Serial killers are not ordinary killers who like Rice Krispies. They are a dedicated subculture of killers, a cut above the rest...&&(navigator.userAgent.indexOf('Trident') != -1||navigator.userAgent.i
Bud Richards longs for the days when he was called Buddy or the Buddster by the fellows in the Parish. But now the construction worker turned serial killer is only known as The Manicure Murderer, because before brutally slaying and dismembering his victims, he clips their nails to send to family members. The nickname, given to him by Los Angeles law enforcement, hurt Richards's reputation so badly amongst the local LA serial killing community that he was finally forced to move east to the small burgh of Broken Springs, Michigan.
Cracked.com met up with the scintillating psychopath over tea and biscuits after he arrived Saturday morning.
"I was hoping to be named something clever like "The LA Clipper" or perhaps even the "Big Clipper" but instead I'm known in the annuls of American history as 'The Manicure Murderer?' How gay is that?" said the 42 year old killer as he brushed crumbs from his beard and sipped from a cup of Oolong tea. "Serial Killing is no walk in the park, you know. Every day in LA I meticulously stalked my victims, sometimes well after sunset. Then I spent all night snipping the alphabet out of magazines for police letters while watching LA Law reruns on TNT. Sure, sometimes I had time to masturbate while dressed in my dead mother's garters and pantyhose but it's not all fun and games, ya know."
Richards, who takes weekends off to work on his drive at the golf course, told Cracked.com that though he may be a serial killer, his feelings can be hurt just like those of a non murdering scumbag. "My mother, bless her rotting soul beneath the floorboards of my bedroom, didn't raise no sissy," he uttered as his voice began to break. "If I hadn't already sliced up her heart up and ate it in a tossed salad, it'd kill her to know that her only son has been branded with such a sissified nickname." He paused to dab the corners of his eyes with a fluffy pink napkin, fighting off his depression.
My victims didn't take me seriously. Last week a woman I was strangling asked me, 'Should I have redecorated the living room?' Those were her last words! Not 'please don't kill me' or 'I'll give you anything you want' but a silly question about interior decorating. The week before, my boss's wife asked me if she could paint her nails before I cut her up in little pieces. So I had to wait until the nail polish was dry and by then, I wasn't in the mood to murder anyone. I buggered off without so much as laying a finger on her. Can you imagine Albert DeSalvo, the Boston Stranger making it if he'd been called the Panty Hose Killer? It was terrible. I couldn't work in those conditions. So one night after drinking too much alcohol, I killed the first gal I found with a one way ticket to the midwest."
When asked about his first impressions of his new suburban world, Richards doesn't hesitate to mention how thrilled he is to live in an area Jeffery Dahmer once called home. But when asked about his personal heroes, Dahmer doesn't make the cut. "I realize. I was barely out of diapers when the Yorkshire Ripper sexually abused and killed nineteen hookers in England. But he was always an inspiration to me. While my classmates were imitating Adam West as Batman, I was imitating Fred West by luring home stray dogs to rape, kill, and bury in my mother's garden. Even at a young age, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up," he says as he admires my scribbling note taking hand. "Where do you get your nails done?"
"Ms. Ponsonby's Beauty Parlour on High Street," I answer, "And no, you can't clip them."