Ted Bundy was a rock star. He’s the only serial killer ever to escape prison; and he did it not just once, but twice. He’s also the only serial killer brave enough to wear a bowtie in public. Imagine, Ted Bundy free after all these years…

They let Ted Bundy out of jail the other day. You heard me right: THE Ted Bundy. I know, you thought he was deep fried long ago like so many pimento-stuffed corn dogs. That’s just what they wanted you to think. But if serial-killer movies have taught us anything, it’s that they don’t just go around offing prized assets like Ted Bundy. Didn’t you know Silence of the Lambs was modeled after Bundy himself?

According to law enforcement, Ted Bundy was dropped into the deep fryer like so many chocolate-covered jalapenos on January 24, 1989. Truth is, just like with Hannibal Lector in Silence of the Lambs, the FBI kept Bundy alive and well and living down in a dungeon somewhere for thirty years. Still don’t believe me? Bundy was interviewed extensively in the 1980s by FBI Agent John Douglas. Why? To help him track down the Green River Killer. Just like Hannibal Lector. And that was just the beginning of Bundy’s usefulness.

His insights were instrumental in solving cases and cracking open the skulls of some of the most infamous serial killers in American history. Like Richard Ramirez (the Night Stalker), and David Parker Ray (The Toy Box Killer). He even assisted on the Jeffery Dahmer case, although that one was a no-brainer.

For all his help, Bundy was allowed to live. That, and one scoop of ice cream every Saturday night. That’s all it took, really: one bowl of double fudge ice cream, with a cherry on top.

Why did the FBI put so much stock in Bundy’s brain? Because Ted Bundy was a rock star. He’s the only serial killer ever to escape prison; and he did it not just once, but twice. He’s also the only serial killer brave enough to wear a bowtie in public.

All this for doing nothing more than what the Mafia would call being a snitch. A rat. Helping the cops hunt down his fellow serial killers. If word ever got out about what he did, he could never show his face at the serial killers ball ever again.

But that’s all over now. Just like Hannibal Lector got used up and spit out in typical Hollywood fashion via the sequel, when the FBI was done with Ted Bundy, when he was too old to be of any use anymore, when he came down with Alzheimer’s and couldn’t remember a thing to save his life, they just tossed him out the back door like last week’s chicken teriyaki.

But was Bundy really losing his mind, or was it just his best scam ever, thirty years in the making?

That is why today, right now at this very moment, Ted Bundy is out and about and on the prowl again. A balding and half-hunched-over old fart by now, no one at the FBI considered him a threat anymore. What was he going to do, drop his depends and piss himself? Not hardly.

What the braniacs at Quantico did not know, however, was that even though he was old and wrinkly now, Theodore Robert Bundy was just as horrific and horny as ever. Sure, he may have lost a step since his glory days; but then again, moving fast was never his strong point. His strength had always been his cunning, and his ability to appear the wounded puppy while hunting down his victim at the same time.

So it only made sense that on this morning in particular, Ted Bundy was loitering around the UCLA campus in Westwood, just west of Beverly Hills. Bundy had always planned on going Hollywood, but after his escape from a Colorado jail in 1977 he had to get as far away as he could from the West Coast. That’s why he wound up in Florida. And besides, as far as hot chicks for murder go, Florida was just as good a place as any.

So there was Ted Bundy, old and gray and about as threatening-looking as a liverwurst sandwich. He no longer had his trademark Volkswagen Beetle. The actual car, the one he used to rape, murder, and ride around dozens of women back in the 1970s, was actually in the Smithsonian now. But anyway, the whole reason for using that make and model back then was because A, it was cheap, and B, it was the most popular car of its day. That VW Bug helped Bundy blend right in, and made it damn near impossible for law enforcement to pin him down him back in the 70s.

Today, VW Beetles are not so common, and way more expensive. Way out of Bundy’s price range. So he chose a Honda Accord instead. There are more Honda Accords on the road these days than any other car in America. Back in Bundy’s day, Honda was more famous for its motorcycles than its cars; but then again, a lot of things have changed since then, which Bundy was about to find out.

So there was old prune-skinned, peanut-shaped Ted Bundy trolling the campus of UCLA in Westwood one night, when what does he see but this pretty little thing walking all alone down by sorority row. Bundy wasn’t intimidated by sorority girls anymore, not after Tallahassee.

