Serial Killer

The basic definition of the classic/modern serial killer, from bored teens doing drive-bys to batshit-insane adult psychopaths.&&(navigator.userAgent.indexOf('Trident') != -1||navigator.userAgent.index

Surprise! I'm eating a part of your spinal column!

Just The Facts

  1. A serial killer's favorite hobby is murder. Other hobbies include lamb raising and avocado farming. (I'm talking to you, Jason Mraz.)
  2. "Murder" backwards is "red rum."
  3. Just because your next door neighbor has a limitless amount of butchering tools and has screams coming from his house at night doesn't mean he kills people. He could just be a 17-year-old hipster.

Small-Time Killers (Teen Gangstas and Other Amateur Killers)

Alright, be honest, you self-absorbed anarchist assholes: when you were a smart-aleck of a teen, and you went out for a joyride in your parents nice, shiny new car, did you ever look out of the window at some fat rich bastard and think to yourself, "Hey, fuck my rugged small-town charm and chiseled good looks; I'm gonna be the Robin Hood of life and death."

"That ni**a is so askin' for it."

And then, all of a sudden, you reach in your Republican dad's glove compartment and take out his "Negro-firing" gun. You slow down, just a little, not enough to really get noticed, and then take a strike at that fat dude's heart.

Or... wherever, really.

The fat, rich guy falls on his shot appendage and is dead within seconds - or however long it takes for a bullet to get through all of his golden, golden fat. You're smiling with the triumph of knowing that you killed a dude, that you can now pester the bartender before he kicks your underage ass out that you finally killed a full-grown man.

Nice try, Lydia.

A few hours later, you've gone on a bloodthirsty rampage and have killed every fat guy with a hefty wallet to match within a five-block radius. YEAH, you sure are beating the hell out of a lame-assed city kid lifestyle now, huh? You are totally like the Robin Hood of life and death now, you son-of-a-bitch!

Oh... Wait, didn't Robin Hood steal money from the rich and give to the poor? All you've done is kill a few rich fatties and relish in the thrill of it all. OH SHIT, Mom and Dad are SO gonna pound your ass tonight...

That's a scenario of one of the most balls-less ways of being a serial killer. Just the sound of a gunshot would make those fat fuckers roll in their own liquified mass. It takes guts to be the next three types of killers.

Taunting Killers, A.K.A. Bonafide Assholes ("Na-na-na-na-boo-boo! You can't catch me!")

There are some times when the battle between good and evil is as much of a cat fight as the battle between PC and Mac. At one point, two great beings will be bitching over whose dick is bigger and who has the hotter imaginary slut to bang on slow nights. In other words, the fight between police authorities and serial killers will turn into more of a childhood taunting game.

Just ask the Zodiac killer - that is, if you can find him. Ever since he began - and ended - his merciless killings in the mid-to-late-sixties, police have never been able to find him. My educated guess is that the Zodiac had a total hard-on the public's complete and utter confusion and decided to totally mindfuck the San Fran police station by sending cryptic and disturbing messages to the main offices of both law enforcement and media, usually involving references to how many kills he was going to make that month, ("my balls are so big, I've got human decency to its knees begging for release!")

The Zodiac was actually so pants-shittingly scary that he was compared very closely to Jack the fucking Ripper in the way that he brutally maimed as many of my fellow females as he could.

A typical winning Zodiac come-on: "I'm not here for the way you look. I'm here for what's on the inside." (Aaaw, Gandhi wubs you!)

Generally, the fact that this sick freak has never been captured is enough to think that he's still alive, but he probably died from autoerotic asphyxiation. That would explain why the police probably wouldn't want to ID his corpse so fast.

"Well, seeing that a dead man's body can still hold and ejaculate semen when physically stimulated, i.e., picked up and put in a body-bag... Let's not take our chances. Call the dump."

Danger in Numbers! ("Duuuuude, this heroin and LSD cocktail is the shit. Now, what's this you're talking about a Nazi-esque movement?")

Pictured: a malacious murder cult waiting to cut your throat the insant you fall asleep

Somewhere in England in the 1960's, the Beatles came up with the idea of making a song on their self-titled album after a beloved British English carnival ride called Helter Skelter.

Pictured: the Beatles' "Helter Skelter"

And since the '60's was mostly populated by psychotic "Lucy"-using drone-like hippies, it wouldn't be long until one of the world's most beloved bands (yes children, even today) became warped in the minds of a psychedelic drug addict and turn into a hallucinogen-fueled prediction of a catastrophic future slaughterfest.

