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THE VEGETARIAN was definitely demanding and it's another one to add to my appreciate, but didn't exactly enjoy it file. This South Korean story of an "unremarkable" woman that wakes up from a nightmare and declares herself to be vegetarian is an odd story of rebellion. Welcome to The OKC Vegetarian. Welcome to The OKC Vegetarian. Online Ordering Now Available. Order Now. Contact Form. The OKC Vegetarian. We serve 100% meat , egg and dairy free products only . We are pick up only located at the Shamrock Portland Gas Station ! 3644 NW 50TH ST CENTRAL OKLAHOMA C, OK 73112 (405) 205-4853. But vegetarian diets vary in what foods they include and exclude: Lacto-vegetarian diets exclude meat, fish, poultry and eggs, as well as foods that contain them. Dairy products, such as milk, cheese, yogurt and butter, are included. Ovo-vegetarian diets exclude meat, poultry, seafood and dairy products, but allow eggs. i am a vegetarian and didn’t use HRT. Vaccines have both mercury-based and arsenic-based compounds in them, I just learned from a conference on autism. (The reported number of diagnosed autistic kids has dropped from 1 in 150 to 1 in 91, according to the CDC. [HR] The Vegetarian. Horror. Kirk was sitting on the bed when I arrived to his cell, right leg crooked over the left and fingers interlaced in his lap. He didn’t seem imposing, and in fact did not even acknowledge me at first, just sat there staring at whatever point on the wall he’d laid his eyes upon. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. “The Vegetarian is a book about the failures of language and the mysteries of the physical. Yet its message should not undermine Han’s achievement as a writer. Like its anti-protagonist, The Vegetarian whispers so clearly, it can be heard across the room, insistently and with devastating, quiet violence.”—Joanna Walsh, The New Statesman The Vegetarian (Korean: 채식주의자; RR: Chaesikjuuija) is a South Korean three-part novel written by Han Kang and first published in 2007. Based on Han's 1997 short story "The Fruit of My Woman", The Vegetarian is set in modern-day Seoul and tells the story of Yeong-hye, a part-time graphic artist and home-maker, whose decision to stop eating meat after a bloody, nightmarish dream about ... “The Vegetarian” needs all this bloodletting because in its universe, violence is connected with physical sustenance — in meat-eating, sex-having, even care-taking. Outside intervention ... Is a vegetarian diet healthy? We explain the pros and cons to becoming vegetarian, plus provide information about food substitutes and other things you need to know to follow this diet, including ... Vegetarian diets contain various levels of fruits, vegetables, grains, pulses, nuts and seeds. The inclusion of dairy and eggs depends on the type of diet you follow. The most common types of ...

2020.08.06 08:06 SuikaCider Voyeur tv home

Kirk was sitting on the bed when I arrived to his cell, right leg crooked over the left and fingers interlaced in his lap. He didn’t seem imposing, and in fact did not even acknowledge me at first, just sat there staring at whatever point on the wall he’d laid his eyes upon. I wasn’t sure what to make of him. Bony face, empty and unadorned as the room itself. Pronounced clavicles. Tufts of brown hair poked out from the neck of a white tank top, which in turn had been tucked into a pair of orange trousers. Both were too large. An untouched pork roast was laid out on a platter next to him, the slab of meat girthier than his leg.
“We don’t normally do this, you know,” I said.
He turned and looked up at me, moving only his head to do so. Bushy eyebrows, flat nose, drooping earlobes, pointed chin. The corners of his lips curled up just enough to tip the scales and qualify as a smile. For a while he continued sitting there, looking more through me than at me, but then he blinked twice and met my eyes.
“I know.”
I took a step back in spite of myself, feeling like I’d opened the door to a naked stranger. Instead of covering up, though, he acknowledged me and grinned, as if saying don’t worry, this is the locker room, everybody is changing clothes here. He never moved an inch, but the tightness in my gut insisted that we were much too close. I was about to retreat another step when he reached out to pat the mattress beside him. The ring finger on his left hand was missing.
“Take a seat.”
I hesitated for a moment and then edged forward, sitting as far away from Kirk as I could. There were two feet or so between myself and the pork roast. Then him. A few feet further was the far wall of the cell. Its cement bricks were painted a peculiar green, like melted mint ice cream.
“Oh, Peter,” he said, a twinge of disappointment colouring his voice. “I don’t bite.”
I scooched closer, perhaps six inches; just enough to create a space for my left hand. The tips of Kirk’s lips dropped back down and his eyes glazed over again. It happened so quickly, as if an electric current was running through his veins and my little rejection had caused an important switch inside of him to fall out of place. Weight disappeared from the air, I was able to suck in a quick breath and, sighing, realized that the hand I’d planted next to me had been shaking. My eyes wandered to the far wall and settled upon a worn steel sink.
“I heard that you’d requested to eat with me,” I said.
The mention of food seemed to flip whatever switch I’d knocked loose. Kirk leaned over towards his pillow and then turned back to face me, a plate and some silverware in each hand. He placed one set on his side of the pork roast and the other on mine. I couldn’t help but notice the scars on his bicep when he extended his arm to do so. Jagged purple things that stood a half-centimeter tall, as if whatever caused them hadn’t quite been able to take his life and settled for a swathe of skin instead. Just then Kirk looked up, but as his smile grew, he must have misinterpreted the reason for my staring.
“I don’t suppose you like pork, do you?”
“I don’t eat pork,” the words fell out of my mouth, practically a reflex at this point.
“Really?” his eyebrows shot up. “You Muslim?”
“Huh? No. I mean, it’s not just pork. I don’t eat meat at all,” I said, more comfortable now that his focus had shifted off of me. “Back in high school I—”
Kirk interrupted me. “I used to do construction work. Carpentry, to be more specific. Anyhow, sometimes we got lunch at this barbecue joint. But one of the guys was a Muslim—Abdulrahman, I think—and he never came. So I asked him why. He said that pork was considered haram ‘cause it tastes like human flesh.”
“Uhh.. well, in my case, back in high school I dated this girl for a couple years. One day we saw a PETA advertisement on TV; cows getting tazed in a slaughterhouse. She got upset and started bawling—the cows were panicking and wailing, it was really terrible—and the next thing I knew, we were vegetarians. We broke up a few months afterwards, but fifteen years later and here I am, still a vegetarian.”
Kirk let out a whistle.
“It’s not really something I think about anymore, though,” I added. “After you haven’t eaten meat for a while, eventually it stops looking like food to you. Plus, I was already a vegetarian when I began cooking, so I never learned any recipes that needed meat. It’s just a habit, I guess.”
At the word habit, Kirk turned to look at me again. Differently, this time. I’m not sure how to describe the way he looked at me, exactly. Hesitantly, with scrutiny; the face a child makes when they’re rolling a new word around in their mouth and aren’t sure what to make of it. He lifted a hand and ran his fingers through the stubble along his jaw, back and forth from the beginning of his cheekbones to the bottom of his chin. Interested, to say the least, and searching.
“In that case,” he said, “do you want a slice?”
“Erm, no. I’m fine, thank you. ”
“Oh,” he frowned, then put a few slices of pork roast on his own plate. He stabbed one with his fork and then held it up in front of his eyes, squinting as if he were inspecting a dollar bill for signs of forgery. “Kind of boring for a last meal, huh. I heard that people order some pretty crazy stuff, but I just couldn’t think of anything I really wanted to eat,” he cocked his head a little to one side. “When I was a kid I heard about this restaurant in New York that sold gold-leaf plated ice cream sundaes. Always thought I wanted to try that just once before I died. Even just a spoonful. But when it came down to it, I asked for a pork roast. That’s the funny thing about habit, I guess.”
I didn’t respond, and he didn’t press me to. After a while he placed the entire slice of pork into his mouth—a whole slice, and a rather thick one at that—and chewed in silence. Though I’d have cut it into smaller pieces, myself, it was a wholly normal manner of eating. Lips sealed, but struggling to remain so. Cheeks puffed out. His jaw went down, his jaw came back up; slow, rhythmical, intentional. Eventually he lifted his chin a bit and swallowed. A lump formed in his throat and seemed to be stuck there for a second, then disappeared.
“Abdulrahman was wrong, by the way,” he said, bringing a fist to his mouth to suppress a burp, then turned to face me. He looked into my eyes right away this time. “About the pork, I mean.”
There wasn’t vitriol or remorse in Kirk’s words, but there was lightning. People often say they feel a chill race along their spine, or that their hairs stand on edge, but this was nothing like that. A wave of electricity dashed through my body as soon as the word pork made contact with my ears; my forearms clenched, my stomach lurched and my back straightened. All in the span of a tenth of a second. Then, finding nowhere to go, it held me transfixed. Pressure built in my throat and I wanted to breathe so badly, like a leading tone itchs to resolve to its tonic, but I found myself unable to contract my diaphragm. So I sat there, tensed and trembling, until I realized that Kirk wasn’t looking at me anymore. His gaze had returned to the wall—or to the sink, rather, judging by the tilt of his head—and he fell quiet. But the way his fingers slowly flexed and unflexed, clutching his pants so hard the fabric ruffled and then falling lifeless, I could tell that he wanted to say something. Unfortunately, the sink’s basin seemed much too shallow to find the words he was looking for.
“I wasn’t always like this,” he said, finally. “It... happened to me, really. Was just minding my job, you know? You’ve got to, in construction. My dad used to point at the saw after he’d cut a board in half. You see how slick it cut through this here two-by-four? Yeah? He’d say. Like a goddamn knife through butter. And it’ll do the same thing to your finger. Ya hear? We respect our tools, but all it takes is a second. One day a few guys had just finished loading a skip hoist and somebody told a joke. Apparently one of the others—his name was Carlos—thought it was real funny and he cracked up. Really cracked up, could hardly stand straight. Without thinking he laid a hand on the skip hoist to steady himself and so happened to grab the wire rope. It was exposed, somehow. Anyway, they’d been loading it with debris, yeah? Just then the batch they’d sent off discharged, the wire jumped and it ripped three of his fingers straight off. He’s lucky he didn’t lose his whole hand. I was standing twenty feet away, smoking a cigarette on break, and one of the fingers made it all the way to me.” Kirk sighed, long and deep.
“Just plopped there in front of me, fell right out of the sky. I was stunned for a second, but by the time I came to, I had that finger in the ziplock bag with my chips. At first I was worried somebody might see me, but they were preoccupied with Carlos. Understandably. So I wrapped the bag in a few napkins and stuck it under the ice pack in my lunch box, then ran off to help. We got him to the hospital real quick and then the foreman told us to take the rest of the day off. Everybody was shaken, to say the least.” he said. I was scrambling to put pieces together, but thankfully, Kirk didn’t seem too interested in hearing what I had to say. He just kept talking.
“I used that extra couple hours to go to the store and get stuff for a simple marinade. A bit of olive oil and soy sauce. Dijon mustard, ground black pepper and a clove of garlic. Let it sit overnight, then I roasted it with an omelette for breakfast in the morning. There’s not much meat on a finger, unfortunately.” Kirk suddenly glanced up, meeting my wide eyes for a second before looking away. His face was a mix of guilt and embarrassment, as if he was confronting someone who had earlier walked in on him masturbating. “It was nice. A bit chewy, but not in a bad way. I’m not much of a chef, but I remember thinking that it’d have gone better with something more acidic. Maybe a pineapple marinade. Anyhow, nothing like pork. Noth—” He looked up again, stopping mid-sentence upon meeting my eyes. Then he just sat there with his mouth open for a few seconds.
“And that was that for awhile. It was just… a really intense curiosity, and it was harmless, and it was done. The fingers were too fucked up to be reattached, anyway. Now I knew, you know, so that was that. It wasn’t bad, but not so special. Just a piece of meat. Not worth the trouble. That project we were working on ended and I went the next couple years without thinking about it again,” he nodded and bit his lower lip. “Then I took a project upstate. The commute was too far, so after the first day on the job I went to book a room at a nearby motel. Am I scaring you, Peter?”
I stuttered for a few seconds without saying much. His gaze hung much more heavily over me than his words did, so I looked away, to escape his eyes. “It’s unsettling, yes.” I said.
“That it is,” he said. “Anyway, it’s 9:30 at night or so and I pulled into this little motel lot. The worksite was already out of the way as it was, and the motel was in the opposite direction of the city. Real pretty though, at the foot of a mountain trail. I imagine it was for hikers, but this was mid-march and it was still too cold for that. There was nobody in the administrator’s office and, just as I was resigning to a night in the truck, I heard the scream. Not a scream like your kid had done something stupid or something on TV made you jump, either. You don’t know what desperate means till you hear someone scream like that. So I went looking. It didn’t take long, given that there was only light coming from one room and the door was cracked.”
“I stepped into the room to see two people struggling in bed. A woman old enough to be wrinkled but still with a head full of brown hair, her nightshirt half ripped off, and standing on the bed over her a large man. He had on a dirty red t-shirt, a bare ass and a pair of denim shorts around one of his ankles. When I walked in they both stopped and stared at me for a minute, all three of us frozen in place. The man moved first. ‘Get out,’ he said, but I was so shocked I couldn’t move. Then he turned towards the doorway, took a step forward and pointed a finger at me. You. He took another step forward, and when I met his eyes, I understood a bit of what I heard in that woman’s scream. They were hard steps, his penis bouncing from side to side with each one. For some reason my response was to bunch up my shoulders, hands at my side, like I was standing at attention. I couldn’t move from that spot, and maybe he saw my terror, that man started laughing as he walked towards me. Then the tips of my fingers felt the hammer, still hanging off the loop of my jeans.”
“A few steps later he reached out towards me. I don’t know if he meant to push me, or to grab me or to hit me. But when he reached out, suddenly all that desperation exploded into action. I swung out, the hammer connected with the side of his head and he dropped. Like a stone. It was over in a second, much quicker than I actually processed what happened. I stood there staring at him, motionless and bleeding on the floor, then looked up at the woman. She had pushed herself up tight against the bed frame and pulled the blankets up, scrunching them to cover her chest. We met eyes and she began whimpering—Please, don’t hurt me. Over and over again like some mantra. Eventually she lost it and started sobbing and convulsing, shaking the blankets off. Her breasts were pockmarked with cancer spots and bruises and wrinkles, but in that moment, she looked like a vulnerable little girl. Fear does that to people,” he said.
“Anyhow, I just stood there for a few minutes; it was all too surreal. Eventually it dawned on me that I’d just killed someone. The adrenaline and dizziness disappeared, like the image of an old television shrinks to a single point before blinking out into darkness, and I panicked. I hadn’t planned this. I was just doing my job. In that moment my life fell apart to the background music of this woman’s crying. There was no more noise than that, it was practically silent, and it all happened in a mundane hotel room you wouldn’t look twice at, but there was no going back from that day. That stood out to me real clear, like it was a line of text highlighted in a book. Everything had changed now. I didn’t know what to do so I dragged the man’s body outside, put him in my truck bed’s tool box and drove home. It was less of a choice and more of a resignation.”
“I ate him, of course. Started with his penis; deep fried, strewn with parsley. It was chewy, not in a particularly pleasant way, but the testicles were nice. Hard on the outside, crispy, but soft and sticky on the inside. His thighs were memorable, too—salt, pepper, a bit of nutmeg. Some sauteed brussel sprouts on the side. Eventually I finished eating him, but curiosity had only begun eating away at me. The next few years are a blur; I don’t remember how many people I killed. Ten? Fifteen? Maybe more. When I killed the man I was so worried that I’d see my face on the news; every time I heard sirens outside I tensed up, assuming they were for me. That they were coming, and the world knew what I’d done; but the world didn’t know and the police never came. I guess that woman at the motel didn’t paint a picture of me, and even if she did, I’d never ran into issues with the law before. They had no reason to look for me. I was just a normal guy out doing my job. The serial killers you see on TV, you know, I think they wanted the notoriety, like it was some sort of voyeurism. But I tried to stay out of the spotlight, and I guess it helps that I didn’t have a type. I’d get a fat old homeless guy here, a little orphan there. Lots of different ethnicities and sizes and ages. One day I picked up this methed-out prostitute. Straight up told her that I was going to kill her and eat her. That one sticks with me, out of all of them, you know. She didn’t respond, didn’t start frantically yanking on the door handle. Didn’t fight me or panic. Just sighed, closed her eyes and reclined the passenger seat a bit. It was hardly the worst thing the world had thrown her way; I suppose she’d been waiting to die for a long time already. I didn’t enjoy her.”
“I didn’t enjoy much after that, in fact. It was like the printer ran out of ink and started putting out stills that were nothing more than several shades of gray. The passion was gone, the creativity dead. Everybody looked about as appetizing as your dad’s meatloaf—” Kirk glanced at me. “No offence, Peter. I’m sure you’re great. Anyway, I stopped eating. Not just people, either. Everything. The bread in my pantry got moldy, the milk in my fridge went bad, and I started going, too. I lost a lot of weight.” Kirk’s hands reached up, seemingly inadvertently, and traced his clavicle. It stood so far out that I imagined he could wrap his fingers around the bone if he pushed a bit. “It happened real gradually. I’d always wake up early on Sunday mornings to make breakfast. Toss some bacon into the skillet, then when that’s done you use the bacon grease to make fried potatoes. You might as well have a cigarette or two because that takes awhile, fifteen or twenty minutes maybe, and otherwise you’re just standing there stirring. But they’ll be real good and crispy. Try it sometime. After that you can start the toast, then you use the same pan to scramble eggs. Once they set, toss in a bit of cheese, some salt and pepper. I liked to add a bit of paprika, myself. Anyhow, it’s simple, but it’s good.” Kirk wet his lips.
“Or, well, it was good. This prostitute, yeah? I picked her up on a Tuesday evening and we got back to my place at nine in the evening or so. Normally I’d talk to people, get to them a bit, but this woman just sat in the chair and ignored me the entire trip. When we got back I walked over to open her door, and she adjusted her skirt a bit then got out. I walked a bit behind her because I expected her to run, but she didn’t. Just walked to the house and let herself in. So I led her to the bathroom and told her to wait there; I went to the bedroom and took off my clothes, so as not to get blood on them. I took my time, and I thought she’d make an escape while I was gone. Show her colors. The door wasn’t locked, after all. But when I came back she was still there, sitting on the toilet. Didn’t even acknowledge me at first. Eventually she looked over real slowly, like she was bored. And her eyes, they—” Kirk stopped mid-sentence and scrunched up his face. “You’ ever kill anybody before, Peter?”
The question took me aback. “No,” I said. My voice was much shriller than I had expected, almost a whisper. “Never,” I glanced at my watch.
Peter nodded. “Well,” he said, “people look at you in a certain way, just before it happens. It’s an intimate thing. At first they’re shocked, and that quickly turns to fear. The adrenaline kicks in and they struggle for a bit, but before long that wears off and they accept that the ball is in your court. From there, some people start crying. Some people will beg with you, some people scream. Some people just stare at you, like a challenge. Eventually they give up. All of them. From that point on, they look at you in this special way. Like a child looks at their mother, or a pet waits for food. Expectantly, vulnerable, submissive. They’re totally dependent on you now, and they know it, and they know you know it. It’s a real intense thing, real personal; they might never have looked at anybody like that before. Hopeful and hopeless at the same time. It’s like looking right into their soul. You learn a lot about them during those few minutes. And then you kill them.”
“But this lady, she didn’t do anything like that. Just sat there, as if she was bored, like I was wasting her time. I stood there looking at her for a long time, I don’t know how long. I wasn’t sure what to do with her. You can’t dance if your partner doesn’t do their part, you know? Eventually she got up, walked over and took the knife. At this point I’d have let her wave it at me, I just wanted to see something in her. Instead she ran it through her own stomach. Deep. Then she walked over to the bathtub, laid down and died. I was still standing there, and I stood there for a long time, unsure what to make of things. But I never figured out what to do, so instead I left the bathroom and went to bed,” Kirk raised his eyebrows and shook his head slowly from side to side.
“I felt off that entire week. Sunday came, I made breakfast but found I couldn’t eat the bacon. The eggs were fine, and the potatoes, but I had no appetite for the bacon. I ate her liver, instead, but it was off, too. Next went steak and fried chicken, and within a few days, I couldn’t make myself eat any sort of meat. Somehow, after eating so many people, normal meat had just become a bit boring. That’s what I told myself, at least. Like somebody who starts drinking sparkling water instead of soda. It’s just not quite the same. Hard to get excited about. So I became, as you call it, a vegetarian,” Kirk flashed me a smile, but his lips were the only part of his face that moved. It disappeared just as quickly as it came, then he reached up and scratched the back of his head. “I don’t know what happened, really. At first it was just meat, but then other foods followed, too. Within a couple weeks I couldn’t stomach the scrambled eggs or fried potatoes, either. By the time a month had passed I’d completely stopped eating. She was still up there in the bathtub and it was starting to stink. There was a half bath on the first floor, but I hadn’t showered since.”
“Two months in I woke up to hunger pangs. Terrible ones. Oh god, the hunger; it felt like my stomach was being ripped apart. I needed to eat. Something, anything, now. But I hadn’t left the house since that night. There was nothing left. So I—well you know, right?” Kirk glanced at me. “I saw you looking at my arms. I began cutting myself, taking chunks of meat from here and there. Mostly my thighs. Not such big ones; they bled for a bit and then closed up just fine. Unfortunately, it turns out I’m not all that delicious. A few days later I did this,” he held his hand up. “Just went into the kitchen, grabbed a knife and cut it off. There wasn’t as much blood as I expected, but it didn’t stop. Once it started it just kept going, and going, and I wasn’t sure what to do about it. So I went to the hospital. The entire world stopped to look at me when I walked into the emergency room, but they hurried me to a room and patched me up just the same. Then they asked what happened, so I told them, and they sent me to inpatient care. Later that day the police found the girl. The therapists there asked me why I did that, so I told them—how this all started with Carlos’ finger, had come full circle and now it was time for me. Or something like that. I was in the hospital for a couple weeks, then was sent to prison to wait until my court case. That whole process took several months, but time wasn’t so important to me during those days. The next thing I knew my sentencing was up around the corner.”
“It hit me when I was getting dressed that morning. I didn’t dress up too much, but I figured that a guy should at least wear a tie to his own sentencing. So I put on a pair of navy blue slacks and a white Oxford; found an old belt, too, then set about doing my tie. Choosing the tie didn’t present much of a dilemma, as I only had one of them—mottled yellow, knitted—but what to do with it was more difficult. Eventually I decided on the Merovingian. It’s quite a difficult knot, so I expected to fail a few times. I fucked it up, of course, and then again. And again. Eight times. It didn’t bother me until I looked in the mirror and, seemingly for the first time, noticed my missing finger. Surely I would have succeeded if I had but one more finger; I threw the tie down and stomped. The Merovingian laughed at me.”
Kirk sighed.
“Not a lot gets by me, you know. But somehow, somewhere along the line, I lost my self. I’d have noticed if it were my dress socks or the change jar. If the stop sign down the street disappeared one day. But my self, it slipped away so quietly, and I was none the wiser. Maybe it was chased off by lust, or maybe my… hunger… consumed it, too. Maybe it went bit by bit, I don’t know. But for whatever reason it struck me that morning when I was trying to put on my damn tie. I was shocked to see that I was missing a finger, and suddenly I began coming back to myself. The fuzziness disappeared and I snapped back into it, only to find that I was missing much more than a finger. I didn’t have a self to come back to anymore. The Merovingian laughed at me.”
There’s nothing you can do,” it said. “It’s inevitable. Even if you stop, even if you know that you’re done, you swear it won’t happen no more, that doesn’t mean it’s gone. Nothing can replace it, that taste. And you know it. Try to move on. Just try. It’s hungry, and it’s powerful, and it’s patient. And once it gets ahold of you, it’ll eat away at you until nothing is left.
Just then two men appeared in the doorway and announced that time was up. Kirk was taken by a guard, and on his way out, without looking back at me, he announced:
“A nail is driven out by another nail, Peter. The Merovingian is coming for you, too. ”
And then he disappeared around the corner.
The warden furrowed his eyebrows and looked at me. “What the fuck was that?”
“I don’t know,” I said. “I don’t know. I don’t know. I’ve never talked to the man in my life.”

