Wednesday, August 20, 2008
According to popular mythology, the birth of Jeebus brought forth the Magi, the venerable wise men who sought to bring gifts to what they believed would be their new messiah. Gifts intended to help him (gold) or to confuse him (frankincense and myrrh). I'm sure deeper meaning could be found if only I would take the time to research it, but frankly I'm not all that interested.
I would, however, like to mention an interesting parallel in my own life. Please don't take this to mean that I'm claiming to be the next messiah. (Though my father WAS a skilled carpenter.) No, I will make nary a claim to divinity. (Though George Clooney did symbolically eat of my flesh in quiet worship.) No, I am but a man. (Should you wish to donate to your new god, send me a message at fearmaster@omniphobic.com and I'll be happy to provide Paypal instructions.)
Ted Bundy was an American serial killer, rapist, and necrophile active in the 1970's, known for his impressive body count (estimated at around 36) and his ability to blend in with the population. He was noted as attractive but forgettable and was able to exploit this characteristic to full effect.
Intelligent, calculating and deceitful, Bundy managed to single-handedly leave a tumultuous wake of destruction and despair wherever he hunted. And hunt he did for several years across several states, even managing to escape from jail on two separate occasions.
On December 30, 1977, Bundy managed to escape from his cell in Glenwood Springs, Colorado, and board a plane for Chicago, Illinois before authorities even noticed he had gone missing. And it was after this escape that the parallels between Bundy and myself began.
Bundy boarded an Amtrak train in Chicago almost immediately and made his way to Ann Arbor, Michigan. Ann Arbor, a town suspiciously close to a place I've mentioned before. A little town I unaffectionately refer to as Stumblebum.
But Bundy was restless, and within days of arriving in Ann Arbor he stole a car which he drove to Atlanta, Georgia. Atlanta, a town I've mentioned before. It's suspiciously close to the "Sanctuary of Doom" that I call home.
But still, Bundy could not find whatever it was he was seeking, and so almost immediately boarded a bus headed for Tallahassee, Florida. Bundy stayed in Tallahassee just long enough to commit a couple of murders. (Hey, a guy has to engage in his hobbies from time to time, no matter how macabre.) He made his way across the state, stopping in Lake City to abduct and murder a final victim before arriving in Pensacola, Florida.
Pensacola. A town I have not mentioned before, but one of unique importance to me at that time of my life, as it was where baby E laid his sweet, evil head at night, tossing and turning from the endless nightmares and finding himself bereft of sleep. A little infant E whose most malevolent and vile acts to that point had been nothing more than defecating in his diapers and forcing his keepers to clean him.
And so it was in Pensacola, just a mere block or two from the refuge of little old me that Bundy was apprehended for the final time. The last time Bundy breathed free air was within stone's throw of my home. The last time he walked a free man was within walking distance of my front door.
So what does all this mean? Why have I brought up this tale at all?
Isn't it obvious?
Bundy was an ambassador of evil, destined for infamy in the annals of history, but yet he found reason to escape from prison in Colorado and seemed intent on finding something. He traveled to many of the places that E would eventually be, hoping beyond hope to catch sight of me, to see me, perchance to speak to me.
What was his intent? I can come up with two logical answers to that question.
He either:
A) Realized that his time was waning, that his ability to carry on with his heinous acts was drawing to a close and felt a relentless desire to pass along the torch to a new generation. To teach the arts of manipulation and murder to a bright eyed and fresh faced young E, so that he may blaze his own way into history.
B) Came bearing gifts, much like the Magi before him, offering tribute to "E who should not be named", so that he might endear himself to me, finding salvation and eternal life in my "Hingdom of Kevin"®.
Could this really be true? Was Ted Bundy hell bent on meeting yours truly? Was his cross country flight nothing more than a religious pilgrimage to seek out the self proclaimed messiah of darkness?
Let me put it this way: He wasn't the only one to make this pilgrimage. George Clooney himself sought out the unholy one and even partook in a solemn religious ceremony. Don't think for a second that his consumption of my hair was anything less than a "Eat of this hair for it is my flesh" cannibalistic ritual.
And in case you find these religious undertones silly, let me point out that I AM a recognized "man of the fucking cloth". That's right, my official title is Reverend. And I have the paperwork to prove it.
I think what we've all learned here is that if you're the type that likes to hedge your bets (i.e. worship Jesus and Mohammed and Gonesh, etc.), then you'd best start with the worshipping of E, because it's becoming plainly evident that I AM a god.
Or a godless heathen. I forget.
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6 comments:
Hmm, I think you may be misled on this one. You were only three years old at the time of his capture (and still crapping yourself?!). Mr. Bundy started his search in MI for a reason. That’s where I was born. Atlanta is where I would eventually reside (long before you). And Pensacola is where I lived at the time of his capture. His main object of desire was a blonde hair blue eyed female. Check and mate! Why in the world would he care about an infant E when he could have had a 9 year old L?! I’ll have to say that I was saddened in my college years to get my Weekly World News magazine (yes, I had to stay on top of alien abductions and the like) only to find a deceased Mr. Bundy on the cover. He was the centerfold in that issue with his newly shorn head and deep burn marks in his scalp. He had found me for the final time. I just wish I had saved that paper to hand down to baby E.
Interestingly enough, somewhere in my collection of ephemera, I DO have that particular issue. I also have something commemorating Dahmer's death.
If nothing else, my trading cards for the two of them went up in value substantially after they died.
You have it all wrong. It was Mark Harmon after you. Said he wanted to give you something called "The Deliberate Stranger".
That would make sense. Through all my years in band, I almost never oiled my trombone slide, causing it to rust.
Hence, I actually played a good deal of rusty trombone.
Did you ever learn how to play the brown note?
*Ba-Dum CHa*
e, E, eeeee! Shame on you for flaunting your ordination and casting it about as pearls before the infidel swine. Then to lower yourself to announcing your godhood and soliciting for worshipers... You never cease to amaze me at how low you will go for a little ass-kissing heathen adulation.
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