- Robert Bloch, American novelist, author of Psycho
As I removed the movie theater's lobby decorations, the manager again thanked me for the loan of my spooky stuff. "For the third year running, we've won first place in the Mall's Halloween contest! We're number ONE!" Jimmy giggled. "I love kicking the competitions' asses, especially when I didn't have to do any of the work."
Actually, my 'plastic' human bones appeared real because they were. I didn't tell Jimmy that, of course. It might have bothered him that I had used real human remains as decorations. People can be strangely squeamish about such things.
How did I obtain three human skeletons? You see, I live in a large mobile home park...
If you are seeking a psycho serial killer in a major metropolis, look towards nondescript apartment buildings. You know the type of tenant I mean. Just ask the neighbors "He was such a quiet boy, always keeping to himself." "Polite, he never said anything rude or objectionable." "Oh, he had those strange eyes but he dressed well and never made a fuss." Of course he never bothered the other tenants. He was too busy pureeing transients in his food processor. Crazed maniacs prefer to be the last person you'd expect to be loony. They make great neighbors. They never mess with people in their area and they help keep burglaries down. Thieves that break into a lunatic's home don't leave in the normal mode. They go through the meat grinder first. When a burglar is turned into luncheon loaf, the phrase "Take a bite out of crime" takes on an entirely different meaning.
Joplin, Missouri is not a major metropolitan area. So what are rural towns' equivalences to brownstone apartments? Right, those great aluminum tornado magnets, mobile home parks. And the park in which I reside is next to a deep dark forest. Figuring in that added plus, I guessed that there was a 75% probability that one of my neighbors was a homicidal maniac.
Those odds dramatically increased when, while mowing the lawn, I spotted a dog gnawing on human ulna and radius bones.
Having studied anatomy for my degree in fine art, I knew that I was looking at the lower half of a man's arm. The fact that the rotting hand was still attached only supported my theory. (Its pinkie ring wasn't much. I only got twenty bucks for it at the pawn shop.) Discovering the three bodies was a snap. I just grabbed my shovel and sack and followed the dog. In a clearing under an old black walnut tree, I found their bones. Scavenging wild animals had partly dug them up and picked them clean. After filling my sack, I toddled on home to soak them in a tub of bleach in my backyard. (By that time, the dog had finished with the arm. I got the bones away from Rover by bribing him with an open can of cold chili.) After six weeks in the chemicals and bright sunlight, the bones were whiter than white and didn't smell like Death's aftershave anymore.
I'll explain about my unique collection at another time. Suffice to say, the skeletons added that perfect touch.
In mid November, there was quite a hubbub at the mobile home park. It seems that three hooligans had been extorting various home owners in these parts. If you didn't purchase their special brand of insurance, your house would burn down, guaranteed. One by one, those felons disappeared. The police then zeroed in on a quiet fellow in my trailer park just because he had extensive psychiatric therapy in the military. I'm not exactly sure of the proper classification of his problem but, in a nutshell, if you threatened or assaulted him, he'd get you. (The rumor about the gentleman's abusive drill sergeant found tangled up in tank treads was probably true.)
That, coincidentally, was and still is the mindset of most of my trailer park's denizens... as well as the bulk of the people who reside in the Ozarks. We here in Missouri don't believe in spending huge amounts of money on fancy lawyers. Shotgun shells are so much cheaper and there are never appeals.
I considered the disposal of the three arsonists to be a public service but local lawmen didn't see it that way. The sheriff's deputies weren't very nice to my neighbor because, as they were getting a confession, he somehow got a black eye and swollen lip. (It's amazing how brave some people are when their victim is handcuffed and tied to a chair.) Then the deputies traipsed out to the old black walnut tree, dragging their suspect behind them. Surprise, surprise! No body home! I wonder who was the most surprised?
The results? The two deputies got fired for coercing a bogus confession. The married one fled to another state while the single guy just vanished one day. For a while my fellow mobile home park inhabitant wasted his money on a therapist but now he has thrown himself into his new at-home business. My knives have never been sharper. It pays to deal with a professional.
Things couldn't be more peaceful around here. Local villains consider this place to be the Bermuda Triangle of crime and avoid it like the plague. Oh, there was that incident last week concerning the Missouri Highway Patrol seeking an escaped con. When the officers found the escapee's truck at the edge of this trailer park, they quietly closed their investigation. They're no fools.
Hey, am I a good neighbor or what? Everyone in the park has never felt safer. Of course, at the forthcoming annual Thanksgiving potluck dinner, I think I'll skip one gentleman's meat pies. I've heard of Sweeny Todd...