The warden disappeared and Peter began to cry.
Shortly after, he took a slice of pork.
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2020.08.02 00:48 FrancescoAmic1 Voyeur home tv

This is my translation of the first part of the journalistic inquiry on the connection between Zodiac and the Monster of Florence appeared on the website of the Italian weekly tempi.it two years ago. The second and third parts plus this are too long for Reddit. You can find them together here.
Other links related to the inquiryA recent news that confirms the connectionFirst article on the admissions of the suspectSuspect’s testimony at the Monster’s trial
Sorry for my shaky English.
By Francesco Amicone
The voyeur, the Sardinians and the farmer
Sant'Angelo is a hamlet on the edge of Calenzano and Sesto Fiorentino: very few houses surrounded by fields and mountains. Not far from there, in a rural crossroads of the only way that goes around the valley, an inscription on a stone cross recalls two names: Susanna Cambi and Stefano Baldi. They were a young couple from Calenzano used to withdraw in the evening on the edge of an olive grove. On the night of October 22, 1981, they were shot to death by the man who went down in history as the "Monster of Florence", a brutal murderer who killed at least seven young couples in the Florentine countryside with a .22 caliber gun between 1974 and 1985.
More than thirty years have passed since those crimes, but the flowers at the foot of the cross that reminds Susanna and Stefano are still fresh. «It's nice that people haven't forgotten about Susanna and Stefano,» comments Edoardo Orlandi in front of their memorial. Orlandi was already a researcher of the "Monster" case before becoming a criminologist at the University of Florence. Like many Tuscans born in the eighties, Orlandi grew up in an environment where the serial killer became an integral part of the history of the city through the trials of the nineties. None of which came to any definitive truth about the main perpetrator of the murders. «Very few Florentines believe that the Monster has never really been identified,» notes Orlandi.
Crazy and wily
Law enforcement officers do not immediately understand that they are facing a serial killer. «Only the morning after the Calenzano crime - Orlandi recalls - the Florentine people realize that there was a homicidal maniac who goes hunting for alone couples on moonless nights. And that time the murderer also frightened the Tuscan public opinion which, in a somewhat picturesque way, to play down, had called him "Cicci, the monster of Scandicci”.»
From October 22, 1981, what a few months earlier seemed to have been the work of a schizophrenic drifter takes on new meaning. «The inhabitants of Florence are faced with a socially organized person, whose disturbances, however serious, allow him to act in a cold and lucid manner,» Orlandi explains. He was a madman, not a schizophrenic. The police now faced something that in Italy, before then, had only been seen in movies. An American-style serial killer. One of the shrewdest minds that Italian investigators have ever found themselves fighting and also, the criminologist stresses, «one of the very few serial killers who have been successful.»
From the day he committed the Calenzano crime and for five long years, the "maniac" armed with a torch, pistol, and knife, who had nothing in common with the Florentine or Italian chronicles, became the main news of the local newspapers.
A "provincial" killer
«Although he’s called the Monster of Florence - Orlandi recalls - the crimes claimed by the homicidal maniac never took place in the city, but in the neighboring villages.» Borgo San Lorenzo, Scandicci, Calenzano, Galluzzo, Vicchio, Baccaiano, Falciani. These are the names of the crime locations chosen by the serial killer. «These are small courtyards, where the chatter about the crimes quickly made the rounds of the bars,» the criminologist says. This created many problems.
Enzo Spalletti, an ambulance driver, was the first man who pays for a slip of his tongue. Spalletti practiced a "sport" very popular in the province of Florence in the eighties: spying on couples sitting alone in their cars. During the night, dozens of people searched the countryside of Florence to find couples who made love in their car. They lurked along the rows of cypresses, in the acacia woods, armed with infrared binoculars and microphones to caught couples in their privacy. Many of them met in the Chianti taverns the following day to exchange photographs and audio recordings.
«On the morning of 7 June 1981, Spalletti hoed his vegetable garden, then went to his favorite bar, where he told the patrons that he had seen the bodies of the two victims of Scandicci. He was immediately arrested». How did it end? «Three months later the killer struck again in Calenzano, leading to the release of Spalletti and virtually announcing to the Florentines: "You are facing a real serial killer, not a voyeur". The Monster would continue to claim his crimes with the same gun also in the following years, freeing one by one all the suspects sent in prison by the pre-trial judges. «He would only stop in 1985, when no one was jailed for his murders. It’s like he wanted to say to the police: "I don't need your help",» Orlandi observes.
Monster's gun
The so-called "Sardinian lead” ended up in a general acquittal, in 1989. Seven years earlier, about July 20, 1982, the detectives began to follow the track left by the Monster from bullets and shells found in a case-file of a double murder near Florence accrued in a “Sardinian” environment (Barbara Locci and Antonio Lo Bianco - August 22, 1968). The marks on the shells were identical to those found on the crime scenes of the serial killer from 1974 onwards. The man convicted for the crime of ‘68, Barbara Locci's husband, Stefano Mele, was in prison in 1974, however.
You can have doubts about the authorship of the crime of 1968, «but as regards Mele's responsibility - recalls Orlandi - it is a fact that Locci's husband had been found with the fat spread on his hands, the morning after the crime. Mele - continues the criminologist - has never been able to give a reason for what appeared to the investigators of the time as a banal attempt to deceive the paraffin glove (test to which Mele was positive).» Mele charged himself with the crime, then accused acquaintances. Finally, he was sentenced. Beginning in 1982 it was therefore thought that the serial killer might somehow have had access to the gun used in the ‘68 murders and used it later. All the people who may have participated in the ‘68 crime were arrested one by one: Francesco Vinci, Piero Mucciarini, Giovanni Mele. Salvatore Vinci was also arrested with another excuse. Nothing was found.
From the real killer to Pietro Pacciani
Who is really the “couple maniac”? What personality is hidden behind the mask he wears for his audience? The Monster, according to Orlandi, «most likely appears as a normal person, otherwise it would not be explained why it has never been possible to identify him up to now.» «He is a person with two lives - the criminologist explains - in the normal one, he is a citizen like the others, in the secret one, he is the maniac of moonless nights.» Perhaps this is one of those very rare cases in which criminologists face someone who embodies the protagonist of Robert Louis Stevenson, the famous "Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde". The Monster seems to flaunt two faces also in his crimes. «On the one hand, he is the practical, efficient and smart person, self-confident who leaves no traces and clues; on the other one, it is the maniac who takes very high risks to respect his crazy rituals and challenge investigators,» Orlandi says.
The criminological expertise of a team of the University of Modena drawn up by Francesco De Fazio, Ivan Galliani, Salvatore Luberto in 1984 describes the Monster as "methodical", "systematic", "cautious", "astute". However, the experts point out that the Monster suffers from a serious psychic pathology, which reaches the peak of the acute phase when he kills. «The exceptional nature of this serial killer - underlines Orlandi, paraphrasing the expertise of the University of Modena - is that he completes his ambushes in a situation of strong emotional charge. Yet, in this phase of acute psychosis, he is capable of modulating strength, approaching victims in silence, shooting and hitting, moving bodies, and mutilating them. He also managed to quickly change weapons and torch in the dark. All this without making mistakes.»
«The Monster - Orlandi concludes - is a maniac who moves between Mugello and Chianti with the same security as a hitman.»
A man light years away from the depicted suspect was the result of the "super-computer" screening with which the Florence prosecutor led by Pier Luigi Vigna comes to Pietro Pacciani.
Where did the killer's booty go?
In 1990, the Florence Police Anti-Monster Squad (SAM) was still looking for the manic perpetrator of the seven double murders that occurred in the Florentine countryside between 1974 and 1985. A few years earlier, in an anonymous letter, an alleged Monster had warned the investigators: «You won't take me if I don't want to ... I'm very close to you.» Authentic Monster’s letter or not, it confirmed the impression of the SAM agents. The killer had always been one step ahead of them. As if he knew their moves in advance. Besides, why hadn't the fake couples, the police and Carabinieri blocks, the investigation, or the arrests been able to stop him? What had given the Monster the security to be able to challenge the city and the police, always acting in the same period, every year, for five consecutive years? How had he managed to plan his crimes in an area on high alert, strewn with Chianti and Mugello with euphemistic signs "Danger: risk of aggressions"? How was it possible that, despite the precautions and resources used, despite the 300 million Lire bounty (300.000 $) - the only one ever issued by the Italian State - the killer had escaped capture?
So, when Florentines discovered that the main suspect of the Florence Prosecutor's Office was Pierino Pacciani, a peasant, the "young wicked boy" whose minstrel Giubba sang at village fairs for his crime of passion of 40 years before, people shake their heads. It will take all the efforts of the mass media to make it possible for a larger minority of Florentines to accept that Vampa (blaze) - as he was nicknamed in the village - is the icy murderer who had terrorized the city for a shine and from whom the citizens still feel threatened. But the prosecutors led by Vigna were certain: Pacciani was the Monster.
When investigations into Pacciani begin, Ruggero Perugini, Sam's chief, has just returned from Quantico, home of the FBI Behavioral Science Unit - the world specialists in the "serial murder" discipline. Roy Hazelwood, guru of the unit, had warned the Italian detective: «If you find these trinkets, it means that you have found the killer.» Hazelwood had shown Perugini some objects that criminals like the Monster of Florence jealously guard. Criminologists call it "booty". These are the personal belongings of the victims that serial killers steal to remember and claim their murders. To date, nothing of the sort has ever been found.
The selection
It had been the voyeur's turn, then the Sardinians’ one. The defendant, this time, was a son and grandson of sharecroppers. His red face well known in San Casciano testified that the farmer had nothing of the cold and wily serial killer. At the trial, one of the witnesses would say that you could mistake him for the «god Bacchus», if you observed him serving wine at a Festa dell’Unità in the 1980s. Yet the prosecution had made a commitment to find someone who would tell something compatible with the accusatory picture (a serial murderer, calm, lucid, and above all sober). Maybe Pacciani terrified someone in San Casciano? Not even this. It was discovered that the Vampa had not only given them (the beatings) but he had also taken many, and many: a beating in 1951 by Giampiero Vigilanti, former French legionary of Prato; many handbags from "Cinzia", ​​a prostitute who walked between the Via Scopeti and Cassia, in San Casciano, near the Florence American Cemetery; a few slaps from the gamekeeper Gino Bruni, whom Pacciani had threatened with a pitchfork. These stories, however, appear to be more authentic than the "scientific" analyzes of Pacciani's "secret" personality which was shown in the newspapers during the trial period.
The former Florence attorney general, Piero Tony - who represented the accusation against Pacciani in the appeal trial- asked for Pacciani's acquittal and obtained it. Twenty years later, he still has the same idea about Vampa's guilt as his lawyers Rosario Bevacqua and Pietro Fioravanti: «Pacciani was a man who committed many crimes in his life, but he was not the Monster,» Tony says.
The former Florence attorney general has always criticized the method that the Public Prosecutor's Office decided to use to arrive at the identity of the Monster: «The mechanism by which attention was focused on Pacciani - says Tony - was the following: between many things, it was assumed that the serial killer had attracted someone's attention; then, that he had a dirty criminal record and was resident in the province of Florence.» «Pacciani - continues the former prosecutor - had been reported by an anonymous letter, had a criminal record (he had killed a man in 1951 and had abused his daughters for years), lived in San Casciano and was not in jail when the Monster had killed. It was therefore deduced that Pacciani could be the serial killer.» «This mechanism - explains Tony - has not been fully respected. According to the parameters that the investigators had given themselves the name of Pacciani must have been off the list of suspects. For two reasons: he did not respect - at all - the profile drawn up by criminologists; at the time of the crimes he was not healthy (he had suffered a heart attack).»
The “hunchback” bullet
For some reason, the idiom "farmer: big shoes and clever mind" was heralded by the press lined up with the Public Prosecutor's Office as an indication of guilt in a serial murder case. It was forgotten that the syllogism made all people with work boots and an above-average IQ suspicious. Not just the farmers. But also - for example - the man from whom Pacciani felt "persecuted". It was this «long-legged intellectual» who had prevented him from entering the house of an old fortune-teller in the village. Or the mysterious man who stalked him in nightmares, the "General of Death". And also the character in military clothes and with "Mickey Mouse" military boots, which appeared in a drawing by the Chilean artist Christian Olivares, a sketch of a theatrical scenography for the filmmaker Raphael Ruiz that was found in the Vampa’s house.
Pacciani had renamed the work of Olivares: «Dream of fairy science (instead of “science fiction”), a summer in San Casciano.» He had put his signature on the bottom and put the painting above the fireplace in the living room. The psychologists heard by the prosecutor's office did not see in it a denunciation of the Pinochet regime - which in fact it was - but the work of a deranged, a sexual maniac suffering from serious disturbances. The famous critic Vittorio Sgarbi, having heard that the Florence Public Prosecutor's Office attributed the hand of a follower of Salvador Dalì to Vampa, obviously took the ball for one of his reprimand. The real author - in voluntary exile in the Canaries - sent a fax to La Repubblica, explaining the meaning of drawing to psychologists. Vampa simply shrugged: «I always said I just colored it.»
In early 1993, not even Perugini seemed to be certain of Pacciani's guilt. While investigating the farmer from San Casciano, the chief of the SAM had publicly appealed to a still faceless serial killer. Perugini had offered him a hand to «get out of the nightmare.» How did the Monster react to the appeal? A few months later, in April, during a search, the detectives found a 22-caliber bullet in the farmer's garden of Pacciani (this bullet had been forged, a Prosecutor’s Office expertise found out in 2019 – here’s the news TLN).
«A “hunchbacked” nail?» Vampa asked, while Perugini showed him the artifact. It was not a "nail", but a “hunchbacked” bullet, a misshapen cartridge similar to what the Monster had left on crime scenes. Was stuck in a stake in the farmer's vineyard. Right at the breaking point of a stake broken for less than a week.
It was necessary to wait for the appeal trial for the Court and the Prosecutor to be informed informally by the defense expert, Enrico Manieri, that that bullet was a "fake": he had been loaded on a weapon other than that of the killer. The conclusion was obvious: someone had wanted to frame Pacciani.
«An infamous column»
«Before the trial, we also received an anonymous letter with a guide rod from a Beretta attached - says Tony - The author of the letter defined the Vampa: "The devil who enchants the bischeri on TV". But even that was an indication of little value, as well as of dubious origin.»
Regarding this discovery, the president of the court who judged Pacciani at the Appeal, Francesco Ferri - one of the few magistrates who was inspired by the lessons of Alessandro Manzoni and the Verri brothers at the time of Tangentopoli - observed that if the guide rode was one of the 48 Beretta parts that Pacciani had buried at various points in the campaign, logically the prosecutor Paolo Canessa and his team of investigators would have had to unearth another 47, before holding proof: «Have you at least found the map?» Ferri ironized in his book “The Pacciani’s trial, an infamous column?”.
The pieces of the accusatory picture that the prosecutor Canessa had brought to court collapsed one after the other. Among the most important was the Giuseppe Bevilacqua’s testimony. Joe was a former agent of the U.S. Army "criminal police" and superintendent of the Florence American Cemetery.
Bevilacqua had to go to attend the D-Day ceremony in Normandy on June 6, 1994. Lawyers from the US Consulate had warned him about Italian justice: Joe - so he called himself - could have got into a mess. Bevilacqua, however, decided to help investigators. He went to trial and told - in a Napolitan-American slang that amused the Court of First Instance a lot - what he had seen near the scene of the last crime of the Monster, which happened 300 meters from his home.
A newspaper had called Bevilacqua the "super-witness" of the Pacciani case. In the audio recording of the testimony of 1994 - available on Radio Radicale - the director of the cemetery of Falciani does not say much. He only claims to have seen the French victim Nadine Mauriot in a "black bikini" while sunbathing under the pines of Via Scopeti, and then Pacciani walking at the edge of a wood a kilometer ahead, the day before the crime. Later in the recording, Bevilacqua says he doesn't know Pacciani. At that point, a dispute arises over the height of Vampa which leads to a confrontation between the accuser and the accused. The two are brought together. Huddle. The scene ended with the astonished words of the counselor Bevacqua: «They are very similar, Mister President!». Pacciani's lawyer highlighted how difficult it could be to identify two unknown people with almost identical builds. When Bevilacqua then insists on claiming that he learned of the murders since the following morning of the crime (the news had not yet been released), the memory of the "super-witness" is believed to be flawed. There were no other people who had seen Pacciani near a crime scene.
After a first condemnation, the Vampa was acquitted: «Pacciani - judge Ferri writes - is condemned at first instance without the necessary proofs, on the basis of dialectical tricks, obvious illogicality, speculations, and mere invectives.» After the acquittal, Ferri resigned as judge in controversy with the judiciary order.
The companions of snacks
Giancarlo Lotti, called "Katanga", didn’t go back even when he was wrong. The fact that he didn't even have a primary school certificate is one of the reasons why he had to beg for food and accommodation on a daily basis. However, at fifty he still said: «The school is useless.» Lotti would not go back on his decisions, not even on the testimony on the alleged "monsters" of Florence.
At the beginning of 1996, Pacciani was about to be acquitted, the State - usually absent in this case - arrived at Lotti's house (that is, from the priest who hosts him) offering him real accommodation and a salary. In return, Katanga had only one thing to do: become the famous witness who defeated the Monster of Florence. Lotti knew Pacciani. He knew he was a violent individual. And then he was stingy: he had never given him a penny in his life. This is how Lotti, who had no money for gasoline or wine, accepted and began to "sing".
There is a reason why Katanga is the Beta and not the Alpha witness: his testimony is later than that of his friend of “tours”, Fernando Pucci. The Alfa witness, Pucci, is the origin of the theory of the "Companions of snacks".
In January 1996, Pucci reported to the SAM led by Michele Giuttari at the time that he and his friend Lotti had seen Pacciani in Scopeti on September 8, 1985. They were driving in Lotti's (uninsured) car. They had stopped at the pitch where the French were to urinate, then - Pucci recalled - he felt one, two shots, and went to see that he was there. In the video filmed at the trial, the images following the moment when Pucci told this story, focus on his friend Katanga, in the Court House, who raised his hand and said: «I told Fernando those things.» The story that Pucci has just told was invented: it was not at Scopeti. And Pucci himself immediately confirmed the words of his friend: «Yes, Lotti told me about these things.» It was now clear to the whole Court that the certificate of oligophrenia (or dementia) of the Tuscany Region that Pucci had exhibited before testifying had been given to him for a reason.
Former prosecutor Tony comments on the decision to bring Alfa and Beta to trial as follows: «Let's forget Pucci, who - poor fellow - had a mental illness. I remember, however, that when Lotti's name came out, the priest who had him in charge called to the Prosecutor's Office to warn us not to listen to him.» Yet, Beta would be the pillar (the only one, after Alfa's exploit) of the theory of the so-called "Companions of snacks", a group composed of the farmer Pacciani, the illiterate Lotti and the postman Mario Vanni, called Torsolo, who would have killed the couples.
«Neither Torsolo nor Katanga knew how to shoot,» Tony observes, «and none of them had the physique or mind of the serial killer. Not even Pacciani.» None of them, on September 9, 1983, with a demijohn of red wine in the stomach would never have succeeded with one loader to hit the two young Germans - Horst Wilhelm Meyer and Jens-Uwe Rüsch - to death in the dark, and through the plates of a Volkswagen minibus.
«Lotti has made several mistakes in reconstructing the dynamics of the murders - concludes Tony -. Sometimes his lies are hateful. Like when on the ‘84 crime, in which Pia Rontini and Claudio Stefanacci lost their lives, he says that the girl died screaming and moaning. But all the forensic doctors' reports say that Pia immediately lost consciousness.
The scientific proof of Lotti's lies
«It is a historical fact that in the trial of the "Companions of snacks” there was not a single evidence of guilt that supported Lotti's testimonies", says Nino Filastò, at the time lawyer of Mario Vanni. But there is scientific evidence to the contrary. One of these was found by a certain "De Gothia". Behind this nickname hid a brilliant "mostrologist" who for years dedicated himself to the study of the crimes of the Monster, divulging his investigations in publications on the web. De Gothia demolished Lotti's testimony starting from an image taken by Ennio Macconi, photographer of La Nazione, on June 22, 1982, in the aftermath of the crime "number 4" of the Monster. The photograph captures the victims’ car, kidnapped in the parking lot of the Carabinieri di Signa, and scientifically proves that Lotti simply "copied" the investigators' version (wrong). But he saw nothing.
The Fiat 147 in which Paolo Mainardi and Antonella Migliorini were killed in 1982 had been found by rescuers and law enforcement officers a few minutes after the crime, in a drainage canal that flanked the road, on the opposite side to where the victims had parked. The driver's door was locked.
The investigators and Lotti have always claimed that the "Companions of snacks" attacked the couple and, therefore, that Paolo, in an attempt to escape, ended up off the road in reverse with the car. Things didn't turn out that way. De Gothia promptly dismantles the official reconstruction of the crime, based on the law of gravity. In the photograph taken by Macconi to the car of the victims, a drop of blood appears clearly perpendicular to the ground on the lower part of the driver's door, at the height of the seal. Blood dripped onto the hull while the car was level and the door was open. The car, however, was found in an oblique position and with the door closed and locked. As the blood thickens in six long minutes, the victims could only have been mortally wounded when the killer had closed the car door. Evidently, concluded De Gothia, it was the Monster, not Mainardi, who had driven the car out of the pitch, making a mistake and ending up in the canal. Angrily throwing the car keys and wasting three bullets - as the Monster did - one per headlight and one on the windshield, after such a slip, was certainly more logical than doing it before having killed the couple in the spot.
Lotti lied. This is scientific proof. Not as objectionable as they were (in the Court's opinion) the other six testimonies of that evening which contradicted the Beta’s version.
The companions’ motor pool
According to Lotti's words, he and his acquaintances moved through the streets of Mugello and Chianti with a little fleet of cars to plan and carry out their crimes. «According to Lotti, on the evening of June 19, 1982, two cars were parked along the straight stretch of Via Virginio Nuova,» says Francesco Cappelletti, writer and specialist of the Monster case, «but nobody has seen them. How is it possible?».
Via Virginio is a strip of asphalt that runs for kilometers in the Chianti countryside. The point where Mainardi's car was found is at the center of a stretch hundreds of meters long and without crossbeams, apart from a closed alley. «And still», comments Cappelletti, «there are five eyewitnesses who did not see the Companions of Snacks’ cars that evening». «The cars the witnesses drove - the writer continues - proceeded from the two opposite directions of the road. They noticed the victims’ Fiat 147 before and after it fell in the canal, but not the two cars described by Lotti. The interval of witnesses’ sighting is a few minutes. If none of them saw one of the Companions of Snacks, nor did they ever cross one of their cars, it is because Lotti lied ».
To support the fact that Lotti has told a lie, in addition to the force of gravity and the eyes of the five witnesses who saw the crime scene that evening immediately before and after the aggression, there is a sixth witness, Lorenzo Allegranti, the stretcher bearer who rescued the two victims. Allegranti has always claimed that the boy dying was in the back seat and not on the front seat of the car, where instead he should have been, according to Lotti's story. Allegranti's testimony was ignored by the Court which condemned Lotti and Vanni as accomplishes of a supposed Monster (Pietro Pacciani, who died before another trial). The definitive sentence of the Court of Florence transformed the serial killer of the couples (lonely, cold and calculating, who successfully challenged the police) in a grotesque combination of the cultured and secular "black soul" of Florence, and a bunch of patrons from the “Taverna del Diavolo” of Scandicci who worked - presumably - on commission of some Masonic lodge.
Italian Authorities in the ’90 and 2000s had gradually passed from an investigation on a murderer on whom all criminological science pointed (and points) to the search of a large community of sinners, without ever reaching the real culprit. It is no coincidence that the only existing “procedural truth” to date is that no one was found definitively guilty as main responsible for the crimes charged to the Monster of Florence. «The serial killer, if he is alive, is still at large,» Cappelletti comments.
This inquiry continues here.
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2020.06.26 08:31 Ikuku_vn Voyeur home tv

