RIP Wuornos, Serial Killer

Wournos, Aileen

Final Interview

October 8, 2002

Florida State Prison, Bradford County, Florida

I was benighted amidst the yellow birch, conifer and sugar maple in the forests of the Midwest.

There I ran with the squirrels. In my child’s voice the song of the Scarlet Tanager echoed, harbinger of spring, my bared toes massaged the loam under hemlock and black oak.

The sky was wide. It offered a seamless verticality.

When the sun hung above the horizon, I felt, in my child’s body, a tensing of muscles, as if I was lifting something heavy.

Dirt and asphalt cut black scars through the hills.

For me, life was a matter of straying from the shoulder of roads.

Soon the forest gave way to concrete and the broken skyline of cities.

There I met the gritted teeth of the world.

There is a dream memory of me, floating above my child’s body.

It haunts me at night when the alcohol wears off.

I am motionless and lying on black, star print sheets, staring through the popcorn ceiling, peering at a life lived rogue, and a future I can’t imagine.

No, can’t hardly think of me an old woman. Ain’t no getting old.

I heard the nauseating sound of a chord struck, like strings out of tune on an old Dobro guitar.

In the dream memory I can make out his hairline, blocking out the dim sixty-watt hanging from the fixture, his thumbs pressing into my wrists, smell of his stale cigarette and Schlitz breath and see that stars of Dixie tattooed on his neck—my mother’s father—and a bright white light erupted from above.

Not until I heard my grandfather was dead, did the pieces fall together.

And your Father?

[Father was a pedo. Hung hisself in the Pen.]

The grace of Jesus. That’s what I thought it was then, that’s what I call it now, waiting here to die.

The light was a signal and a map.

Codified in pain, I was tasked—me—with removing from the world eight demonic entities.

This was a quest I couldn’t comprehend nor deny.

If you asked me, I would tell you, in my own street talk way, that I shifted from child to woman.

Like a manual shift transmission.

Fast and smooth like that Camaro I boosted with Tracy when we was on the lam from that fucking piece of S.H.I.T. Jasper.

Pressed, I would foreswear my childhood.

That the shift never occurred—was imperceptible—and that I was born an angel, with womanly parts and disposition.

You had a child at fourteen you gave up for adoption?

Ain’t gonna talk about that, okay?

No prob.

Here, this is where we enter the world of the transaction.

Somewhere, inside me, a vacuum.

They said I was too immature to grasp the finality of death.

Prosecutor was a condescending prick. ‘Scuse me for sayin’ so.

But my awareness stemmed not from a lack of maturity but a diamond honed sense of survival.

To avoid pain and embrace the reptilian.

Escaping pain became centrifugal.

A damaged and primitive child, I slipped through the teeth of the world and bared my own.

When I was at County I met an Indian lady, looked me in the eye and told me I was a container.

F-ing Tupperware, I says to her?

No, she told me that I contained everything; anguish, loneliness, sadness, anger and love poured into the hollow point between my sternum and above my pubic bone.

Trippy right?

Please continue.


Learning eventually that the foundation would always shift but the center wouldn’t never change, you know?

I rode the road.

Offered myself.

And the in between plushness of death, extended to the men I encountered.

Under cypress and the smell of wet soil, diesel and aftershave, I absorbed them into mine.

Gave my tender love to Boys who later died under the oily umbrella of a Kuwaiti sky.

In the low-lying hitchhiker’s thumb of the continent, skirting gators in the glades, lessons in the secrets of the transaction were practiced.

Meanwhile, I looked for the signs and signals of the eight.

See, violence in America is idiosyncratic.

I was further enlightened with a pistol in my rectum.

Back of some bastard’s Buick Le Sabre.

Hell fire of rubbing alcohol to wash away the evidence, his sin.

He was my first and when the hammer hit the firing pin, I shot true, relieving the world of the first of eight demons.

This was in?

Must have been ’round Thanksgiving, ’89.

Then it was the principle. The deputy. The businessman. The pastor.

You got any cigarettes?


Sure. Here.


Thanks [shrugs and motions towards her restraints].




That upon leaving this world I would be met by the holy trinity.

Those spirits would bear the names: sodium thiopental; Pancuronium bromide and potassium chloride.


What about the other homicides?

When I met them, each of them, my muscles tensed, mouth filled up with hot spit like when you’re about to puke. I’d hear with clarity the strumming of a badly out of tune guitar.

The notes, was always sour.

But it’s how I knew.

The dance I had to perform with them was always terribly painful and violent.

Getting punched in the mouth. Raped in the, you know, in the rear…

But I had faith.

With God. My Jesus was by my side, guiding my hand, sending those demons back to hell.


The used-car salesman. Unemployed high-school coach. Tax preparer. Bar tender from Pensacola.

Before I killed them, they asked me my secret.

What is your secret?