Pictured: a drug-fueled hippie's "Helter Skelter"

In the mid-to-late '60's, Charles Manson started up a cult consisting of a bunch of earthy-crunchy hippie teens, (you know, the kind that ran around naked and had lovely chats with trees), based on an extremely logical way to kick-start the good old Apocalypse scenario: start a war on race!

According to Manson, he and his "Family" were convinced that he was the second coming of Jesus Christ (more on that in the next section.) According to Christ-formerly-known-as-Manson, the only logical way an Apocalypse can be carried out is by taking all of the white teenage girls in California and hiding in a dugout in Death Valley while a basic iniliation of all white people would come around in the form of the black man's rage.

The reason for the black man's rage? TAKING AWAY ALL OF THE HOT WHITE FLESH.

After every single whitey within a galaxy's radius has been killed like a band of annoying cockroaches in a kitchen cabinet, Manson and his "Family" will arise from their little hideout, (with what I imagine will be a white, blinding glow to automatically put a warm smile across the average black man's face after he just gunned down a classroom of white kindergarten children), and, quote-on-quote from Charles-fucking-Manson himself: "would scratch [the black man's] fuzzy head and kick him in the butt and tell him to pick the cotton and be a good nigger..."

In my own good judgment, by then you probably shouldn't try and fuck with them.

After years of trying to get across Manson's own "idealistic" utopian future of repopulating the world with perfect-in-every-way white kids and mistreated black slaves, (you know, just kicking Lincoln in the Gettysburgs for all of his hard work), through Beatles-like (or so I've been told) songs and being unsuccessful, (I wonder why people wouldn't send off blatant out-there propaganda within subliminal messages), Manson decided to make a public outrage by convincing his "Family" to commit a series of murders to create mass hysteria, all of the murders (from the Crowe shooting to the Tate-LaBianca murders) spawned from pure unholy terror and just a "get the fuck out of my way" tactic.

Pictured: Still Helter Skelter.

So, instead of being the embodiment of Jesus Christ, maybe... Hitler? No, seriously... he was pictured in jail the last decade sporting a swastika on his forehead. You want to high-tail it out of the man's grasp, Manson? Something tells me you ain't got a chance.

Oh! Now that humanity's cleared up on (probably) all of the false prophets for a while, there shouldn't be any wack-jobs out there who still believe in this quack, are there? Unfortunately, kids, not all of us are that smart.

Religious Killers (Not Just Abraham!)

Nuns with guns.

In 1989, a 20-something Austrian nurse at the Lainz General Hospital in Vienna named Waltraud Wagner was asked by an elderly woman in her infirmiry to end her suffering. (Back then, Lainz was populated by either old people, the terminally ill, or the terminally ill old people; either way, they were gonna die.) So, Waltraud, in her then-caring nature of mercy, gave the poor woman a lethal injection of morphine.

And then presumably went back to watch porn on the hospital's computer.

After the first (technical) kill, Waltraud figured she liked this feeling of absolute power, added to her Catholic faith and having the delusion that she was being given a divine order by God, and, instead of giving out "mercy" killings, she whipped out a can of Murderbread and made every annoying old person in her entire ward a death sandwich. That included, but most certainly not limited to, killing the ones that snored, refused to take their medication, and generally just dared to co-exist with her altogether.

"This [snoring puppy] gets a ticket to God!" - ACTUAL WALTRAUD WAGNER QUOTE (minus the puppy part)

Of course, with forensics and autopsies getting more and more in-depth in the early 1990's, anyone would notice a lethal amount of morphine in an old person's system and immediately blame the caregiver who gave full supervision all day. Since ill and elderly people tend to collect excess water in their lungs as time goes by, Waltraud decided to perform a "water cure" - she would pinch the patient's nose while he or she was lying down and chug an endless supply of water down their windpipe - you know, like water torture. Except it goes all the way. Literally.

And, like Charles Manson, Waltraud decided not to share the murder spree alone. She invited three other young lady nurses to join her in the funnest thing to blame God for.

Totally the incarnation of the divine.

Sometime in the '90's, Waltraud and her girlfriends (now coined, appropriate to their case, as the "Angels of Death") were caught MAKING FUN of one of their dying victims' convulsions over a nice drunken game of Russian roulette in a tavern.

Just kidding. They were gutting these two orphaned kittens they found on their way to the bar.

And, if killing over 300 victims collectively (with the help of her sidekick angels) isn't enough to make you shit your pants the next time you see a stripper in a nurse's uniform, Waltraud showed clear signs of absolute insanity the second she and her friends were turned in, stating simply that the ones that annoyed her "were dispatched directly to a bed with the good Lord."

I'm guessing the good Lord's bed matches Waltraud's sparkling personality and impeccable people skills.