Pogo

I've had… a hard life. 
I was born in Chicago to a loving family. Well, almost. I wasn't universally hated or given indifference by the entire household, only my father. He was a bloody drunk. Calling him abusive is an understatement in general, it didn't matter who it was, my mother, my sister, and especially me. I don't recall why he was particularly disdainful of me, but I try not to think about it. His verbal assaults were the least of my worries. In fact, my earliest childhood memory was him beating me unconscious with his belt for disturbing some sprawled out components of a car engine. I was only four.
I shit you not. 
You kind of get used to this, but it never stopped hurting. When I was nine, I was molested. He was a good family friend, drove a nice big truck he used for work. He often gave me rides as a matter of fact.
I had a pretty severe heart condition. I couldn't play any sports, no matter how I longed to. This definitely didn't give my classmates and neighbors a reason to lay off. It didn't help I was overweight. Even through all of this, I was a good kid, any teacher could vouch for that. Around the fourth grade I started suffering blackouts. Soon followed the seizures, for most of which I needed to be hospitalized. Then my appendix burst. By the time I was eighteen, I had spent over a year and a half in the hospital. And yet, despite all of this, my father, before my mother, sister, and any worker in the immediate area, pointed at me and accused me of baiting for sympathy. And they all watched, and did nothing. I at the very least never blamed my family, I knew why they stood idly by.
So, life went on. The sun rose, the sun set, I went to school and came home to a shitstorm, people were born, people died. I joined the Democrats, and one can only imagine how my father reacted. Bastard didn't even allow me to keep the car keys when I failed to live up to his spontaneous and never stated expectations. My only love came from the corpses I oversaw while I worked in the mortuary. My only current memory of my father's well being was allowing me to come back home after all those years. I hadn't even finished high school when I entered college. I finally did find love, and wed many years later. I joined the local Jaycees, and unfortunately took part in their seedy and clandestine activities.
I turned to other activities. Children mostly. The things I did… in my mind at least, bring me a strange sense of delight. I remember Donald. Oh, Donald was a special one. We had a fun time. A real fun time. Drunk or not, he was incredible. I got ten years for that. And I never saw my wife and kid again.
The State Penitentiary wasn't that bad, now that I think about it. Dare I say it was enjoyable. It was as if I was a schoolchild again. I got my inmates' pay increased, I helped improve conditions, they even let me build a mini golf course. And for a while, it felt good.
Then came Christmas.
My father, that bastardized piece of crap finally gave out. Cirrhosis they said, honestly it was a no-brainer. And yet, I wasn't joyous. I felt… empty. Destroyed, emotionally traumatized. How? My father was a drunk buffoon, the world was done a service with his death, so why did I feel so crushed? I don't remember what happened next, I'm told I collapsed sobbing and babbling incoherently. I was quite literally dragged away from the location of my fit. I asked to be granted temporary leave to attend his funeral.
I was denied.
After just eighteen months imprisoned I was granted one year parole. I vowed I would not go back again. I was a new man, I moved in with my mother and I got menial work.
I did it again less then a year later. Just like Donny, a teenager. I got him in my car at least. I wasn't convicted since he never bothered to show up for the trial.
It's odd, I feel that in my mind I knew there was something wrong with me, but I guess I just didn't care. I… needed more.
I got remarried a while later. Less than a week after the wedding, I raped a guy. I got off scot-free when he tried to blackmail me. I was even impersonating an officer. I'll never learn I guess.
A while after the wife and I moved to Iowa, I got a nice paying job at a contracting firm. A worker and I headed up to a beach property to assess it. I raped him too. He followed me back though. Tried to kill me. Came pretty close too! Through all that I just laughed. I don't know why, it just makes me laugh. No one was any the wiser, everyone saw me as a gracious and well-mannered member of society. Even my wife was in the dark.
I later joined the local Moose Club. Through them, I found another call. As a clown. I had a cute little name, something I guess the kids enjoyed as well. I find it funny, it's a parent's worse nightmare to have someone like me as a clown at their child's party. I wasn't just a birthday performer either. I participated in multiple events in the community, especially charities. I like to watch people I guess.
Mother's Day came around, and I had a surprise for my wife.
After we were finished I informed her of my… preferences, and that this act would be the last we would share. After that, I guess I went a bit more… blatant. I started bringing boys, not just men, boys, into the garage. My wife began finding… things. Really naughty things. Thinking of this brings a wide smile to my face. We divorced soon after.
Finally, I came to the part of my life where I found… it.
Eventually, I came across Timmy. He was just a regular guy trying to get to Omaha. I took him through the city. I drove him to my house with the promise he could stay the night. He accepted, and all was good. To be honest, I don't remember if I was planning anything.
I awoke the next morning with a jolt to find him standing in the doorway toting a kitchen knife. I jumped up and tried to pounce, and he threw his arms up. The knife cut me near the wrist. In retrospect, I realize this was not his intent. I banged his head on the wall, and with a great force he slammed his foot into my gut, but I managed to topple him yet. I plunged it down into his chest, and something strange occurred. A gripping, but undeniable feeling slowly overtook me.
It felt good.
I took the knife again
Stab.
Gripped the blade once more.
Stab.
Plunged the blood drenched weapon right back into his chest.
STAB!
And then… release.
It wasn't long before I killed again. Most of them are down there with him, in the crawl space. I really should find another place to store these corpses, but I'd hate to abandon my friends just yet.
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Looking back on that night, I still find one lingering thought as funny as I did then.
After I was finished with him and I descended the stairs, I found something. Something I actually have come to thank, for revealing to me the ultimate thrill. I found an open carton of eggs and a thick slab of unsliced bacon. With it, a table set for two. Timmy was just coming up to say breakfast was ready.
----
On January 2nd, 1972, fifteen-year-old Timothy Jack McCoy was last seen alive entering the car of a stranger. Timothy was stabbed to death in the home of the driver of that car. It was a misunderstanding, and indeed happened as this pasta described. And unfortunately, the man who killed him did in fact go on to kill many more men and boys and bury them in his crawlspace. This man was abused as a child, this man was molested at nine, this man did suffer from childhood obesity, seizures, and appendicitis all with an overbearing alcoholic father. And this man was convicted for indecent activities with children. That man's name?
John Wayne Gacy.
Or as the community knew him, Pogo the Clown.
Category:Reality
Category:Dismemberment
Category:Disappearances
Category:Mental Illness