I moved Wooly’s operation to a larger, more prominent venue along the alley of freaks and geeks. The spot was next door to the anatomical wonder sideshow. Performers would do stunts such as “the man without a stomach” act, where a freak pulled in his gut until the backbone showed, or pulling themselves through a coat hanger or tennis racket, or other India Rubber Man tricks. It was a solid attraction, and I’d get the overflow of Lookie Loos for my joint.

* * * * * *

It was to be my first performance using Wooly’s children. I practiced by fitting a puppet over each hand to get a feel for them. I did get a feeling, a weird, tingling sensation each time I put them on. Perhaps some of Wooly’s karma or spirit or whatever remained. Regardless, I was happy to be finally working them.

The first and last performance of the day began well. I had a good-sized crowd in the tent and looked forward to the take. About halfway through my gig, it suddenly happened. It started with the tingling sensation, but quickly turned into something much more, to my amazement and shock. Instead of following my Hansel and Gretel script, the puppets moved of their own volition, repeatedly punching me hard in the face. I tried to remove them, but couldn’t since they had compressed their costume sleeves around both of my arms like long blood-pressure cuffs. They squeezed and squeezed some more until I lost all sensation between my wrists and elbows. They were vise-like grips on my forearms, and I couldn’t shake them loose. The puppets had extraordinary strength, and the more I fought them, the harder they squeezed until my blood pressure shot up and exploded through my brain. I died of a stroke on the spot. However, it wasn’t all shocking news since it turned out to be one hell of a curtain call. With Big Jim, it was always about the entertainment value of an act, and I’d put on a great show! For once, the suckers got their money’s worth and then some at Big Jim Morgan’s Thrills & Chills Amusements.

I relate this story from beyond yonder, from the seventh circle of Hell. I lived my life according to my upbringing, not only as an unrepentant sociopath but as a loving son. Wooly’s children believed in retribution, and they had now avenged their father’s honor. As a dutiful son, I’d done the same for my father.