Visual novel My future had to be the brightest. At least, that's what I thought.
Three Stones, small sleepy town on the edge of the world, hidden safe and sound behind the mountains. Our people are devout and pious, shunning from the vanities of the world. In this place misdeeds are a rare, and one stolen dog makes a scandal.
My home.

A detective story from somewhere nowhere
Raid is a detective visual novel with choices and consequences, unfolding in a cold, slow-paced, lost-in-time way of the scandinavian TV-shows. It's a story about coming back home to your new old life and being immediately dragged into a tornado of troubles. Now you need to find the one responsible for a crime before the hell breaks loose. You'll make a good hound, your mentor told you.
In this game we tried to tell a linear story in a non-linear way. The protagonist of Raid has a distinct personality that sways her choices and decisions, and the world is much too big and heavy for you to change the events to come. But the game will give you enough freedom to go to the right place just the right time and change the flow — and the outcome — of some.
The game features:
  • 7 main characters (including the protagonist) and a wide and varied supporting cast;
  • 5 different endings with some epilogues on top, concluding and explaining things that happened to some of the characters;
  • choices that'll make you face the consequences of your actions;
  • interactive detective board with suspects and clues;
  • adult content, sexual content included, mainly voyeurism and masturbation;
  • overally distressed characters and questions of belief;
submitted by Ikuku_vn to visualnovels [link] [comments]

