Serial Killers Anonymous: a Twelve-Step Program

by Murderously Philly…

“Hi, my name is Ted” I say to everybody, “and I’m a serial killer.”

“Hi, Ted,” says everybody.

Everybody always says Hi.

Welcome to Serial Killers Anonymous, a twelve-step program for rippers, rapers, stabbers, stranglers, axe murderers, chainsaw enthusiasts, and just about every type person who ever murdered over and over again, and loved every minute of it. We meet every Wednesday night at 7PM down at Woodrow Wilson Elementary School.

“It’s been ten years since I serial killed.”

Everyone claps.

“Now, I know ten years sounds like a long time, and quite frankly, it is. For those of you who have been in the program for a while, you know exactly how hard it is not murdering someone. For those of you who are new here to the group, I wish I could tell you that it gets easier, but it doesn’t. It’s a daily struggle. One day at a time.

Everyone agrees.

“I was out on a date the other night with this girl I met from work. We work at the post office together and we see each other every day. Do you have any idea how hard it is not murdering someone you see every day?”

Everyone in the room nods in agreement.

“Do you have any idea how hard it is working at the post office, and not murdering people?”

There are plenty of postmen in the room, and they know exactly how I feel.

“I used to be a lawyer.”

There are no lawyers in the room.

Not only was I a lawyer, I even represented a serial killer once: myself. The only thing worse than a serial killer, is his lawyer.

“So, I take her to dinner and then the movies. Afterward, we go back to my place. We’re watching TV on the couch and she takes hold of my hand. Very romantic.”

My sponsor places his hand on my shoulder.

“Next thing you know, we’re necking. It’s getting hot and heavy, but all I can think of is strangling her.

“Suddenly I find my hand around her neck and it’s all I can do to contain myself. Then I stop, somehow, and I think: this woman has no idea how close she just came to being strangled to death. If I’m being honest, I know the only thing stopping me is my nosy neighbor, Mrs. Alvarez, and how she somehow knows everything that’s going on in the building. Getting rid of this girl’s dead body after I BTK her is going to be next to impossible, what with Mrs. Alvarez constantly lurking about. Sometimes I think the only thing stopping me from serial killing these days is that nosy old woman downstairs.

“I’ve considered strangling Mrs. Alvarez, but everyone knows that’s against the serial killer’s code, murdering the neighbor and all.”

My sponsor pats me on the back.

“Thank you, Ted, for sharing with us,” says group leader Kenneth. More than anyone in the group, Kenneth knows exactly what I’m talking about, having had his own issues with strangling young girls in the past.

Kenneth also knows what it’s like losing his livelihood, having to trade it in for just another job. Kenneth used to be a psychologist. Now, he works at a title company.

“What Ted just shared with us,” says Kenneth, “is what we’ve all been through at one time or another: the irrepressible urge to choke the life out of someone, chop off their head, make whoopee with their rotting corpse.”

“That’s nothing,” shouts out Jeffrey. Jeffrey is the cantankerous one of the group.

“Now-Now, Jeffrey,” says Kenneth.

“Don’t Now-Now me,” says Jeffery. “Last night I was at McDonald’s just enjoying my Quarter Pounder with Cheese when this young boy sits down next to me. I mean, all I was doing was having dinner and next thing I know I’m thinking about drilling a whole in this kid’s head. I’m fantasizing that my burger is his brain, and my fries are his fingers. Luckily, I had a Big Red soda to wash it all down with.”

“We know, Jeffrey,” says Kenneth. “But that’s why we’re all here, together, to help one another get through it. One day at a time, remember?”

“Oh, go fuck yourself, and fuck your one day at a time,” shouts out John. John’s had his own issues with raping young boys and murdering them. We’re all anonymous here, so I can’t tell you John’s real name. Suffice it to say, this clown has the same name as a famous western movie star, and likes dressing up like a clown.

John also suffers from another well-known affliction in serial killer circles known as Burialism. Burialism is the overwhelming urge to bury dead bodies after raping and murdering them.

John starts sobbing uncontrollably. Without having to say a word, everyone knows exactly what he’s going through and the group consoles him. Seems John has taken to stealing corpses from the county morgue where he works and burying them in empty plots at the pauper’s cemetery out on Route 45. Pathetic. Every serial killer knows, burying someone else’s booty is about as low as you can get. Frozen, not fresh. John has every right to be out of sorts.

“We feel for you, John,” says Kenneth, although Kenneth never bothered to bury or cover up any of his victims at all.

“Uh-hum,” I say, clearing my throat. “We were talking about me?”

“Yes, Ted,” says Kenneth. “Sorry.”

“So there I am on the couch with this lovely young thing from the post office. Do you have any idea how hard it is to find a lovely young thing who works at the post office? So there I am, knowing full well that I’ve hit the jackpot with quite possibly the only female postal employee who doesn’t look like Niecy Nash, and there’s nothing I can do about it. I picture all of you poor schlubs and all I can think about is: one day at a time; one day at a time; knowing full well that if someone from the post office suddenly disappears, it’s not going to raise even one eyebrow. Postal workers disappear all the time. What’s the big deal with chopping the mailman into tiny little bits, anyway?”