In the old days, Bundy would have walked right up to her and swung into action. He would have prepared for the evening like a Hollywood role, complete with costume and props. What he found out now was that no girl would talk to him in passing on the streets, and that the old rules no longer applied.

Not even pretending to be a cop worked anymore. Neither sympathy nor authority seemed to have any effect on today’s youth. So it was back to basics: donning a bow tie and scouting the bars again. God, he hatred hanging out in bars; but he still looked dashing in his bow tie.

Even though arm casts and badges were out, still that didn’t mean Bundy couldn’t cast himself in a role. He decided that tonight he would play the part of university professor: Law school professor, to be exact.

So he tried his luck with several young ladies, having no luck at all, that is, until he happened upon just the right pretty little thing: a Chi Omega, no less. Bundy loved Chi Omegas. They reminded him of Snow White and the Seven Dwarves, and a tune soon started playing in his head.

 

Chi-O, Chi-O

It’s off to death we go

I’m your Teddy bear

I’m your worst nightmare

Chi-O, Chi-O Chi-O Chi-O…

 

She was perfect. Pretty, with long hair parted down the middle. What were the odds, he thought? Especially these days.

“Hi,” he said. “My name is Ted.”

“I’m Diane,” said the girl.

Diane, thought Bundy. Perfect.

“So,” said Bundy, “what do you do, Diane?”

“I’m a student,” she said, flashing her Chi Omega t-shirt. To Bundy, she might as well have been flashing her breasts.

“Of course,” said Bundy.

“And you?” asked the girl. “You look so distinguished. You must be a professor of some kind.”

“That’s right,” said Bundy. “Law professor, to be exact.”

“Wow,” said the girl. “That’s really impressive.”

“Impressive?” said Bundy, and for just an instant he forgot all about separating her head from her body.

“Yeah,” said the girl. “I mean, someone as old and frail as you still able to work for a living. And teaching. I mean: Wow.”

Not only would he sever her head, he would cut off her lips too.

“You look so familiar,” said the girl. “What did you say your name was?”

“Ted.”

“Ted. Nope, doesn’t ring a bell. But I know I’ve seen you somewhere.”

Of course you’ve seen me somewhere, thought Bundy. There have been countless movies made about me. I raped, tortured, and murdered thirty women. You’re going to make thirty one.

They talked for what seemed like forever. More precisely, she talked; Bundy pretending to be listening. They talked about everything: Facebook, Twitter, Instagram. They even talked about Amazon. Netflix, too. Bundy had no idea what she was talking about; he only sat there imagining her in handcuffs, her head split wide open and her brains spilling out all over the place. She reminded him so much of his first girlfriend.

Unfortunately for Bundy, this chick had the bladder of a pachyderm. When she finally did go to the bathroom, that’s when he slipped a Ruffie in her drink. Now, it was just a matter of time. As he sat waiting for the drug to kick in, trying his best to tune her out as she blathered on and on, he thought back to that glorious time when he first got his start as a serial killer.

Those were the days, when stalking prospective victims was like being on safari. Not like the final days in Florida, when like a stumbling drunk or a degenerate gambler, he let himself go completely. In those early years, he really had his game on, tracking his pray for days, sometimes even weeks. In those early years, he dressed to kill, handsome and so professional-looking in his bow tie. Who would ever suspect a young law school student wearing a bow tie? Exactly.

He thought back to those early killings like most people do first dates: strangling his victims slowly like so many stolen kisses; returning to the scene of the crime, uncovering their dead naked bodies for so much sweet lovemaking; driving around with his victims’ heads in the car for countless moonlight drives. Just thinking about it made him sentimental, like a young schoolboy all over again.

What would he do to his new special lady tonight, he wondered? Why even think about it? Why spoil the whole thing by over-thinking it? Why not just let the whole evening take its course, like true love always does?

Watching the girl tonight as she took sip after sip, now beginning to slur and her eyes getting heavy, he remembered what he told Susan Rancourt way back when, that memorable night in the woods under the stars.