2020.05.29 04:13 Max_Evry Tv voyeur home

The illusion of choice. With the advent of high-speed internet and the streaming revolution, TV viewers nowadays can often feel overwhelmed with the sheer number of choices they have at their disposal. Not just thousands of shows, but thousands of CHANNELS. A channel for everything. A channel streaming footage of blind rescued cats from North Carolina. A channel about chopping firewood. A channel showing you how to assemble an AR-15 rifle. The illusion of all this choice is 98% of those reading this will simply put all these options to the back of their minds and binge watch Stranger Things and Narcos like everyone else… Everyone else except me, that is.
Yes, I'm that creep in the 2% that actually seeks out the weird, obscure and just plain coo-coo-bananas streaming channels that most people don't give two shits about.
My obsession kicked into overdrive when –in a series of unfortunate events I'd rather not get into here- I lost my steady gig four months ago and, bolstered by a cocktail of anti-depressants, have been riding the New York State unemployment train. At least, until I have to make a quick transfer to the Welfare train. Between odd Craigslist gigs to make extra cash and an ever-diminishing number of job interviews, I found myself sleeping in later and later, to the point where I'm often just getting up at 3 or 4pm and not drifting off to the land of nod until dawn (with aid of my Etsy-bought sleeping mask shaped like Grumpy Cat).
As you might have guessed, during those aimless late nights I'm burning through my precious God-given gift of life watching TV. A lot of TV. My TV had built-in streaming, but after cancelling my holy trinity Netflix/Hulu/Amazon subscriptions to trim expenses, I began to rely on the numerous free channels at my disposal. Once you settled into the steady rhythm of poor picture quality and commercial interruptions from auto dealerships in Wisconsin, there were hours of entertainment to be had: Grainy kung-fu flicks from the 70's, Christian yoga and 24-hours-a-day of Gumby.
Occasionally I would try to educate myself with a 10-minute news summary from Bloomberg, or teach myself how to cook bharwan bhindi while eating the leftover second half of my Subway $5 Dollar Foot-Long from the day before. To make life more interesting I started challenging myself to watch a new channel every day, working my way through everything from a cartoon panda teaching me Spanish, to NASA satellite footage, to a channel designed to help dogs relax.
Believe it or not, boredom started to set in, so I decided to dig deeper: Private Channels. Although not without a certain bootleg mystique, Private Channels weren't as illicit as they sounded, usually just unofficial third-party channels for a streaming service without an official app, and not publically listed. Oh, and porn. So much porn.
I even tried to get my roommate Greg into Private Channels, but he said they were "so boring" they made him want to shoot himself in the head.
"I'll stick with Netflix, thank you," he kept telling me.
Granted, there was some truly bizarre stuff I discovered and maybe will get into some other time, but I want to focus on one channel specifically: RSO: RUSSIAN SOAP OPERA.
Now before you start rushing to look up the channel code for the Russian Soap Opera, let me say straight up that it's no longer available, and even the Reddit thread where I saw the code posted has been deleted. All trace of its existence seems to have been purged… And even if it wasn't I wouldn't tell you.
Do I wish I had recorded at least a snippet of footage on my phone? Sure, but to be honest I got too caught up in the madness of it to even think to do that.
One night about a week ago, with my roommate Greg staying at his girlfriend's and me alone in the apartment, RSO: Russian Soap Opera showed up on my TV's home page. It appeared about 24 hours after I had entered the code into the accounts page on my device, along with a few other codes… including a channel with a guy who does magic tricks in his garage.
Everything about RSO screamed "no budget, no frills." Even the box you clicked on to stream the channel was unusually spartan, with no logo or anything, just a basic font with the name.
Once I got to the episode listings there were only two, sans titles. Just little black boxes that said "1" and "2." I clicked on "1" and the action began right away with no credits, already a bad sign…
No matter how little you may think you know about Russia as a country, I know less. You might think of vodka, Borscht, computer hackers or Vlad Putin. With a show called "Russian Soap Opera" I was maybe expecting tales of forbidden romance set amid a bleak Siberian landscape with a bunch of folks wearing furry ushanka-hats, or even a crime saga about the corrupt world of the Russian mob. Nope. The first episode of "RSO" didn't shoot a frame in the former Soviet Union. It was all filmed right here in New York City, USA.
And when I say "filmed," I mean it was shot VERY poorly in 4:3 square format, probably on a 20-year-old DV camera. It had that washed-out "shot-on-tape" look that even the crappiest phone cameras these days could best. I mean, I need you to know it looked AWFUL. To quote MST3K, every frame looked like someone's last known photograph.
So what was it, exactly? The show followed two mustachioed Russian men, both in their late-30s/early-40's who worked as movers in and around Brooklyn. They drove a beat up looking Chevy panel van from the 90's, something the kids these days might refer to as a "rape van." Personally, I think "rape van" might have been too charitable for this scary hunk of junk.
With their identical mustaches, slight frames, dead eyes and rough faces indicating plenty of mileage, the only way to really differentiate the two men was one constantly wore sunglasses while the other was balding. The latter wispy-haired guy seemed to be the subordinate of the sunglasses guy. Since I never caught their names I started to refer to them as "Rusky & Hutch." To myself, I mean.
The chain of long, clumsy handheld shots with poor audio that made up the first episode followed the pair as they drove their moving van to an apartment in Bed-Stuy and helped a couple move their furniture out. The men would occasionally make asides to each other in Russian, but there were no English subtitles so I couldn't really judge their acting chops per-se.
As for the thesps hired to play the American couple, they were INCREDIBLY stiff, with simple lines like "You'll have to wrap the couch cushions separately" or "That vase is my grandmother's, be very careful" spit out so awkwardly I started to wonder if they had even been in front of a camera before, even a security camera. Their acting was so bizarrely bad it actually troubled me.
These weren't really scenes, per se. They were more like watching someone's mundane home movies. I even saw the longhaired CAMERAMAN reflected in the apartment mirror for a second! Terrible filmmaking. You couldn't hear them talking sometimes because said Cameraman was so far away from the action, and they clearly didn't have the budget for a sound guy. The lack of music also made the proceedings extra unsettling.
Once the Balding Man and Sunglasses Man had loaded the van with a couch, a flatscreen TV and several other boxes of valuables, the show skipped over them delivering said items to the couple's new apartment and simply faded to the Balding Man's arrival at his own home in the middle of the night.
His neighborhood was mostly composed of old row houses, maybe East New York? Wherever it was, the Balding Man had to go through a back alley and down a set of steps to a basement-level apartment. The handheld camera followed him like a stalker, and he occasionally looked back at the Cameraman.
Once he made it into the basement it cut to the interior, the style switching up to a static camera now clearly mounted on a tripod all the way in the back of the one-room apartment. With the wide shot you could take in the whole dimly-lit space:
A small, dirty twin mattress with no sheet lay on the carpeted floor. A catatonic-looking Woman in her early 30's was lying on top of it. She was only wearing blue panties and a gray t-shirt with a few holes in it. Through the strands of dark hair draped over her face you could make out her dead eyes staring straight into the camera.
Next to her were several half-eaten sandwiches still in their plastic store wrappers. A Poland Spring water cooler stood a few feet away from the bed. Above the water cooler was one tiny window letting in streetlight from above ground. On the other side of the room was one small clothes dresser, an electric light with no lampshade on top of it. The bare orange bulb was basically the only light source in the room, casting eerie shadows. Two white pipes ran across the stained ceiling. That was it.
The Balding Man walked inside, shutting and chain-locking the door. He took off his coat, tossing it on the floor. He walked right past the Woman on the mattress without addressing her, straight to the back of the room near where the camera was. He stared blankly at something in anticipation. The hissing audio of the silent room made it all the more creepy. God I wished they had put some music over this part.
This part… Here's where things got weird. Yes, as if they weren't weird before, right? The static camera did a 180-degree cut to the man's point of view, and we see what's in the back of the room: A child's crib.
Through the white slats of the crib -covered in splotches of red paint- a shadow of something moved inside. A Baby? The thing inside pulled itself up so its head peaked over the top wooden beam of the crib to reveal… how do I even describe this thing?
It appeared to be a poorly made foam latex puppet of a 1-year-old Baby, with glowing red LED lights in its eyes. I don't mean that its eyes were glowing red LIKE a pair of LEDs, I mean they were visibly LED lights. It was very shoddy, as was the puppeteering work. All it could do was tilt its head slowly from side to side and open its mouth slightly.
The camera switched back to the POV from the crib to show both the Man and the Woman now standing next to each other. You could see the glow of the Baby puppet's two LEDs on the Woman's shirt.
Without any prompting, the Man and the Woman began to… well, dance. Not a joyful dance, a kind of slow Bataan Death March of bobbing and sidestepping. The couple's arms flailed like zombies. It's the kind of dance you would expect someone to do if they were being held at gunpoint.
I know what you might be thinking: Baby puppets with glowing eyes? Two poor assholes dancing against their will? It might sound funny, but I'm telling you right now it was NOT in any way amusing.
And it went on and on for at least 10 or 15 minutes, just these two moving monotonously to no music or sound, clearly exhausted. As for my own reaction, I went from morbid curiosity to a kind of silent distress for these people. This didn't seem like a show, it seemed like something no decent person should be witnessing. I felt like a voyeur, watching a video some sick pervert had paid to have made for their private collection or something.
Just as inexplicably as it started the slow dancing ended, the couple standing there taking deep breaths for a minute before trudging towards the twin mattress where they both laid down, exhausted. The camera remained in place for several minutes just watching the Man and Woman fall asleep. You could actually hear the Balding Man's snores faintly through the silence of this underground bunker of an apartment, still lit by that one bare bulb.
Suddenly the camera jiggled, then began to move. It was like whoever was operating it had taken it off the tripod and walked to the middle of the room across from the sleeping couple. The hand of the Cameraman appeared in front of the lens holding an object –A ROCK- in his hand. The mid-sized rock was held up to the camera for several seconds, anticipating what the sadistic person intended to do… which was to throw the rock at the sleeping Man.
The sound of the rock hitting the Man's side, and the startled cry of pain he let out, was agonizing. The Balding Man did not get out of the bed, he just covered his head with his arms and began to sob.
The Cameraman's hand appeared again, holding up another rock. He threw it even harder, hitting the Man's back. You could hear the impact louder this time, but the Man just continued to sob.
Then the footage ended, fading to black. On the TV it went back to the menu screen with the two black boxes labeled "1" and "2".
JESUS. What the fuck did I just watch?
If this was real it was like watching some snuff torture porn bullshit you'd see on 4chan. If it was fake, whoever was making it clearly fancied himself some kind of a 99-cent store David Lynch.
Now if you were me, would you have watched the second video on the spot, right then and there? Well I didn't. That first RSO video made me feel gross. Mind you, I've seen some sick stuff in my time, but I hadn't felt such a garbage feeling on the inside as I had with this.
Went to bed unusually early for me, 1am. I ran the episode I'd just watched back over in my head. The scene where the Man had rocks thrown at him had been jarring, but in retrospect the most disturbing part was when the Man and Woman were dancing. It was as if they were in a trance. They moved like they had no choice.
That night I had bad dreams I can't remember, and woke up the next day at 11am. After getting dressed up all spiffy I headed into Midtown Manhattan and fake-smiled my way through another interview for a thankless job in a nondescript building I knew I wasn't going to get. A waste of cologne and subway fare. For some reason I remember wanting to tell this hapless assistant who was interviewing me about the strange video I had seen the night before, but thought better of it. There was an irrational need to talk about this Russian Soap Opera… and to see what came next.
Grabbing my usual $5 Dollar Cold Cut Combo, I raced home on the J train, got back to the apartment, powered up the Roku TV, unwrapped my sandwich and braced myself as –against my better judgment- I hit play on RSO Episode "2".
Like the first episode, Episode 2 began straight away with no opening credits. The Balding Man was getting dropped off in his neighborhood by the Sunglasses Man at dusk, a static shot from the alley. Thick fog gave everything a frightening aura. You could barely see the outlines of the trees, row houses or even that white panel van as it drove off.
The Balding Man walked through the same alley he had used to get to his basement apartment in the first episode, but he stopped halfway through. The POV reversed to show what the Man was looking at: In the middle of the fog-drenched alley stood a DOG, a Siberian Husky with piercing bright blue eyes. The animal stood rooted to a spot and stared at the Man. He approached it slowly, but the Husky did not waver.
Kneeling down in front of the stoic animal, he put his hand in front of the Dog's nose to show he was friendly. No sniffing. No movement at all. Just that icy stare directly at the Man.