Call me Lee…

Cognitive Dissonance – 10 Years Later


This was initially posted on Facebook in a civil discourse with a friend.

Out of context. Disembodied. Mutilated.

It appears to resemble some sort of complete thought. Concept.

If you pay attention to the world, our plight worsens daily.

Pollution. Famine. Violence. Societal malaise.

What will cure us of our collective trauma? 


Facebooking Discourse

Certainly a disconnection of a fabricated moral standard is a symptom of the American/Western hegemonic structure, as such those symptoms—9/11, profligacy, security—are the easiest-to-digest for invasion, preemption and occupation of a resource rich country.

9/11. An asymmetric rationalization of a moment embedded in the collective consumption of reactionary culture.

Falling Man >|< Fall in man

Reactions equate to rhetoric, i.e. “we have to fight the terrorists wherever they may hide,” or worse, apathy “It’s a fucked up world altogether.”


As a corporatocracy, America’s interests are purely profit: oil, private security contracts, construction etc, not to usurp the post-Soviet Islamist rule of the Taliban (yes they were awful, just look at the pictures of civilized Kabul! Some of the Afghans have blue eyes!). Record profits abound. The apparatus of control is gilded in perpetuity. Crisis’ increase exponentially even after public discovery of fraud “#nowmd” and manipulation of information. Still, as our warrior brothers and sisters return home from the global conflict, damaged and exposed to a domestic nightmare of ghost towns and economic decrepititude, we can be assured that somehow, enexplicably, the effort was worth the risk and sacrifice.

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We exacted our revenge on the enemy who was living comfortably in a palatial estate miles from Islamabad, surrounded by Pakistani military elite. By using extrajudicial execution “while condemning the practice by other nations, we succumb to our own hubris. Of Afghans, disconnection from people suffering works much better (sells much better) on paper (or Facebook/Twitter/Huffpo/FauxNews/Obama&Bush teleprompters) to a public increasingly less interested in truth.

The difficult realization is that we’ve apparently succeeded and simultaneously failed.

“Mission Accomplished-ish”

[right, right, left, left, up, down, up, down, A, B, to start all over right?]

We can’t withdraw, pullout, mid-coitus, we’re vested in making the best of the situation, finish on the backs of main street and the shrinking middle class.

We can’t sustain the approach much longer either, unless Afghanistan will serve—and this is mere speculation—as our proxy staging area for a war with a nuclear armed Pakistan. More automated combat. Reliance on computers to determine hostiles.

America is indeed exceptional. In our military and security spending. In our continued pollution of third world countries via proxy manufacturing for cheaper labor and the unregulated environmental legislation of those countries and by extension, our governments massive military and budgetary support of an Israeli neo-apartheid.

This system enabled us to supplant democracy plant pliable leadership in North Africa and the Middle East for the past four decades. But as we’ve witnessed, through our mediated American perspective, people often tire of being served the same meal for too long. We are idle and conveniently diplomatic while Assad murders Syrian’s indiscriminately.

Perhaps, to “see it from both sides” detracts from the complexity. There isn’t necessarily a discernable side when faced with the ultimatum of “you’re either with us or with the terrorists.”

Post-Obama HOPE conspiracy election buzz, do we embrace the new normal?

Drones. Disposition Matrix. Targeted Killing and other euphemisms for the tactics used in our perpetual global war on terror.

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Articulating the Pocket

Designer Rebel

Espousing Jihad Chic: Olive Drab Shemagh Kafiya; Duo-tone Ray Ban Wayfarer Sunglasses; Desert-Camo iPhone Case; Versace bomb belt; hand-sewn Cavalli bandolier; Kalashnikov w/ USB and headphone jack (dig the latest Faakhir Mehmood); KidRobot branded SIM-card reprogrammer (screen printed to look like an IED). Balaà, coolest mutha fuckin’ insurgent in Karachi.


Federal Bureau of In Your Face Book

The F.B.I. has entered the social space creating phony profiles in an effort to expose, disrupt, misdirect, discredit, or otherwise neutralize dissidents.  Distant acquaintances and “friends” who post: at the gym; waiting in line; griping; “quoting” Maya Angelou and sharing pictures in grammatically/syntactically incorrect prose are in fact bored and overpaid analysts @ Quantico.


Raised Lettering

Machine gun sight’s markings include “2COR4:6” and “JN8:12’. Paul’s letter to the Corinthians reads: “For God, who said, ‘Let light shine out of darkness,” and John 8:12 reads: ‘I am the light of the world.”

Optics guide soldiers in more ways than death.


Salutations “Faggot”

As William S. <Last Name With held> left the Cannon House Office Building he spat on Rep. Emanuel Cleaver (D-Mo.) in protest against healthcare. For further emphasis he called Rep. Barney Frank (D-MA.) a “faggot.” Fortunately he won’t be denied care because of his Tourettes—a pre-existing condition—and “uninformed” hasn’t made it yet as a valid disorder in the DSM IV TR.

