Are You A Grave Robber With A Degree?

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The Downfall Of A Psychotic Serial Killer

Sentencing Goes Through On Convicted Serial Killer, Blood Oaths Sworn

Calgary (CP). It has been called the Trial Of The Century, often attached to cases that might not well deserve it. To the frustration of the American media, filming is not allowed in Canadian courts, which perhaps made the proceedings inside the court somewhat more dignified than, say… the OJ Simpson trial. And yet it was filled with the drama and intrigue of a high stakes legal battle. A serial killer stands convicted of multiple murders and desecration of bodies, and connected to thousands of more murders around the world. Now the case is at an end, with a sentence handed out against the convicted murderer, the famed mystery novelist Jessica Fletcher. Otherwise known as the most prolific serial killer in history.

It is not a common thing in Canadian justice for consecutive sentences to be handed out, but it is not unheard of either. Fletcher stood up in court with her defense attorney, Joni Mitchell (not the singer) at her side). Among those gathered in the public area were a multitude of press, Fletcher’s dimwitted nephew Grady Fletcher, and the legendary lawman who brought her crimes to an end, RCMP Inspector Lars Ulrich. Fletcher had seen the Inspector upon being brought in, said nothing, but fixed a death glare upon him.

The proceedings commenced with the judge asking Fletcher if she had anything to say before sentencing. Fletcher spent thirty minutes in a quiet but seething below the surface voice, vowing that she would escape, that she would have her revenge upon everyone who had put her here today, that she would sacrifice them all to the Great Old One, Cthulhu. She singled out Ulrich in particular, vowing that she would make his suffering a particular agony. “I will shred his nerves from ends to brain stem, flay him alive, and feast on his entrails and his heart.” This particular threat elicited little more than an eye roll from the Inspector.

After the thirty minute threat was brought to an end, the judge announced his decision in sentencing. Fletcher was sentenced to twenty life terms, to be served consecutively. In effect, she will die in prison. Fletcher replied that she would see to it that his agony would be particularly brutal and would show him no mercy. The judge ordered her removed from court. She was taken into custody by police, turned briefly and made eye contact with Ulrich, who smirked. “I’ll eat your heart with nutmeg, Ulrich! Do you hear me? With nutmeg!” With that, she was removed from court, brought to a prison east of the city, and placed into maximum security, solitary confinement for the remainder of her sentence, deprived of even the opportunity to murder a cellmate.

In the wake of the sentencing, Grady Fletcher faced the press outside the courthouse. A multitude of Jessica Fletcher fans looked on, devastated by the downfall of their idol. “I just don’t understand. Aunt Jessica… this can’t be. She was always the nicest, kindest person you could have ever known. This has to be a conspiracy. It has to be. Or this is a nightmare and I’m going to wake up and it’ll all be different. Quick, someone pinch me.” Reporters filed away, not seeing much point in trying to reason with a dimwit. Fletcher fans sobbed and wept.

Joni Mitchell left court and was intercepted by reporters. First they reassured her that they knew full well she was not the folk singer, given that she looked nothing like her, and that she was much younger. Then they asked for comment, asking if she would be filing an appeal of the verdict. “To what end?” she asked, weary. “Whatever else I can say about this case, it was run in a professional manner. I see no grounds for an appeal. I will only say at this time that even the worst of us deserves a vigorous defense against criminal charges. And that batshit crazy old battleaxe counts as the worst of us.”

It was at this point that Ulrich came out. He saw the reporters, got that familiar look of exasperation on his face, and approached with hesitation. The reporters reassured him that they knew full well he was not that Lars Ulrich and asked for his own comment.  “Justice is done. She’s spending her remaining days behind bars. I couldn’t be happier.” He said this with a facial expression that suggested anything but happiness, but then again, Lars Ulrich’s standard facial expression is grumpiness.

When asked about the multiple and graphic threats Fletcher had made against him throughout the legal proceedings, Ulrich shrugged. “Ladies and gentlemen, please. I’ve taken down megalomaniacs and monsters. I’ve made titans cry. I won’t dispute that Jessica Fletcher is dangerous. But comparatively speaking? I can sleep soundly at night knowing that her threats are empty. Her day is done.”

A voice called out from the back of the crowd. “Lars! Joni!” The reporters started to make way as a vacant eyed man with an Access Hollywood cameraman following cut through. “Cooper Collins, Access Hollywood. Can I get your comment on the rumour that’s out there that Metallica is doing a crossover album with Joni?”

Ulrich and Mitchell glared at him. Then they glanced at each other. Then they glared back at Collins. “I am not that Lars Ulrich,” Ulrich said in a low, menacing voice. Legitimate reporters started backing off, knowing what was coming.

“And I am not that Joni Mitchell,” Mitchell stated.

Collins looked confused, a common problem for entertainment reporters. “Are you sure?"

With that, both Ulrich and Mitchell hit him in the face at the same time, sending him falling backwards. What followed was a beating that put Collins in the hospital in a body cast, muttering endlessly about folk-metal hybrid rage. Mitchell took her leave of the courthouse. Ulrich was called back to duty, as the Kraken had been sighted outside of Calgary. Within ten minutes of the inspector making contact, the Kraken was a fallen foe, rendered unconscious by a victorious Mountie.

The last word belongs to a Great Old One. Once thought to be the fictional creation of H.P. Lovecraft, it turned out that Cthulhu is real, living these days deep beneath the surface of a remote island somewhere in the Pacific. But the gigantic monstrosity, capable of entering the dreams of man and imposing its will on them, does have FaceTime. Speaking through a translation program, Cthulhu made a statement to this reporter. “Look, I want to disavow any notion that Jessica Fletcher is an acolyte of mine. I know batshit crazy, okay? And she’s batshit crazy. She wants to go on and on about sacrificing people to me, well, that’s on her. Lots of crazy people have tried using my name to justify their acts.”

