The Baraboo Butcher Meets His Biggest Fan
Being a small part of your killing legacy is an honor, sir. A real honor.
Where am I? What is this place?
This overhead light is so bright — have I died and gone to heaven?
On second thought, I must still be alive. I can feel the thick plastic sheet crinkling beneath my naked body and taste the gag as it’s wrenched from my mouth.
It’s you, isn’t it?
Don’t try to deny it. I’d recognize that vacant stare anywhere. You’re the Baraboo Butcher!
And here I thought it was just a regular psychopath waiting with chloroform in the backseat of my car to drive me to the middle of the woods so no one could hear me scream. But all this time it was you!
I’m sure you hear this a lot, but I’m your biggest fan. I know all your victims. Vicki Goodman, 2019. Janelle Turbine, 2021. And can we talk about the blood spatter series you did with those triplets in 2024? Talk about transcendent!
Everyone knows you never let your victims live, and I am here for it. Being a small part of your killing legacy is an honor, sir. A real honor.
Oh! I see you’ve chosen to start with the pliers. I hope there’s enough trust between us now to admit I’m a bit disappointed.
Well, because you start everyone with the pliers. As your biggest fan, I was hoping for a more personalized touch.
Wow! There goes a toenail.
You’re probably wondering why I’m not screaming in pain. I’m actually embarrassed to tell you, and — can I be vulnerable with you right now? — I’m scared. Once I tell you my secret, it might change our dynamic forever. I just worry you’ll see me differently.
I have CIP.
Congenital Insensitivity to Pain.
I was born with it, and it means I’m incapable of feeling physical pain. It’s actually a very dangerous condition to live with. One time, I dropped a cast-iron skillet on my foot and didn’t realize it was broken for three days!
There goes the foot! My goodness, that’s a lot of blood. I won’t pretend I’m not bummed that you’re letting the blood gush onto the floor instead of using it to make murder art, but maybe that part comes later? I had hoped we could create it together.
I’m sensing some distress over my CIP reveal. I’d like to point out that if you had done a bit more research and personalized your strategy to my unique torture profile, you wouldn’t have encountered this problem.
I guess I can wave goodbye to my left hand, then! Ha, ha. Yeah, still nothing. Which I realize must be hugely disappointing for you, but that’s why I want to share all the things you could be doing to actually torture me.
For example, you could call me out of the blue without texting first and then leave me a voicemail.
You could put me into a password reset loop that never resets my password.
You could respond to my desire to purchase a single can of cat food by asking if I’m a rewards member, and when I say no, asking me if I’d like to become a rewards member, and when I say no, asking me if I want to sign up for marketing emails and what my phone number is and what my email is and what my ZIP Code is when all I am trying to do is EXCHANGE MONEY FOR GOODS.
Sorry. Sorry, I got worked up there. Feeling a little dizzy with the blood loss. Anyway, I hope this context informs your strategy for the rest of our time together. Maybe less chopping, more hidden email opt-out links, that sort of thing.
What?
It looks like you’re standing in the open doorway, but my vision and hearing are going in and out. Could you repeat what you just said?
You’re letting me go?!
But why?
This is completely unexpected. And unfair. Is there an appeals process?
Physically forcing me to leave won’t change the way I feel about us — we could have made something great together!
Don’t throw my hand and foot at me, sir! You could at least use those for your next sculpture or still-life painting. If you won’t keep me, at least keep my dismembered limbs.
Seriously? Slamming the door in my face like a psycho? That’s just rude.
I guess it’s true what they say — never meet your heroes.