The next shot was taken from a rare close-up angle: The guy reached down to the Dog's tag dangling from a collar around its neck. The silver tag read "IVAN". Cutting back to the Man, he had a strange unsettled reaction to reading the Dog's name.
It went back to a jerky handheld shot hovering over the Man. He actually turned and looked into the camera, as if he was seeking approval from it for whatever he does next. Here's what he did…
(Remember my description of the Baby from Episode 1? How I said it was obviously a terrible cheap puppet with LEDs for eyes? Well this next part couldn't have been real, but I swear on my life it looked 100% legit. Based on what had come before I know these guys did not have access to cutting edge CGI or make-up effects or anything like that.)
So with a good amount of hesitation, the guy rolls up his right sleeve and puts his hand to the Dog's maw. It opened its jaws as wide as it could, without growling, and then the Man put his hand inside the Dog's mouth. He pushed his probing hand further in, until it passed into the canine's throat. As he probed deeper his ENTIRE FOREARM was INSIDE the Dog. While he was doing this, the Dog didn't so much as flinch. I kept thinking it had to be a prosthetic or animatronic or something. Looking at the Dog's belly you could see it rising and falling as it breathed, and then a slight distention as the Balding Man's hand probed the animal's insides.
The Man looked terrified, understandably. This was not a normal thing he was doing by any means. There was a sudden change in his expression, as if he found what his hands were searching for in the animal's stomach. He began to pull his arm back out through the Dog's wide-open mouth. The arm emerged covered in a kind of black viscera that dripped off onto the sidewalk. The Man's breathing got more intense, like he was hyperventilating. As he pulled the latter half of his forearm out the Dog must have clamped down a little bit because its teeth carved a few small tears in the Man's flesh. The guy winced at the pain.
When his whole arm and hand emerged from out of the Dog he was holding a large, black hammer. The man looked at it perplexed, then looked back at the camera and said something in Russian that I did not understand. Then he said it again, tears in his eyes, almost yelling. The Dog just walks away, out of the alley, disappearing into the fog.
There's a cut as we're now in the apartment again, all the way at the back of the room. Even further back than in the last episode, we actually see the top slats of the crib at the bottom of the shot.
Where the dirty mattress once was now sat a couch, the SAME COUCH that the two men got from the apartment in Bed-Stuy in Episode 1. The exact same one. The Woman was lying on the couch in a torn shirt and panties similar to those she wore in the last video. She lay there on her side in a catatonic stupor.
The Balding Man approached the crib with the hammer in his blackened hand. He walked slowly, purposefully. Staring directly into the camera, he gradually lifted the hammer above his head, as if ready to strike the camera itself.
He couldn't, though.
Something, some force beyond his control was keeping him from bringing the hammer down. His face strained. The single lightbulb on the lamp flickered, causing a strobe effect on the image. He had chosen to strike the camera or whoever was holding it, but it was the illusion of choice. In reality, he had no control.
Keeping the hammer held in the air, the Man's body swiveled and turned around towards the couch. As if propelled by a sudden force of will, his feet rushed over to the couch and the Man began raining down heavy and fast blows onto the Woman's head.
He pummeled her with the hammer so fast and with such bloody force that she never made so much as a whimper. All that could be heard were the wet smacks as her skull caved in, her legs and arms reflexively spasming for a few moments until they lay dormant. Even after she was clearly dead the Man continued to smash her and smash her and smash her. Eventually her head had been pulverized into an unrecognizable mound of mashed brain matter, blood, hair and cracked pieces of skull.
I vomited onto the rug.
This was not fake. This Woman had just been killed right in front of me on television. I had no idea who she was, but this swift and senseless act of murder had ended her life in an unconscionable way.
I paused the episode to clear my head for a second and just catch my breath. This strange show had taken a turn that made it difficult to process just what it is I was seeing. Was this all some kind of sick staged performance, or something genuinely supernatural? Mind control… unnatural creatures… dark magic… I just didn't know what to make of it, only that it was evil and to watch it was clouding my very soul, like black ink spilled into a glass of water.
I hit play.
After several more ferocious, pointless hammer blows the Balding Man suddenly stopped, his frenzy cut off as if a switch had been thrown. He stood over the Woman's bloodied corpse breathing heavily from the exertion. He stared down at her as if he was waking up, just as shocked as I had been a moment earlier.
The man began to cry. The hammer dropped out of his hands and onto the floor with a thud, leaving a splash of blood around where it fell. He fell to his knees weeping. He touched her shoulders, shaking her as if she could possibly wake up. He then reached his hand into the pile of viscera where her head had been, sinking his fingers into it gently.
He pulled his hand from out of the gore and picked up the hammer once again. He began yelling something incomprehensible and smashed the side of his own head with the tool several times, splitting his ear open in several places.
The Man then turned back to the crib where the Cameraman had been filming the whole time. The camera tilted up slightly as the Man got nearer, a frighteningly smooth movement done with a coolness that belied everything that had just happened in the last few minutes.
Reaching into the crib, the Man pulled the fake Baby puppet with the glowing red LED eyes out. He held it in his blood-caked hands with pure hatred and contempt, but as moments passed his expression changed from rage to fear. Absolute terror. The Man's breathing got heavier the longer he stared into this lifeless thing's eyes. He began to scream.
The screaming continued horrifically even as the Baby puppet inexplicably and spontaneously burst into flames. The fire instantly covered the Man's hands and spread quickly to his blood-stained shirt until it engulfed his entire body in a matter of seconds.
The Man's scream became audibly contorted as the flames no doubt savaged his vocal cords, the sound eventually fading even as he stood impossibly upright and still while his entire body burned.
The flames spread across the room, licking the couch and furniture until the whole room was an inferno. Even the slats of the crib visible at the bottom of the frame lit up.
At this point the Cameraman lifted the camera slowly and continued to capture the room as smoke and fire began to obscure the lens. While I can't be sure of what I saw given the distortion of the image, I believe the last thing visible in frame before the whole scene went dark was the camera going straight into the flaming Man, at last tipping him over onto the floor before the screen went black.
Needless to say, it took me awhile to recover from seeing all that play out in front of my disbelieving eyes.
Then I watched it again, both episodes.
Remember when I said I saw the couch from Episode 1 in the Man's apartment in Episode 2? Well in rewatching Episode 1 I paid extra attention to the brief point in the couple's apartment when I could see the longhaired Cameraman in the mirror. I paused that moment, and even with the lousy resolution of the fuzzy DV footage I now noticed that in his right hand was the small handheld camera, and down by his side his left hand held a GUN, a silver revolver. That was why the couple acted so bizarre in Episode 1… they were being forced to "act" at gunpoint by the psychopath who put this "show" together.
I was now also convinced of two things:
1) The Baby was absolutely fake, a puppet.
2) The Dog with the tag that read "IVAN" was absolutely real, as was the surreal act of pulling the hammer out of its body.
Now it was the moment of truth. Given that the Russian Soap Opera recognizably took place in New York, I had to find out if there really was a huge fire in a basement apartment sometime recently.
Digging through the internet I saw articles about several big blazes in large scale apartment complexes, but nothing in a smaller, row house-type situation. Finally I came across a Brooklyn community bulletin site that listed "lesser" fires and there had been one less than two weeks prior.
"A two-alarm fire at an apartment in Sheepshead Bay, Brooklyn was contained after 9:30pm Thursday by 20 firefighters who quickly put out the blaze. While the fire did not spread to neighboring apartments connected to the building at ____________ Street, two individuals who lived in the basement unit were reported as casualties, the badly burned corpses identified as Anna Krovopuskov (age 29) and Ivan Sobakin (age 42). The family living in the aboveground unit was safely evacuated, while three fire fighters suffered non-life threatening injuries. The cause of the fire is still under investigation, and police have yet to rule out foul play."
Ivan. So that was why the Man gave such a startled look when he examined the Dog's nametag. It was his own name. A sign. An omen.
Before I knew it I saw the sun peaking through my bedroom window and realized I hadn't slept all night. A temp agency I was already on thin ice with had booked me for two days of work scanning files at a brokerage in Midtown. To be honest I desperately needed the money from that gig to pay my next month's rent, but in my bloodshot, half-crazed state I decided to blow it off. I didn't even call in to cancel, and when the agency phoned me several times I let it go straight to voicemail. You already know where I went instead…
Upon taking the Q-train to Sheepshead Bay I walked through the mostly residential area, passing a few Russian/Jewish pharmacies and bakeries along the way. Using GPS I made my way to the row house building reported in the article, and saw the charred, soot-stained alleyway still behind police tape.
While using the zoom during an attempt to take a photo with my phone something caught my eye on the screen. It was a shadow at the end of the alley, near the burned-out husk of the basement apartment. It was the Dog.
I stood there frozen for a minute, staring at the animal. Then it started to move towards me. Panicking, I turned and started walking back in the direction I came, now convinced that this had been a bad idea.
My feet propelled me down the sidewalk, but when I turned back after several blocks I was unnerved to see the Dog following me, slowly but steadily. As it was only a block or so away I quickened my pace, trying not to look behind me. I must have gone ten blocks before my ankles started to burn, and when I glanced back the Dog was even closer, half a block.
Finally the green globes of the subway entrance were in sight, and I went into a full-on sprint, but accidentally bumped into a passing female jogger, knocking us both to the ground.
Far from annoyed, the jogger started to laugh. God help me, I've never seen a mean-spirited person on a runner's high. As I was offering to help her up the Dog appeared directly behind me, sitting down.
"Aww, is he yours?" she asked.
I didn't reply verbally, still unnerved by the very presence of the animal. I just shook my head negative.
"Huh, I saw him right behind you, assumed you were both out for a jog," she said, petting the unmoving Dog. She felt for its collar, then said the name on the tag aloud. It was my own name.
I backed away and headed down the subway stairwell. I could hear the jogger woman yelling back at me, asking if I was sure the Dog wasn't mine.
Waiting for the train to come, I sat on a wooden bench, catching my breath.
My own name. Not "IVAN." My name.
I looked up from the grimy station floor, staring at the denizens of the track across the way going the opposite direction. Amid the crowd my eyes caught a glimpse of someone pushing a black baby stroller. A man. A long-haired man. I immediately averted my eyes back to the floor, then closed them until I heard the train coming.
Something –call it intuition- was telling me that as deep into this as I was already, I didn't want to see that man's face. This Cameraman, whoever he was, must be some force of evil. That much was clear. To see his face would be to lose it all. My life, my sanity, or any sense of peace I would ever have would all disappear if I saw his face.
But I didn't. I stared at the floor as I boarded the Q-train and headed away from that neighborhood, that apartment, that Dog and that Cameraman forever, lord willing.
Back at my apartment things were quiet. I had been so wrapped up in all this Russian Soap Opera stuff that I didn't even realize that my roommate Greg hadn't been back here in three days. I wanted to confide in somebody about the RSO, just to have someone acknowledge that it was all "crazy" and I needed to "forget about it"… but he wasn't there. I knew this was his day off from work too.
I tried reaching him on the phone. No answer. I tried reaching his girlfriend on the phone. No answer. I checked their Facebook pages. Neither had posted anything in three days. None of this was usual for them, but maybe I was just being anxious due to what I had just been through.
With no one around I started to spiral into my own head, as I am want to do. I started to think that maybe I needed to leave town, that my time in New York had run its course. No job prospects. Temp work bridges burnt. No girlfriend. No friends. Not even a roommate at the moment. I thought I could hack it in this city, that I had a choice not to go crawling back to my parents' basement with my tail tucked between my legs. Turns out that was the illusion of choice.
Life had become too lonely and too frightening here, and I didn't want to wait to find out what would happen if I stayed. I began to feel like I had to leave right then.
I bought a bus ticket back to Delaware. I called up my parents to tell them I was coming in the next day, that I had run out of options. After I got off the phone I started to cry a little, thinking about the life I could have had in this city: A job, a wife, a kid, a dog, my own place. All the things people wanted, and all I had was a ghastly supernatural television mockery.
I tried getting ahold of Greg again by phone and text. No answer, despite the urgency of the messages I was leaving. If I skipped out on my final rent check maybe then he would call me back. Or maybe not.
After packing all my meager possessions into three small suitcases I switched on the TV. The last thing in the world I wanted to think about now was the goddamn Russian Soap Opera, but there it was, still set to that show page… except now there was a third little black box on the screen with the label "3." A new episode, and all I had to do was click on it.
I'll stick with Netflix, thank you.
submitted by Max_Evry to nosleep [link] [comments]