He paused for a moment before carrying on. “As for Lars Ulrich… just ask him to leave me alone. He kicked my gargantuan ass once, and once is plenty enough, thank you very much. That guy scares the hell out of me.”

Cancer Widows And Scamming Bankers

It's been awhile since last I posted, and it may be awhile longer yet until another post. But I thought I'd share a couple of the following. They are of course two examples of the standard internet scammer emails that turn up in junk email folders, never to be taken seriously. They're the same messages sent out to a half million or so random email addresses in the hopes that some dumbass sucker will believe it and send off a few thousand bucks in administration fees before realizing that they got conned by a con man. As such, they're only good for being the subject of ridicule and scorn. 

God will bless you as you fulfilled my wish

My name is Mrs Joy Smith Johnson, I am a dying woman who had decided

to donate what I have to the Charities. I am 77 years old and was

diagnosed for cancer about four years ago, immediately after the death

of my husband; I have been touched to donate from what I have

inherited from my late husband for the good work rather than allow his

 relatives to use my husband's hard earned fund.

As I lay on my sick bed, I want you to help me in carrying out my last

wish on earth which will be very profitable to you. I want to WILL a

total sum of $5.5 million USD to you which I want you to distribute

part of it to any charity home for me and the rest for yourself and

your family which I will inform you on how to share all, please for

further information contact me ASAP.

Best Regards,

Mrs Joy Smith Johnson

ALEXANDER NONDH LANGFELDT

Head of International Transaction Banking

2nd Floor. 3000 Phahonyothin Road,

Chom Phon Sub-district,

Chatuchak District,Bangkok Province 10900

Attention: BENEFICIARY

Your inheritance funds of $32.6m this is to notify you that your over due inheritance funds has been gazetted to be released, via key telex transfer (ktt)-direct wire transfer to you by the senate committee for foreign overdue fund transfer.

Meanwhile, a woman came to my office few days ago with a letter, claiming to be your true representative. Here are her information:

Name BINGELLIGELLI PETERMANN

Bank name:ANZ

Account number:113388520034

Please do reconfirm to this office, as a matter of urgency if this woman is from you so the bank Will not be held responsible for paying into the wrong account name.

The reserve bank governor, executive, board of directors and the committee for foreign over due inheritance fund have approved and accredited this reputable bank with the office of the director, international Remittance / foreign operations, to handle and transfer all foreign inheritance funds this second quarter payment of the year.

However, we shall proceed to issue all payments details to the said Mrs.Petermann if we do not hear from you within the next seven working days from today.

You should forward all your information

1 Your full name and address

2 Your phone and fax number

3 Your state id

Best regards,

ALEXANDER NONDH LANGFELDT

Head of International Transaction

2nd Floor. 3000 Phahonyothin Road,

Chom Phon Sub-district, Banking

Chatuchak District,Bangkok Province 10900

The first presents us with the usual sob story- the cancer ridden widow who has a whole lot of money she wants to will (no, WILL, because all capitals means she means business) to a complete stranger to hand off to distribute part of it to charity houses and keep the rest. She uses the standard pious godly routine, the standard screwing up of punctuation, the standard capitalization of words that don't need to be capitalized. She claims she was diagnosed "about four years ago, immediately after the death of my husband." About? Really? You'd think the death of your totally fake husband and being diagnosed with terminal cancer would fix that in your mind, so you'd be saying, four years and two months ago, as opposed to about. 

But no, there's no Mrs. Joy Smith Johnson. Because she doesn't exist. Well, I imagine there are Joy Smith Johnsons out there in the world, they're just not spending their days passing themselves off as 77 year old cancer victim widows with money to hand out to strangers. Just that this Joy Smith Johnson doesn't exist. Because she's as fake as the rest of the message. Which was sent by someone at the far end of a long daisy chain of cut-out emails who's sent the same damned message to hundreds of thousands of other people.

And then there's Alexander Nondh Langfeldt. Or whatever the hell his real name is, because there's no way that belong to a real person. He claims to be head of international transaction banking of a bank in Thailand (while not mentioning the actual bank itself). You'd think that an actual person of that sort of responsibility and job would have a reasonable command of the English language, but instead he screws up wording, phrasing, punctuation, capitalization, and common sense throughout his rambling text.

He throws out a name of a woman claiming to be my representative, with a first name and a last name that have absolutely no common tie, culturally speaking. And he claims there's thirty two million dollars of an inheritance for me. This despite the fact that I don't have any rich dead relatives that would be sending out that kind of money to me.

It's also telling that he wants details out of me: my name, address, phone and fax number (who the hell has a fax in this day and age?) and state ID.You'd think that an actual banker (which he is not) would already have that information in hand). Oh, sure, and the next step will be personal bank account numbers. 

Okay then. I'll give you my bank account number.

It's actually not a number at all, but a phrase.

FUCK YOU, ASSHOLE

And the password is 

DROP DEAD.

Somewhere out there a spammer will try entering those two phrases into their bank account searches, thinking I'm serious. No, I am not. But the sentiment is legitimate. That's the amount of regard I have for spammers and internet scammers. 

I want you to drop dead. Not next week, not in a year. Right now. Cease your wasting of oxygen. This applies to cancer widows, fake bankers, the concubines of deposed warlords, and the idiots sending the exact same barely literate spam comments over and over again. To them I can only say these final words.

None of you will ever do the world any good until you are no longer in it. Remedy that as swiftly as possible.

The Horrors Of The Basement

I have an image blog today. Enjoy!