He remembered telling her how much he loved her. He remembered telling her how he was going to violate her cold dead body after he strangled the life out of her. He remembered telling her how he was going to skull fuck her for days even after she took her last breath. Oh, those were the days, when he took it slow and made the loving last, not like those final days in Florida when he went one after another bashing in their skulls like some drunken sailor. No, sir. Tonight would see a return to his Casanova days. He’d had thirty years to prepare for this night.

It took the girl awhile, but finally she had her head on the bar and the bartender was about to call her a taxi when Bundy told him she was with him. “Not to worry,” said Bundy, “I’ll make sure she’s taken care of.”

Next thing he knows, Bundy’s got this sweet little thing in his car and he’s cruising out of town just like in the good ole days. What sort of special night did Bundy have planned for his victim this time? The metal-rod intruder, like with Karen Sparks? Maybe. Or perhaps he’d give her what he amusingly referred to as “The Bufferin Treatment,” which is to separate her head from her body and relieve all hints of a headache, FOREVER, like with Lynda Ann Healy. Hmm. He couldn’t make up his mind. No matter. He was having such a good time just thinking about it; and anyway, he knew he would come up with something. He was, after all, the biggest genius in the whole world.

Finally, Bundy arrived at his destination overlooking LA in the Hollywood Hills. What a return performance he was going to put on tonight. He’d show them. He’d show them all. When it came to Oscar-worthy performances in the category of serial killing, there was no one like Theodore Robert Bundy.

Bundy dragged the girl’s limp body out of the car and propped her up next to a tree. As he was getting his BTK kit all together out of the trunk, he had to stop and laugh. Dennis Rader, my ass, he thought. Fucking copycat. Dennis Rader was a poor excuse for a serial killer. Serial killers don’t voluntarily give themselves up. Of course, they have to get caught in the end. How else would they get famous? But serious serial killers don’t stop murdering for twenty years then come back and just turn themselves in. And besides, Ted Bundy was the only serial killer ever to become famous, then escape from prison and get to start serial killing all over again. Damn, he was good.

So, by the time Bundy gets back to the girl with his little bag of goodies, she’s actually coming to.

“What’s going on?” she says, rubbing her eyes. “Where are we?”

“Just the most romantic spot in the whole world,” says Bundy.

“Who are you?” she asks.

“Don’t you, remember?” says Bundy. “I’m Ted.”

“Ted?”

“Yes. Ted, the man of your dreams. I’m the man who will love you last, and like no other you’ve ever loved before.

“Tonight,” says Bundy, “will be a night to remember.”

“What are you talking about?” says the girl. “And what did you give me?”

“Give you?” says Bundy. “Why, all I have to give you is true love itself.

Bundy ran his fingers through the girl’s long, soft hair, thinking how lovely she was, and how he was going to defile her beyond belief.

“So young,” says Bundy. “So starry-eyed. So innocent.”

“Innocent, my ass,” says the girl, now really coming to. “You think this is the first time I’ve been Ruffied?”

What was she talking about, thought Bundy?

“You think this is the first time some jerk off’s tried to date rape me?”

Oh my, thought Bundy. Such language. How un-ladylike.

“You’re going to have to do better than this if you’re going to get into my pants.”

Again with the language, thought Bundy. No, no; this wouldn’t do. Better tie her up, gag her, and get started with a good strangling. That would teach her. Nothing whips them back into shape like the onset of a good strangling. Something. Anything to get her to stop with that potty mouth. He just couldn’t take any more of her foul mouth. She was ruining the whole experience. And besides, call him old-fashioned if you will, but Ted Bundy just wasn’t that kind of guy.

Bundy quickly got out the rope and set to tying her up. He would soon have her begging and pleading for her life, just like Georgann Hawkins. Unfortunately, this 21^st century girl had never heard of Georgann Hawkins.

“WTF do you think you’re going to do with that?” said the girl, whipping out her cell phone and checking quickly to see if she had any text messages.

“Now Now, young lady,” said Ted. “Uncle Teddy is going to make everything all right.”

“Uncle Teddy?” said the girl. “What are you, some kind of perv?

“Now Now, young lady,” said Ted.

“Don’t Now-Now me,” said the girl. “And besides, you’re not my uncle. My uncle’s name is Al, and he’s not some wrinkly old fart like you. He’s already had his, and he didn’t need any rope to get it either. Just a dose of Viagra.”