2020.05.22 14:29 Rubberout Acoss the Hall part 1 (fiction)

Chapter 1
Sarah turned the TV off and sighed. Reaching over the side of the bed, her hand brushed carpet until it found her cellphone. Pulling it up to her face, she hit a random button and the dark screen came to life.
"Unbelievable," she muttered to herself. Not only had she been stood up by Eric-the-asshole, but now she couldn't sleep.
If it hadn't been for the fact that Blake had their kids this weekend, she would have just gone home. Her lying douche-bag of an ex-boyfriend had taken her house and had forced her into living with her parents. Which left going back home out of the picture.
Sarah hadn't expected to be asking her new best friend to crash at her place tonight. She was supposed to have been on a date with Eric... their third date.
She looked up at the popcorn ceiling and clenched her teeth. It had been far too long since she had gotten any. The last time had been 9 months before her youngest son was born. She loved both of her children, dearly, but her youngest son was five now and mommy needed something.
"Shhhh. Not so loud!" a hushed voice, broken by giggles, came from behind Sarah's door.
She blinked away all thoughts of Eric, and found herself sitting up out of reflex. Straining her ears, she heard footsteps coming from the hallway.
"Don't shush me woman!" This time, Sarah caught the distinctive male voice of John. Katie, her best friend, had recently gotten hitched by John. In fact, they'd just gotten back from their honeymoon--just another reason why she felt like crap for imposing on them.
"John... What are you... Here?!" Katie gasped. Sarah could hear the smile in her voice.
"Hmmm," came the response.
Sarah heard the bathroom door just across the hall creak open. "What if she's awake?"
She froze, realizing her body had already moved toward the half opened door.
"Let her watch," John breathed.
As Sarah reached the dark threshold, she tried to justify her intrusion with curious ignorance but even that sounded like denial.
The moonlight from the bathroom's skylight illuminated two bodies. Katie, wearing only a tight t-shirt and a thong, was lifted up onto the bathroom's counter-top by her husband. Hard nipples attempted to break free from the shirt until John peeled it away. For the first time, Sarah got a glimpse of her best friend topless.
She'd never fantasized about another woman before, but the sight made Sarah's mouth dry.
"What is going on with me? I shouldn't be watching this," Sarah told herself.
Just as she turned her head back toward her room, John's voice answered like the little devil on her shoulder, "Let her watch."
Sarah turned her focus on John and discovered the skinny man was actually just really lean. His normal slacks and a button up shirt had been replaced by pajama pants. That is, pajama pants sporting a sizeable tent. And while the moonlight didn’t reveal everything, Sarah could tell his bare chest was down right lickable.
And then something unexpected happened. She was wet.
"Oh god," Katie said, giving voice to Sarah's thoughts.
While she couldn't see what John was doing to her, there was enough light for Sarah's imagination. He'd pushed her thong to the side and was fingering her.
Slowly, as if afraid to wake up, Sarah moved her hands to her shorts. When her fingers found the elastic band, they started trembling--but it wasn't enough to stop her. As she slowly dropped her shorts, she smelled her own arousal. Soft carpet kissed her knees as she rested her head against the door frame and slid an index finger along her wet slit.
John's mouth had found Katie's and she started to moan. His lips made their way down her neck to her erect nipples and Sarah saw his tongue flick out like a snake.
"Oh. My. God!" Katie whispered a little louder. He switched to sucking and she immediately let out with another moan.
Meanwhile, Sarah started tweaking her right nipple as she continued her slow rub.
"I can’t believe how wet I am," Sarah thought.
"Damn it John, put it in me."
Katie's hand had disappeared into John's pants and he grunted. Pushing away from her, he pulled his pajama bottoms down and exposed one of the largest cocks Sarah had ever seen.
"No wonder she loves him," Sarah thought, getting more hot and bothered.
Katie tried to pull her own thong off but John swatted her hand away. She made an annoyed sound but her hands stayed still as he took a knee and slid her thong off.
Sarah's hand had progressively increased its rubbing, occasionally bumping into her now engorged clit. Seeing Katie's glistening love hole gave her another unexpected but naughty feeling--and she had to stifle a moan. Aside from her own, she'd never seen another woman's aroused pussy. She hadn't even experimented in college like some of her girlfriends.
John didn't get up though and started kissing her inner thighs.
"Baby..." Katie giggled, shying away from his lips. "You know that beard of yours tickles."
John took a long whiff from his wife's wet hole and when he stood up, Katie immediately grabbed his meat.
Sarah stifled another moan when an unexpected thought crossed her mind. She'd imagined their roles being reversed. That she was the one grabbing his cock and Katie was watching her.
Katie guided him forward until his head slowly penetrated her wet pussy. Sarah slid her index finger in at the same time.
"Baby, you're big," Katie complained, and then bit her lower lip like a porn star.
Sarah watched John's ass move back and forward, slowly. Her finger mimicked his motions and she added her middle finger. Leaning back, she made herself a bit more comfortable. The smell of pussy filled her nose.
Katie grunted like a bitch in heat as her husband slowly pushed further into her, filling her up inch by inch.
"Not so deep baby," Katie gasped as he grabbed her hips.
He pushed Katie into the mirror behind her and tilted her hips up as he slowly fucked her. It was a steady rhythm, one which Sarah easily kept up. From the look on Katie’s face, he was doing a fantastic job.
""Ri--Right there," Katie whimpered, her eyes closed. "Ah!"
Now her heels were digging into his lower back. She was fucking him back.
"Deeper," she panted, "Deeper."
Sarah was soaking wet. She couldn't believe what she was doing but at the same time wanted to be the one getting fucked by John.
John, sensing some timer going off, grabbed her ass and impaled her. Katie gasped as she rocked her hips against him, fucking his cock for him. And then her primal grunts were elongated by what Sarah could clearly see as an orgasm. Having never experienced one during intercourse, Sarah paused her finger-fucking and watched on in amazement. As soon as his wife stopped bucking against him, John resumed his thrusting and she had to bite down onto his shoulder as another orgasm followed the first. She was trying to stifle a scream.
Her heels slowly loosened against his hips and then it was John having his way with his wife. His knees started to bang into the cabinets and his ragged breaths easily reaching Sarah's ears. He was close.
"Baby, cum!" Katie whimpered.
"Let me cum in your mouth," he grunted.
"Does he want to fill her mouth, or does he want her to taste her pussy?" Sarah wondered.
Regardless of the intention behind the request, Sarah wanted to tell him yes.
"No," Katie whispered. "You know I don't like that."
She grabbed his hand though and started sucking on his fingers. John moaned in delight. It was clearly one of his favorites.
Having gotten over her orgasms, Katie started fucking him back with a vengeance.
Sarah moaned at the exquisite scene and closed her eyes. Adding her ring finger into her almost animalistic masturbation session, she started flicking her clit with her thumb and imagined John’s pelvis was doing the flicking as he fucked her.
She wanted to cum with him.
"Ugh." The sound opened Sarah's eyes and she found that Katie had pushed him away from her.
For a split gut-wrenching second, she thought she'd been found. While the newlyweds were busy fucking, her door had slowly opened a bit further and she was spread eagle to them.
The sinking feeling instantly disappeared, however, when John was pushed back against the wall behind him and Katie went to her knees.
She grabbed his wet hard cock and opened her mouth. He moaned loudly as his wife's lips slid down his dick until she was deep-throating him. Sarah couldn't believe the woman didn't gag.
And then her head began to bob.
"Jesus, woman. What's gotten into--" John's words quickly died in his mouth as it was overtaken by another loud moan. He grabbed her head and Katie's hands loosened against his thighs as he took over and started fucking her mouth.
Sarah, wet and horny, watched her naked best friend get mouth-fucked by her husband's giant cock. She'd never, in her life, had fantasized about voyeurism, but she knew after tonight she would. John's knees buckled and Katie willingly followed him down to the floor. He was cumming in her mouth. Sarah felt her own orgasm nearing.
John, panting, leaned his head back against the wall as his wife continue to suck him off, milking every ounce of him. His hand finally came up and he pushed her gently away.
"So close," Sarah muttered to herself.
Just when Sarah's was on the brink of ecstasy, her brain kicked in. The only sound in the house was the lover’s loud breathing and her wet pussy squishing. In a state halfway between fuck-me-now and what-have-I-done, it was a wonder the latter part of her mind won. Begrudgingly, she stopped her soaked hand's ministrations. Even after all that, she still hadn't came. The sexual frustration was almost unbearable.
Gasping, John whispered, "You are by far the best wife a man could ever ask for."
Lifting himself up, he offered his hand to her but she just smiled and shook her head.
His eyes alighted in understanding and he picked up their clothes. "I'll be in bed and probably asleep before you have time to flush. Love you honey."
Katie smiled at her husband, and Sarah could see she really did love him with all her heart. Both Katie and Sarah watched John's sweat covered backside disappear into their bedroom before the door closed.
Sarah, still frozen in her doorway, debated on what to do next but it was quickly decided for her.
Katie looked right at her.
Part two will be posted in the few days on this subreddit https://www.reddit.com/Rape_Incest/
submitted by Rubberout to eroticstoriesxxx [link] [comments]