“Now, Ted,” says Kenneth, “let’s calm down. Take a deep breath.”

“Don’t pull any of that sympathetic, authoritative crap on me,” I say. “I invented the whole sympathy/authority ploy.”

“You tell ‘em, Ted” shouts Charlie.

“Now, Charlie,” says Kenneth. “Wait your turn.”

“Don’t patronize me,” Charlie tells Kenneth. “Who died and made you group leader?

“If anyone should be in charge here,” says Charlie, “it should be me. I’m the only one with any actual group-leadership experience.

“Hell, I used to have a whole crew of killers. I used to be God. I used to sell weed to Terry Melcher.”

“Sure, Charlie,” says Kenneth. “We all know. And you dropped acid with Dennis Wilson.”

“Oh yeah,” says Charlie. “Before you get uppity with me, how about I tell everyone how you went and broke the serial killers code.”

“Fuck you.”

“That’s right. Pretty boy here up and killed the neighbor. Two of them!”

“That’s enough, Charlie.”

“That’s why he’s not invited to the serial killers ball anymore.”

“I said, that’s enough!”

“Or what? You’ll call Steve? We all know that was just a scam.”

Kenneth starts turning red.

“And besides,” says Charlie, “from what I heard, you’re just a numbers guy anyway. No style at all. If we’re all being honest here, then why don’t you tell us about the last time you even decapitated anyone. Had sex with their dead corpse or ate their body parts.”

“Woo-hoo,” shouts Jeffrey.

“Now-Now, Charlie,” says Kenneth, “It isn’t all about style.”

“It’s not?” says Charlie. “Tell that to Gary, who spent God knows how much time plotting and planning, spreading his victims all over the Northwest so we could all watch the cops make fools of themselves. Or Dennis, who created his own brand just so other wanna-be serial killers couldn’t take credit for his work. It isn’t about style? Then tell me, Mr. Hollywood: what’s it all about?”

“It’s about accepting the things we cannot change,” says Kenneth. “It’s about having the courage and wisdom to admit that we are all powerless. It’s about giving over to God, completely.”

“Giving over to God?” says Charlie “I’ll tell you about giving over to God. I was God. I had my own group of disciples, and they did everything I said. They even killed for me. Now, if that ain’t God, I don’t know what is.”

“Oh, get off your high horse,” shouts Ed. Ed is really old and couldn’t serial kill anymore even if he wanted to. Ed is known for digging up corpses, and in his spare time likes to sew.

“What did you really do, anyway?” says Ed. “You got all those stupid kids to do all your killing for you. Have you ever even killed anyone yourself?”

“Ever killed anyone myself?” shouts Charlie. “I’ll show you ever even killed anyone myself” Charlie then lunges for Ed.

Next thing you know, the meeting room is a barroom brawl. John’s got a shovel, Jeffery’s sporting a drill, and Ed’s off in the corner knitting a sweater. It’s total mayhem.

All of a sudden the door bursts open and in walks this man. He’s just standing there. We all stop what we’re doing, wondering what he wants. Then, he opens his mouth and shouts, “Fuck, shit, pussy, cock.”

Everyone takes a deep breath and that’s when Kenneth says, “I’m sorry, sir. Turrets Anonymous is down the hall, room 146.”

“Thanks, asshole,” says the man, and he turns and leaves the room.

Next thing you know, we’re all laughing. But that’s just how it can get sometimes down here at Serial Killers Anonymous: a little out of control.

“Let’s all take five and break for a smoke,” says Kenneth.

Fucking cigarettes. I never used to smoke before I started coming here. Now, the damn things are going to be the death of me.

So we all head outside. Besides, there’s a new member to the group tonight, David. According to Ted, David has a problem with going around shooting people in their cars. Shooting people? How unoriginal can you be? Besides, I’m not so sure going around shooting people really qualifies someone as a serial killer.

But who am I to judge? Ours is not to judge, but to accept. Accept all comers. Accept all, except those goddamn Turrets fuckers down the hall. Have you ever been to a Turrets Anonymous meeting? It’s Goddamn hilarious. Fifteen or twenty people all sitting around swearing at one another. The problem with turrets fuckers is, however, that they’re all talk and no action.

Sometimes I go with my good friend Henry Lee, a rope and plastics guy, down to room 146 and watch the Turrets jerk-offs go at it. Besides, they always have the best coffee.

So I keep coming to the meetings, and working the program, all the time knowing that my addiction will never go away completely. One day at a time, right? Anyway, I’m excited about next week. Kenneth tells me Leonard and Charles are going to be here. Now, there’s two serial killers who really knew how to do it up right. They’ve always got the best stories to tell. Videos, too.

One day at a time, my friend. One day at a time.

Download our riveting tale…

T Philly Loyd loves fat chicks and cheap beer, though not necessarily in that order. Loyd has worked for Forbes and McGraw Hill, each time running for his life as if waking up from a nightmare. He dreams of one day moving to Hollywood and winning a Razzie. Loyd lives in Dumbass, Texas.