Viagra, thought Bundy. What’s Viagra?

“And by the way,” said the girl. “If you’re going to date rape someone, you’re going to have to use REAL Roofies, not that weak generic crap. If you want to get some action, you’re going to have to pay for the real thing. What are you, some kind of cheapskate?”

Bundy was totally confused. His head was spinning. Enough was enough, he thought; and he went in for the kill.

Instead of allowing this wrinkly old fart to tie her up, however, the girl decided instead to stand up.

“Please,” said Bundy, “this will all go much easier if you just let it happen.”

“What?” said the girl.

“Just be a good little girl and do as you’re told, kiddo”

“Kiddo?” she said. “I’ll show you Kiddo. You’re not going to impose your sexist, chauvinist, abusive, racist, predatory, Harvey Weinstein, white male privilege on me.”

“Sexist and chauvinist are the same thing,” said Bundy.

“All right,” said the girl. “That’s it.”

Next thing you know, this sweet little sorority girl from UCLA in Westwood is going Beatrix Kiddo on old Ted Bundy. All of a sudden, it’s the clash of the titans, like in the 70s comic book, Muhammad Ali Vs. Superman. Only, in this scenario Bundy isn’t young Cassius Clay, or even Rumble-in-the-Jungle Ali. In this case, he’s more like sad old Parkinson’s Ali.

What went down next was a hard pill to swallow for all you serial killer fans out there. Especially those of you who love the classics. It was like watching Ali get beaten by Larry Holmes. Trevor Berbick, even. Beatrix Kiddo, for lack of a more contemporary movie character, was really letting him have it.

The girl proceeded to beat poor old Ted Bundy within an inch of his life. In true 21^st-century, female-empowerment, Me Too fashion, she karate-chopped weak old, defenseless Ted Bundy, round-housed him, head-butted him, even broke his arm. Stupid poetic justice.

In fact, the only thing that stopped her from lifting him up over head and heaving him over the side of the Hollywood Hills was that she felt sorry for him: poor decrepit old man. That, and that all of sudden she thought she recognized him.

“Wait a second,” she said, dropping him on his back and taking a long look at him on the ground.

“You look just like—” she said, searching images on her phone. “Ted Bundy. Feeble and grey and all dried up, but Ted Bundy just the same.”

“In the flesh.”

“But it can’t be,” said the girl. “They Krispy Kremed your ass like a hundred years ago.”

“Thirty, to be exact,” said Bundy. “Thirty years ago.”

“That’s right,” said the girl. “You’re Ted Bundy. Old and wrinkly and pathetic now; but you’re Ted Bundy.”

“Thank you for the invectives,” said Bundy.

“OMG,” said the girl. “I can’t believe I almost got date-raped and serial-killed by Ted Bundy. THE Ted Bundy. No one’s going to believe me.”

“I’m sorry to ruin your night,” said Bundy.

“Wait,” said the girl. “I know.”

She then proceeded to prop Bundy’s battered body up against the tree and take a selfie of herself with him. Not just one, but a whole series of them, in every type pose imaginable. Bundy obliged, not that he could do anything about it, all beat up and broken like some old department store mannequin.

“Thanks a lot, man,” said the girl, just before commandeering Bundy’s car.

“You going to just leave me here?” said Bundy.

“Someone else will come along,” said the girl. “You can try and serial kill them. Steal their car. You know, like in the old days.”

Bundy was offended. He was no lowlife car thief; although, he hated to admit, he had stolen a car or two in his day.

She then proceeded to speed away. She had to get back to her sorority house. They were never going to believe what just happened to her.

Bundy slowly got up and began licking his wounds. What a night. A night for him, unfortunately, that had just begun. Boy, had the world changed in the last thirty years.

He assessed his situation, realizing he wasn’t in any condition to try any more serial killing tonight. Besides, he needed all his energy. He wasn’t a young man anymore, and it was going to be a long walk back to LA. Maybe he could hitch a ride, he thought, if he was lucky. If he was lucky.

 

The Ted Bundy Serial-Killing Blues is part of the collection, Jelly Donut Flavored Edibles Panties, available at Amazon.com.

See more great T Philly titles at Amazon.com.

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