So Get Up-ah…

A Nov. 26 article in the District edition of Local Living incorrectly stated a Public Enemy song declared 9/11 a joke. The song refers to 911, the emergency phone number. However, both depend entirely on successful delivery of the punch line.


Shitty Econ 2010

Goldman Sachs—financial alchemists—transmuting bullshit into billions.


How To Be An Effective Dissident

Step 7 is predicated on the idea that repressive societies are always “listening” to dissidents using bugs, wiretapping, and keyword and proxy surveillance.

An addendum to Step 7: Assume ALL societies are repressive.

Instead of counting calories or decimal points on pay stubs, begin counting cameras.


God <3’s Ass-play

Westborough Baptist Church “Pastor” Fred Phelps A.K.A., The Tall Man, is rumored to have in his possession an alarming collection of erotic contraband including anal beads, nipple clamps, dildos and cases of amyl nitrate in various dispensers—capsules, droppers, pressurized nasal inhalers. The anal beads prove to be the most fascinating of his collection and range in diameter from marble and jawbreaker sizes to melon and grapefruit.


If Critics Wrote Obituaries

Man kills self, wife and children is as familiar feeling as it is difficult to pinpoint. A man killing his family is a welcome reminder that murder suicide doesn’t have to be bombastic to feel huge and important. Though not quite coming out of nowhere, this murder suicide seems like a surprise gift—a striking consolidation of societal malaise.


The New Postal Service

Mutant carrier pigeons have revolutionized the postal industry. Paid in Genetically Modified corn, the Condor-sized birds are able to boast the lowest cartage fees. However, their feces have crushed subcompacts, killing passengers and causing major traffic congestion near the rookeries. Presently, they have been relieved of duty until an equestrian type “bun-bag” can be successfully affixed to their massive fan-shaped tails.


Vacation Proposal

Prepared for: 30 Million Dollar Mercenary

By: McNamara Vacation Inc.

After a splash in the surf at Labadee, disembark Royal Caribbean ports-of-call—Lauderdale or St. Maarten. Lear-and-land Matara. Snorkel Nilaveli.

Four-poster suite @ Unawatuna. Guided MP3 air-tour on a Mil Mi-24 over Kilinochchi. See water buffalo, paddy fields; anticipate possible use of 12.7 mm nose cannon.

New York Times Travel Guide recommended best ‘best places’ to visit 2010.

Addendum: Additional Pepper Coast tour hosted by Xe on chartered patrol boat with 4 days, 3 nights in West Point for homemade napalm classes (diesel fuel and polystyrene foam provided). Depart Port-Gentil, arrive Cape Mesurado—dinner aboard petroleum tanker No Bid Transport. Package includes intimate tour of double hull ‘Xe rendition client’ holding area by Erik Prince.


Rick James: Cold Blooded
[1] Through his autopsy it was discovered singer and songwriter Rick James was under the influence of alprazolam, diazepam, bupropion, citalopram, hydrocodone, digoxin, chlorpheniramine, methamphetamine and cocaine.[2] However the coroner would go on to say; “None of the drugs or drug combinations were found to be at levels that were life threatening in and of themselves. The cause of death was ruled acute cardiac dysfunction due to idiopathic cardiomyopathy, or an enlarged heart.” And that, “He didn’t die of a drug overdose.” [3] In conclusion, Rick James died from having an excessive amount of heart.

Thoughts of Sri Lanka

Sri Lankan slave brigade…bringin’ coke and grind for Jimmy Jimmy…spec’d the transnational’s for the auction block…trade ‘em up, trade ‘em down…blondes sell high…LTTE’ll wreck the flesh flow…suppress Western shock…inflate the stock until the next show.

Eastern Made for your Western Needs.

War Splicing

Several dozen zealots’ crash hijacked hummus pies into the arrogant buckteeth of America.


Like, what Am I doing in front of a television. I wake sometimes to find myself in a recliner, parked in front of a large screen-doesn’t matter where-half naked, drooling and confused by my surroundings-doing the Gestalt verbal techniques and methods two-step. I’ve never been able to parse a series of images from my mainframe (my noggin, dig?), like those crumbling pillars of Babylon, cement and steel clamoring for the pre-frontal-don’t you forget it!


This screen dictates method. It has broken our collective narrative into non-linear form.

Alarm Clock and Atrocity go parading,

The everyday todaymotherfucker crowd: how far beyond in years as teenagers they once were. A jaded cult of the anti-hero with their Kobain, Corgan, Hunter S., Palahniuk, and Amos worshipping-a slacker nation paradigm going from limp to soggy. With the lights out…it’s less of an adventure…

Like a salesforce into the night

But the teenagers today are stuck in SMS black holes-inverse gravity-that must be filled with the mundane, an inexhaustible American resource.