2020.05.04 00:10 Mysterious-Visit Voyeur tv home

Hi all, before I explain the most preposterous matter of events you’ve probably read in a while I should let you all know that I am the epitome of a rational person, I’m very level headed & is unlike myself to jump to any sort of conclusion that is in any way absurd etc .. however I am at a complete loss at the current matter of events I have been ill-fated with. I am here for some advice & possibly to hear similar stories however I I’m pessimistic to believe anyone has been unfortunate to have suffered the same circumstances.. First off, I have been seeing (we will call him Rodney) for about a year, most of which he lived with me at my house, a few months in his behaviour started to become suspicious, he started to hide away in his room, woman’s voices kept appearing, sexual noises started to come about, when we would share a bed I would wake up in the middle of the night to noises of him and what appeared to be another woman (moaning etc) sometimes I would catch him peering out the bedroom window whilst whispering to someone, after some time it became evident that he was opening the window because every time he would leave the house it was unlocked again. If I mentioned anything he would scream and demean me until I would cry and eventually let the issue go. It got so bad and so many of these instance kept occurring that I started to put my voice recorder on my phone when I would sleep as I couldn’t trust myself to fall asleep otherwise. In the recordings I can hear doors opening, whispering, sexual noises etc .. I’ve spoken to my mother about this as she is always the one to make me see sense when I’m not thinking clearly, however it was her that pushed the issue and mentioned something about voyeurism, from what I have researched o believe this could certainly be a possibility, especially as it was always very clear from the start that his kink was watching me emotionally distressed from his actions & the only time he was in the mood was during a fight when I had been completely distraught .. apart from that he had no interest, especially if I was in the mood - that was a complete turn off for him. However the issue I am faced with now, post his absence (he still visits here and there) is the fact that I can hear people around me, always around the same time at night (2,3am) I hear what sounds like someone jumping the fence & banging and footsteps all around me. It always sounds like there’s someone either under the house or in my backyard having sex & when it makes me upset and I yell out or call Rodney the sounds get louder and louder. Mind you, every time this happens is a time that Rodney goes mia and I am unable to get through to his phone .. My house is on stumps with access via the backyard, however I can’t imagine that under the house would be a desirable location to meet up with somebody. The other thing that has me at a complete loss and is devastating myself is that whenever he decides to visit his first go to is to use my spare bathroom shower, a few months ago I was in my bedroom and I could hear him and another person once again in a sexual manner - there was absolutely no way of mistaking this. I banged on the door and as usual he turned this around to be my fault. During the time he lived with me, he wasn’t the cleanest person and wouldn’t care if he missed a shower here and there but when he would come to visit he was incessant on having a shower and every time he makes a point to say that he wants a shower in peace like he’s enabling what he’s about to do. Without a doubt this happens every time he comes over. Prior to the shower, I start to hear unusual noises around the house like someone is in the walls or ceiling or under the house & my pet dog starts to go absolutely crazy - starting and scratching at the walls, whining like someone is there .. like clockwork every time. I ended up putting my phone at the door on voice record one day & listening back to it you can clearly hear another woman’s voice & as I said I’m not an irrational person so I’ve considered the idea it’s porn or phone sex, however it’s the difference between peoples voices via the phone and in person are distinctively different. Once the noises stop the shower door gets banged a few times over and over, then what sounds like something dragging on the floor, multiple banging noises like something being moved and heaving noises like someone is possibly lifting something or someone. I’ve investigated the bathroom and can’t find anything or any hiding spots it has me completely confused .. he does keep the rod you use to open/close ducted heating vents in there & found him playing with the drains a few times & S bend .. the shelf was also moved in the vanity cupboard. But the bathroom is a standard bathroom, bath, shower, vanity, mirror, exhaust fan, tiled floor .. I don’t get it. He will also find any excuse just to go and sit in there .. I have a feeling that the neighbour might have something to do with it, as there have been a few times he has come over and when he leaves (after receiving a text from someone and making up an obvious lie to leave) that I did not hear a car out the front start or leave. I live in a unit complex so can’t see the front street from my house. Late at night the neighbour also oddly starts to shine lights into my home, i can see them walk outside around 2am and from multiple directions see a light peering into my house. I also feel like they are using some sort of infrared sensor as it’s almost like an invisible light wherever I sit that almost blinds me. When I do hear people outside I proceed to turn off all lights and the lights and beams and tiny dots of red, blue, green is genuinely bs .. I also see people’s silhouettes around my house checking where I’m located in the house. Not to mention I’ve always had a weird ability to pick up radio waves/tv waves and when this is all happening it’s so strong it makes me feel like I’m going to pass out and almost feels like I’m loosing my hearing. Is there anywhere in the bathroom that you think I’m overlooking? Possible that someone is in the roof/walls? I need to know because its affecting my life in every way, I’m on the last stretch of removing him from my life but even so, I need to know otherwise I will question it for the rest of my life and trusting anyone won’t be an option for me. And if anyone has been through similar I prey that you were able to emotionally recover from the trauma of having the person you trust the most severely use you for their own fucked up derranged fantasies ..
submitted by Mysterious-Visit to relationship_advice [link] [comments]

2020.04.28 19:14 risocantonese MoF: Pietro Pacciani and the questionable investigation

Hi, this is the seventh part of my MoF write up - hereare the other parts. This was supposed to be a post detailing Pacciani and his trial, but I got carried away with the investigation....still, I think having a good look at the investigation's questionable methods is important. Warning: extremely long post ahead.
It’s 1992 and the investigation seems to have hit a dead end. The Monster of Florence hasn’t killed in six years, but L.E. knows that the Italian people won’t feel safe until someone is behnd bars. And now that they have German and French police breathing down their necks, investigators are desperate for a suspect, any suspect.
This was an entirely new phenomenon for Italy, one that needed an entirely new investigative method. In 1984, Pier Luigi Vigna establishes the "Squadra Anti-Mostro" (S.A.M.), a team of investigators dedicated entirely to finding the Monster of Florence. They want to start from zero and leave the Sardinian trail behind, which they feel will lead nowhere (and they’re right: in 1989, Rotella officially clears out the name of all suspects involved).
In 1986, Ruggero Perugini joins the S.A.M., and becomes its leader in 1989. He is immediately nicknamed the Supercop, after his cool, American-movie demeanor and his yellow aviator sunglasses. Perugini revamps the investigation, applying the things he has learned at the FBI Academy in Virginia.
Everything is reexamined with new eyes. They make a registry of all the regular clients of nearby shooting ranges, of all the people who purchased Berettas .22, of all the people who were admitted to an asylum between 1974 and 1981, the Monster’s longest period of inactivity. All the names of single men between 30 and 60 years of age, living alone in the province, are recorded. They even organize undercover operations, where male and female agents are staked out in known hook up spots, pretending to be young couples. They create a phone line specifically for tips about the Monster, and promise a reward of 500 million lire for relevant information — two things that Vigna would later regret, as they «received so many tips after we mentioned a reward; everybody was accusing the weird neighbor, the surgeon that didn’t have a family, the butcher who liked women too much. Hundreds of prospective Monsters were investigated, […] but the tips were obviously unfounded». Ultimately, the reward was canceled.
Dr. De Fazio is tasked with creating a psychological profile of the monster in 1984: he describes him as exceptionally cold and confident in performing the murders. «His criminal motivations have a clear moralistic component, caused by a heightened sense of sexual morality, […] or by a religiousness lived with an abnormal intensity». A second psychological profile, done by the FBI in 1989, describes him as a frustrated, unmarried, possibly impotent loner, who is unable to have relationships with women of his age. It also assumes that he can’t have been arrested in the past for "serious crimes", but more likely for misdemeanors like «voyeurism, vandalism, arson or theft». Despite being requested by the S.A.M., this second profile was largely ignored by investigators, claiming that American society and Italian society are too different, «We’re talking about the Monster of Florence here, not of Illinois!», said Perugini.
In February of 1992, in a famous TV interview (here, at 00:33), Perugini looks straight into the camera and talks directly to the Monster: «I don’t know why, but I have the feeling that you’re looking at me right now, so listen. People call you a monster, a maniac, a beast, but in these years I think I’ve gotten to know you, even understand you. And I know that you’re slave to a nightmare that still haunts you. But you’re not crazy like people say; your fantasy, your dreams have forced your hand and controlled your actions. I also know that in this moment you’re trying to control them, and I want you to know that we want to help you. I know that the past has taught you suspicion and mistrust, but in this moment I am not lying to you, and I won’t lie to you if or when you’ll decide to free yourself from this monster who dominates you. You know where, when, and how to find me. I’ll be waiting».
In May of 1992, the news breaks out: 67 year old Pietro Pacciani has been arrested.
But first, who is Pietro Pacciani? Even before all of this went down, Pacciani was the stuff of legends, known in his town as Il Vampa, "the flame", for his short temper, which would turn his face red.
He was born in 1925, in Vicchio, Florence; he was the son of a poor farmer. He only got his elementary school diploma, and as soon as opportunity arose, he joined the partigiani during WW2 — a resistance movement during the Italian fascist regime — which turned him into a mini war hero for carrying a wounded man on his back under open fire from the Germans, but also gave him a lot of experience with weapons.
Pacciani was a drunkard, a brute, a liar and shameless voyeur who fancied himself an artist, and loved to play the role of the «poor, honest farmer» and «little lamb of God». People who knew him describe him as «choleric, depraved, brutal». The kindest thing one could say about him was that he was a "strange man"
In 1951, 26 years old Pacciani sees his 17 years old girlfriend, Miranda Bugli, in a compromising act with a man. Pacciani flies into a violent rage and stabs the man to death. He rapes Miranda next to his dead body, promising her to split the money he finds on the man. The truth comes out a day later, and Pacciani is sentenced to 18 years in prison, while Miranda is sentenced to 10 years, as judges thought she might have actually plotted with him to rob the man, using sex as a distraction.
While he was in prison, the "legend of the Flame" spread and mutated throughout the entire Tuscany, where it was retold again and again in macabre quatrains, by the cantastorie, traveling story tellers who still existed in certain ares of Italy. «Youngsters, you make love / and each one of you has a girlfriend, / but if you know she’s a lusty woman / don’t do as Pacciani did», said the most famous version.
Pacciani was released early, in 1964, due to good behavior. With a primary school diploma and a criminal record, all he could do was dedicate himself to farming his land, although he never refused petty jobs: everything from a plasterer to a gardener to a fire-breather in local fairs, which eventually allowed him to own three homes, two in Mercatale and one in Montefiridolfi, which he would often rent out. In 1965 he married Angiolina Manni, a poor woman with mental disabilities, who gave him two daughters, Rosanna and Graziella.
It wasn’t long before Pacciani turned his depravity against his own family. He beat and terrorized Angiolina, but the worst was reserved for his own daughters: he started sexually abusing them from a young age, beating them, assaulting them with cucumbers and dildos, feeding them dog food and locking them in the house.
When they both reached adulthood, the girls found the strength to press charges against their father. Pacciani tried to staunchly defend himself, but he couldn’t fool the judges. In 1987, he was sentenced to 8 years in prison, where he still was by the time Perugini and the S.A.M. reached out to him.
So, Pacciani was a monster, that’s undeniable, but was he the Monster?
We know the investigators noticed Pacciani for the first time in 1985, less than two weeks after the Monster’s last murder: on the 16 of September, the carabinieri station of San Casciano received an anonymous letter, which urged them to investigate Pacciani.
"May you as soon as possible interrogate our fellow citizen Pietro Pacciani, born in Vicchio and residing in our town, in Piazza del Popolo, Mercatale. This person, according to many people, was in prison for 15 years for killing his own girlfriend\; he knows a 1000 trades, he’s a clever, cunning man, a farmer ‘with thick soles but a sharp mind’*. He keeps his entire family locked up, his wife is dumb; he never lets his daughters out, they have no friends. Please intervene and interrogate this person and his daughters. He is a sharp shooter."*
*they got the details of his 1951 murder wrong;
*an Italian proverb;
Three days later the investigators visit him at his home in Mercatale, where they find him having lunch with his family. They conduct a leisurely search of his house, ask him for his alibi on the night of the murder of the 1985 murder (he spent that day at home with his family) and bid him goodbye, thinking he was just one of the hundreds of men accused by anonymous tippers.
It’s hard to tell when Pacciani re-entered the investigation. The official version says that in 1989, the S.A.M. was cross-referencing a list of 82 men from their database (it’s not clear what criteria they used for this, only that they were «men who had reason to stop killing couples after 1985», I’m assuming that includes men who were interned at asylums, moved countries, died, etc.), with a list of Tuscan men, between the ages of 30 and 60, arrested in the years after the last murder. They whittled down that list to people who were out of jail for at least a week before and after each murder, and, allegedly, Pietro Pacciani was the only one to appear on both lists. This data was never viewed in court as it had been accidentally deleted.
But Perugini has let out in an interview that he had been investigating Pacciani since 1986, while Pier Lugi Vigna, in his own book, claims that he had turned to Pacciani while reading «old sex crimes case files», in an undisclosed year (but presumably before Pacciani was arrested for abusing his daughters in 1987). Vigna said that what «shook him to the core» in Pacciani’s 1951 case file was that Pacciani «flew into a blind rage […] after seeing his girlfriend expose her left breast» — the Monster had excised the left breast in two different cases. After reading that, «all the investigations were focused on him».
The reason I’m pointing this out is because, per Italian law, a suspect can be investigated for six months to one year after his name has been written in the list of suspects, after which the investigators must proceed with an arrest or a dismissal. The suspect must also be aware of what he is being investigated for and why. Evidence found outside of the time line is not admissible in court. It seems that what the S.A.M. did was delay writing Pacciani’s name in the list of suspects until the very last moment (they finally did it in October of 1991!), so they could investigate him on their own time.
Either way, let’s stick to Perugini’s version of things. In the autumn of 1989, Perugini starts hanging out in Pacciani’s home town, approaching his wife and daughters, while also paying attention to the local gossip. It’s from his family that he hears that one of Pacciani’s (unregistered) rifles had disappeared some time ago — this gave him the perfect excuse to investigate Pacciani. He met him for the first time on the 7th of March, 1990, in jail. He interrogated him for 6 hours, under the pretext of investigating his missing rifle, only making sly comments about the Monster, which flew over Pacciani’s head. But Perugini did play a dirty trick on him: he asked Pacciani to write down a phrase, which contained the word «Repubblica». He misspelled it, writing it with only one B, just like the Monster had done when he sent a piece of Nadine's flesh to Silvia della Monica.
His houses are searched multiple times (5 times, officially speaking), all under the pretense of looking for the rifle, and all fruitless. They bug his home and wiretap his phone line, and even move 3 undercover female agents in a house close to his, who pretend to be young students, but are really keeping an eye on the house. They seize things like hunting material, porn magazines, war paraphernalia (old bullets that Pacciani used as decoration — which gave them another excuse to investigate him, as it was illegal to own war paraphernalia), taxidermy animals, and something that really struck Perugini: a detail of Botticelli’s La Primavera, particularly a nymph who’s being kidnapped by Zephirus — a cascade of flowers is falling from her mouth, which reminds Perugini of Carmela de Nuccio, 1981 victim, who was found with her necklace between her parted lips.
In a subsequent search, they find a pair binoculars, an article about the Monster, and a scrap of paper on which Pacciani had the written down a license plate and the word «couple» next to it. They trace the plate down to the car of a couple who would often hang around Scopeti, the place of the 1985 murder — the couple, however, had never been harassed by anybody there.
In October of 1991 Pacciani’s name is officially written in the list of suspects, and the man himself is notified of being a suspect in the Monster of Florence case — although he had figured it out himself, after Perugini’s numerous interrogations had become less and less discreet.
On the 3rd of December 1991, Pacciani is released from jail for good behavior. His belongings are seized the second he steps out — the only noteworthy thing they find on him is a porn magazine in which some women had their pubis and breasts circled with a pencil.
By April of 1992, S.A.M. hasn’t found anything else, and Perugini is growing reckless. He firmly believes that Pacciani is the Monster, despite the lack of evidence, despite his many alibis, despite him being more than 6 inches shorter than the Monster, despite his personality not matching either psychological profile (cold and calculating? bachelor with erectile dysfunction? never committed any major crime? why would a man with such an explosive and uncontrollable sexuality, who had no problem raping his daughters, suddenly decide to not rape his female victims?), despite Pacciani’s own daughters, who hate him more than anything, claiming that he could have never done the murders, because he «was always at home with us, drunk».
But Perugini has decided that Pacciani is guilty. Instead of using clues to find the killer, Perugini has chosen the killer and is now looking for clues that could prove it.
On the 27th of April 1992, the S.A.M. conducts its last search on Pacciani’s home in via Sonnino, the search of all searches. Perugini is determined to find something, anything, so he can finally arrest Pacciani. Dozens of policemen, carabinieri, investigators, even firefighters join the search. They look in every nook and cranny, dig out his entire garden, even empty his cesspit: nothing. By April 29th, the third day of searches, nothing has come up. They were putting all of their hopes in Pacciani’s vegetable garden, but after digging up almost 5ft of the soil, it was obvious that nothing was going to come up — until Perugini noticed a sparkle.
You see, Pacciani had used a certain number of cement poles to create an improvised walkway in his garden. They looked more or less like this — note the lightening holes, which, with time, had been filled by mud and dirt. The firefighters removed the poles and set them aside so they could dig up the garden — one of the poles broke in the process.
On the third day, after the garden has been dug up, it starts to rain. They set up a tent so they can continue searching the garden, but the seepage has become unbearable, so they decide to move to Pacciani’s house in Piazza del Popolo. By afternoon the rain has cleared up and the searches in via Sonnino can resume. In an area under the tent, they lay down the two broken cement poles, creating a sort of footpath, to avoid stepping on the fresh soil and muddying it.
At 5:45pm, Perugini is walking under the tent, his head looking down due to his high stature, when he notices, in the lightening hole of one of the broken cement poles, something sparkling, something metallic. He immediately calls Vigna, who tells him to record everything they do — you can see the recording here, with Perugini himself explaining it.
The sparkle came from an old, corroded bullet, unfired, still in its cartridge, firmly lodged between the dirt and mud of the cement pole. The bullet is a Winchester Long Rifle, .22 caliber, with an «H» on its bottom — the same bullets used by the monster, but since the bullet hasn’t been fired, it doesn't have the defect mark that the Monster’s bullets have. It has, however, been inserted inside a gun, but got presumably stuck in the chamber, and it had to be removed manually by whoever was handling the gun.
The searches continue for nine more days — the investigators are hoping to find the famous Beretta .22 itself — but they're useless, they have already found their "smoking gun". Pacciani is arrested few days later.
I’m going to delve into the the trials in the next post, but let’s talk for a second about that bullet. It didn’t take long for doubts to arise about it authenticity, not only from Pacciani himself and his defense lawyers, bu also from many journalists and even appeal judge Francesco Ferri, who said that the way the bullet was found was "illogical": how could a corroded, mud-covered piece of metal sparkle under the shade of a tent, on a rainy afternoon?
«There were many cement poles in that garden, but the one that was broken was specifically the one containing the bullet […] and the circumstances of how the damage happened are unclear, as the firefighters who allegedly broke it were never interrogated nor named. Only and specifically that broken pole was placed […] near the entrance of the tent, namely the place with most foot traffic», said Ferri. He finished by saying that there are «large shadows surrounding the discovery of the bullet, which cast doubts over the authenticity of the evidence».
Six months after the bullet’s discovery, a 200 pages ballistic report could only say that there was «enough likeness» between the bullet and the Monster’s other bullets — based on the extractor port marks and various other micro-streaks — without outright confirming it. Ferri had a lot to say about this report as well — I’m not going to write it all here because this post is already too long, I’ll just sum it up as:

  1. the Monster’s bullets used for the comparison were too few (13 out of 51);
  2. The Garden bullet is in relatively good shape, while the Monster’s bullets had a lot more damage, since they passed through bone, glass, etc;
  3. The experts gave too much weight to the reported similarities while glossing over the differences;
  4. The experts were trying to link a bullet to a specific, unknown gun, based on its ejection port marks — which was a first for ballistics at the time, and therefore they had no scientific precedents to go after;
  5. For this same reason, the experts relied too much on their own, personal opinion rather than scientific fact.
(gun lovers, pls tells me if point 4 makes any sense, i think i might have mistranslated some specific term here)
links, in italian
(im going to put my usual pictures in a comment below!)
article about the SAM's methods (at the end)
amazing articles about the early investigation, which i truly recommend if you know italian
this one focuses on Ferri's problems with the ballistic report
submitted by risocantonese to UnresolvedMysteries [link] [comments]

2020.04.25 15:49 LegoMinecraftGamer Voyeur home tv

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2020.03.09 13:57 aquariusdon I follow people...now, I'm running for my life.

I'm a creep. I admit it. Too many years of having a boring, isolated life, I guess. Too many late night video games. I played them all. I beat them all.
When my dog died I learned something very important...online friends are NOT friends. They don't give a fuck. No one gives a fuck.
So I sat at home, alone. Bored. Angry. Restless.
I decided to start walking, late at night. My apartment complex was huge, so much diversity. A huge green space was behind most of the units, and that's where I found myself most nights.
Funny...people in those back, woods-facing units assumed no one would be back there, watching through their unblinded windows. Watching them eat, sleep, fuck.
I grew bored of that, tho...quickly, especially as fall turned into winter.
On a late night trip to the local 24 hour grocer, I had an epiphany.
A pretty young woman followed me out of the store. I got to my car, settled in and watched her as she walked to her car, loaded her groceries and drove away.
On a whim, I cranked up and followed her. She didn't live far from the grocery store. She turned into what seemed a quiet residential neighborhood. I lingered back a bit, but close enough to keep eyes on her. At some point I turned my headlights off. I didn't want her noticing me.
She pulled into a driveway to a small house with no garage. She got out of the car, got her groceries and entered the house through a side door. Lights came on in what I assumed was her kitchen. After a few moments, a light deeper in the house flickered on.
I didn't think about what I was doing. I just parked my car on the street in front of the house next to hers, got out and ran into her unfenced back yard. I moved quickly to a point where I could observe all the backfacing rooms.
And I saw her, setting a glass of wine on a dresser, then undressing. Totally. She climbed into her bed, downed the whole glass of wine, and began to touch herself.
I watched the whole thing, until she came, wiped her hands on her sheets, turned off the bedside lamp, and fell into darkness.
I stood in her back yard for a long time, my mind and heart racing a mile a minute.
I definitely was NOT bored.
I found a new calling that night. A passion, if you will. I started following people as they left the all night grocer, or the 24 hour Wal-Mart, or the all night pharmacy.
They were always alone. They were never aware...or so I thought. I would park and wait until a suitable person exited the store and drove away. I followed them all the way home. I would do what I did the first time...park on the street, get to their backyard, observe what I could.
Occasionally, a fence or a dog would upset my plans. Most of the time, I didn't see anything notable. Just people living their lives, doing simple things. Of the dozens I followed, most ended up watching TV. They seemed so bored...and boring.
Did I tell you? I masturbated there in their backyards. Every time.
A few times, I went back to the house of the first girl I followed. Her name was Sharon; I stole some of her mail. She was single. She shopped at Kroger. She apparently did not use credit cards; I never saw a bill or statement. She drove a blue Volt. She liked wine. She ate a lot of junk food; I stole her garbage.
Every time I stood in her backyard, she repeated her actions that I watched the first time I was there. Wine, undress, masturbate.
I joined her. Every time. We usually came at the same time. She was becoming my girlfriend, my lover.
The last night before...well, what follows...when she finished, instead of turning her light off, she turned towards the window. I had not yet come...i had my dick in my hand, rubbing intensely. She turned, and she looked straight at me. Straight fucking at me. I froze. She smiled.
I stood there for a moment, completely freaked out. She just stared at me...or so it seemed. After the longest minute of my life I slowly pulled up my pants, backed slowly into the deeper wooded darkness behind me...and ran to my car.
I swore I would not go back to her house...for a few days, if not forever.
I did not keep that pledge. I went back the very next night.
I don't know why I did it. Unless...maybe I had become addicted to stalking, to creeping, to voyeurism.
But I went back.
And it was like every other night...until she undressed. I had no excitement, my pants remained up and on. Rather than feeling excited, I was afraid.
When she undressed, she came and stood by the window. Her eyes found me, or seemed to. She was holding something in her hand. It was a knife. She held it to her mouth and ran her tongue along it. She smiled...at me? Then she knelt out of sight.
Every so often, her head and shoulders would rise above the window frame. Once or twice she looked out at me. I got the distinct impression she was making sure I was still there.
After several minutes - 15? 20? - she stood up. Her hair was disheveled, it seemed she was covered in a dark liquid. In one hand was the knife.
She looked straight at me...and lifted her other hand. I nearly screamed. My legs felt like rubber; my breathing slowed and a numbness came over me. I began to step back, away from the horror in her window. I fell on my ass, but got up quickly and ran to my car.
She was holding a head in her other hand. A severed head. And as I was nearly fainting from fear...she raised the head high, and pointed the knife at me.
Did I tell you? She drives a Volt, a blue Volt. I've seen it...parked in my apartment complex. Following me, several cars back, in traffic.
Today, there was an SD card taped to my front door. I didn't want to but I took it, opened it, watched it. There were several vid and jpg files on it. Each image was of me. Shopping. Driving. Entering or exiting my apartment. Following someone as they left the grocery store.
Standing in her backyard, pants around my legs, erect dick in my hands.
She's been watching me for a long time.
She pointed the knife at me.
She's coming for me. I don't know what to do.
I'm not bored anymore.
submitted by aquariusdon to nosleep [link] [comments]

2020.02.15 11:08 dpz81 Voyeur home tv

I have always read about the dream scene, but not about the previous one to that.
I noticed that when Elliot is in bed and asks for 1 more hit to get him back on the road, Mr Robot takes Elliot to an illusion made up by Mr Robot, like when he protects Elliot from the beating in the 80's Sitcom. In the scene just before entering this world the camera is focused on Mr Robot deliberating if he should do it or not.
Then he makes him think he got high and he's shot and dying to get an adrenaline rush to keep going on through withdrawal. ¿Could it had been that way so this is how Elliot is able to go to Steel Mountain without having to deal with withdrawal severe side-effects (as Romero said) and do the hack? Or adrenalin rushes doesn't last too long?

And in between the dead experience and the wake up, Mr Robot slips Mastermind into the 'host prison reality'.
In S04E13, Mr Robot says to mastermind:

This is a world you created.
I tried to bring you back here a while ago.
You accidentally slipped into it once when you were going through your morphine withdrawal.
A recursive loop that you constructed about a year ago to keep him occupied so you could take control of him.
I think he does it again after the explosion in the nuclear plant, and Tyrell shooting him is to give him the adrenaline rush he needs to break the comma or whatever and awake again in real world, where he talks with Darlene.

So coming back to the 'dream' scene', before he slips in, he says
I can't control thoughts.
And then in the TV masked Mr Robot talk seems like a disguised speech to US as voyeur personality and to Mastermind about the truth.
Dear brothers and sisters, now is the time to open your eyes.
If you have not yet woken up to the reality of profiteering and enslavement we've been warning you about, I hope you realize we are fast running out of time.
The governments of the world and their corporate masters do not want us to speak.
Why? Because we unlock truths.
We expose villains.
We exorcize demons.
Citizens of the world, we are here to help.
If you have any interest in waking from your slumber, in retrieving lost, damaged, or stolen memory, we are here for you.
We have your back.
We are fsociety.
Then the camera that was filming the message is shown, like showing us that we went behind scenes.
Mr robots gives one mask to MasterMind, hinting to him that he is also another personality.
Made just for your head.
Then there's a kind of commercial that I think the meaning is to indicate we are leaving real world and entering prison world, like a commercial in TV separating two shows.

So once in the prison world, seems like his subconscious is still creating it? Or it's kind of dynamic, not static? Remember that in last episode, in prison world, Price is Angela's father, Dom appears as a police officer... and during this 'dream' scene I don't think that Elliot knows that information.
Home says 404 not found, little girl says "but we are not friends"... in last episode his home does exist and the girl does know him.
Also I think in this scene Qwerty IS host Elliot, living in a loop, same shit every day, reminding him to make this prison world more alive (when you live on a fishbowl (prison)... move the fishbowl to a goddamn window! (make this prison better!))
The dinning with Angela is in AllSafe office, that's the environment Elliot is actually interacting with Angela most of the time...
Not sure if mother Elliot forcing son Elliot to eat qwerty (real Elliot) just after mastermind refuses Angela to eat him, is kind of to make Mastermind unlock the truth that he really is eating real Elliot (burying it in this prison).

Then through all the scene is also hinted that Elliot has a 'monster', now we know this is the abuse he suffered from his father.

So yeah, in that scene Sam Esmail really exposes the truths that will reveal at the end of the show, but in a way that we still didn't have enough information to connect the dots.
Now I really want to continue reviewing the series to see how the relationship between mastermind and mr robot is developed, keeping a more close view to details.

The attention to detail in this serie is just unbelievable. Devil is in that shit.

Well of course all of these are guessings from my point of view. What's your take on that scene after you know the end of the show?
submitted by dpz81 to MrRobot [link] [comments]