The waves of cynicism threaten to crush our nuclear powered star cruiser as it navigates the vacuum along an increasingly narrow event horizon.

This war world seems to offer no threat.

“I consume their poison in small doses like Rasputin,” I say, choking down mouthfuls of dark fluid. Then, shouting, “If It Weren’t For My Horse…I wouldn’t have spent that year in college.” Passersby avert their eyes. I’m locked in the periphery and some day they’ll have to turn and face me.

Products increase status. Fellate the credit report.

Saint Amnesia laughs, regards the Panaflex, breaking the forth wall and whispers the line (through Klonopin and Vodka haze), “Give me your youth…Accreted memories. Truncate the revelation.” She hits her mark every time. Though I seem to’ve forgotten the staging.

4-5 different stories (blotter, heavy with strychnine, square edges perforated).

The Reunion of the Warrior provides further dissemination of infotainment…breathing heavy on napes of necks, spread-eagled, marketing asshole lisping, “Give me a thrpinkle of thinamen on thith product report”-leaves words dangling like a ball gag in a tie-dyed conservative talking point; “We want newths of the attackths. Evil dewer’th mutht be brought to juth-tith.”

Sandoz is now Novartis!

But news no longer serves us. It is subjected to a process of transformation, mitigated by the medium (a medium beholden to corporate interests), so that when it finally hits our ears in varying transmissions it translates to: “CAN’T YOU SEE? YOU MUST BUY! IT IS THE ONLY WAY WE CAN INSURE VICTORY AGAINST THE TERROR.”

The TERROR isn’t terrible.  Unknown and incalculable-yes. Finesse the overt through marketing and communication. Such as

I too transform in this nightmare eulogy: trousers and tweed chapeau, hybridized version of a Norman Rockwell mural appropriated and commissioned for the foyer of a clandestine Eastern European Rendition camp. I play warden of the world’s consciousness.

Injecting silicone into penis will cause it to grow by several inches.

Shirtless Arian guards in blue coveralls, muscles bulging, shinning under halogen flood lamps, break batons against meaty palms menacing the inmates. They follow me barefoot down the hall knocking against the sheet steel doors of the cells. This pageantry, a show of intimidation keeping the inmates from looking out their floor-to-ceiling windows open to the world behind them. They are focused on the hallway. We no longer need bars or razorwire.

Mandatory water-boarding for all newly arrived and deloused inmates.

Embarking upon a voyage through inner-dimensional vortices: human [d]evolution. Mind mildew. The West stumbles by the floor-to-ceiling window and glimpses the irrational momentarily. I invite the West into my chamber-smoke and mirrors-and I, Poncho (Herr Warden), smelling like a flooded suburban basement pay tribute to Saint Amnesia with un sexo anal poco y nubes de cocaine.

Jihad on The West! The West yawns, changes the channel.

We’ve been in this alternate dimension. Nine years of Afghani brown, subverting the 9th ward, Baltimore, Logan Heights, Beverly Wilshire, Juarez, Rio, Kabul, Gulf of Mexico, Gaza and Paris.

Where have we dispersed? To the absurd where the adventure is one of surveillance. Like what R-WE doing here? The salesmen ask

Sitting in front of a president, his warteeth all ivory ICBM’s. His words-read from teleprompter-depleted Uranium 30mm rounds, spalling through the body of America-an ongoing, ineffable nightmare…an intellectually negligent cowboy and an ineffectual intellectual with bleached teeth and killer hook shot playing pennies.  Both somnambulant leader(s) crushed under their own celebrity. Cronies make war on all things: childhood obesity; drugs; homelessness; avian/swine influenza’s as if, in a double blind laboratory test SCIENCE were able to prove WAR a viable vaccine.

We sleepwalk through ticker-tape narratives about…

Combat wounded veterans neglected at Walter Reed and those returning vets at Fort Carson OD’d on prescription meds, painting the barrack walls with memories of dead ENEMY COMBATANTS-their russet stained kafiya’s and cerise tattooed wounds-suffer in absentia their hosts.

Significant Stresses.

Stresses include killing; repeated exposure to scenes of death and injury; the constant threat of death or injury; and the dehumanizing policing operations that American soldiers have been ordered to conduct against civilian populations.

This is the Bore War.

This was actually a real diary found on the corpse of a raghead outside Falluja—written in Farsi, translated by Central Intelligence and leaked by Julian Assange.

It was before the cut in the teeth.

Ah fuck it man, shit I see everyday on MEDIA, folks’re just making up excuses to invade yer ass.

Oh! We bored and tired salesmen.

To sit and wait is such a travesty.

Concatenation: EverydayandeverydayMRIoveramonthagotoprovemyhumanitybelongstotheCorpornation.