Who Were Ted and Karen

I probably should have killed him when I had the chance. I did not, and due to that, Seattle is safe now. I can only hope none of his victims died in vain, but now there is Covid. So the good work, his nabbing the Green River Murderer, my saving lower 23rd through the Arboretum from a giant spreading wildfire…surely the Gary Ridgeway victims meant something. If not, it gets to the point soon where No Lives Matter. Oh, well, deep subject.

By Karen S. Cole

STRANGER THAN FICTION, ROMANTIC BUT HORRIBLE. Like some, I foolishly loved Mr. Bundy. Maybe there were three of us, a wife, a girlfriend, and a stranger. In my case I slept with Ted, knowing the terrifying, abysmal things he’d done, as he’d backed me into that corner, without fear of reprisal from anyone. In Colorado, no one can hear you scream. His knife cleaved the air as I danced back, his hands surrounded my throat. Trapping me and him, between bunk beds, I slipped my arms through his hands and slowly but surely, kissing them, I managed to get him to slow down on killing me.

It was my duty to handle this hugely errant, gone creep, as he’d suddenly magically appeared in my innocent life, and to keep him busy. To keep him from murdering even more of the people, who didn’t seem to care, who surrounded us. They’d care when, but up until then, nonesuch. Disappearances laughed to scorn, because of the attitude against women. How would I die, and soon? Not balled up screaming, or as an unconscious victim, but while vainly attempting to take control of the situation myself. I could see it as rape or kidnapping, and decided to make it into consensual, casual sex, and live. Maybe I could spend time with Theodore, and somehow find a way to stop him dead in his tracks. I pitied him. Paranoid, he was waiting for the FBI to gather all the evidence they ever needed.

And he thought he could marry me. His life was his own version, as nobody was stopping jackrabbit him from escaping, from taking whatever lives he wanted to take, while blazing a trail of bloody Death and Destruction, due to the legal issues of innocent until proven guilty by a court of law. Some law.

“What would I have to do to deserve such a singular honor?” he Sherlockian sighed, happy as a lark due to my own weaknesses, within the walls of a freight train boxcar we had hopped and commandeered, meaning as to his becoming my new husband. While he was married and kept multiple girlfriends, plus decaying corpses he loved, for some unknown Jack the Ripper reasons. Or for German Teutonic vengeance purposes, as a Neo Nazi. I could only hope for the granting of multiple antibodies, by a benevolent but nonexistent God, from his making bare love to me, by a condemned criminal. His equipment been somewhere Unspeakable, not erotic but unclean. I gave up on caring, I decided to go all the way with him, to wherever he was taking me, but I would find a way to make him pay.

After being asked, “Do you want a woman?” by relative blackguards who noticed my lack of makeup. No, I only wanted to be a man about things. I do protest too much, and am rescued too often by my friends. Theodore, destroyed by his friends, for having been morally ambivalent too often. Killing people, like a giant machine of swift death, too similar to the Vietnam War involving blood. On beds, in the woods, for a Catholic Inquisition that started as a way to combat Islam. By using their own tools right back, or sloughing into the same exact Bad Habits.

But this author is deeply Afraid of being Boring, Redundant, and noticing the Antipathy of what the word Redundant, referring to Dun-Colored People, has to mean. Ted decided he was the Evil One Incarnate. This should have lead him Nowhere, but instead he turned into a Genocidal Lunatic.

Years later, I used what he taught me of Fighting to save people’s lives and ended millions of dollars in property damage down below 23rd Ave. in Seattle, before it began, due to an arson fire by two genuine Black young men, that nowadays slowly burgeons in the boonies, aiming next year for us surely, not as arson typically, but as wildfires exponentiating. They’re being fought, I’ve fought them slightly, and my husband Reggie fought them well in the Army.

What was Ted Bundy really, but a black or brown-haired white man with limited means? And what was I, someone with a purpose in Life, struggling with him to Survive?

As a Black Samaritan from the Bible. Vowing vengeance for my sake, against our Enemies. So he carried me to White Civilization, while we wandered Lost in Vail, Colorado of 1981. Miles of knowing we’d be somewhere. Which we found too swiftly, honking horns, brightened lights, and polluting automobiles. Finding rich White people, in another Ski Lodge, so beyond the two of us. We danced, ate, drank, and made Merry there, for days. Aspects of the Ku Klux Klan and playing Charades, with Steve Bannon presiding. It figured, so long ago I had given up on the KKK due to dead Black people. Not my style. I’m no killer, Ted was the murderer, so were they. But the women seemed normal again.

Normal means: Bad North, standard of nonexistent excellence. The one we’re all supposed to be following, at all times, Western Civilization worldwide. I showered in a giant common room, after sleeping in a huge, canopied rich bed, upon standing around naked in Animal Horns and falling down in a sudden faint. Those people had all the money, time, and lives for themselves. We did not.

He was born Broke, I was born Navy, my parents’ number memorized. If I got away from him, I could call them and be rescued. But, from what? A man who’d stopped being “into” hurting me, by me and him. He couldn’t, he was trapped to Death, in the dead certainty of waiting to be Executed. For being Ratzo “Ricco” Rizzo, the Florida-bound equivalent of something dark and not foreboding.

With our bare feet, through the windless snows of an overtly filthy hedonism. Lack of success at evading the Righteous Laws of the Land, which must end soon. Our time together over, as a Vacation must phase back into Work. Whether back breaking or underpaid. And frostbite without care, pinching our toes red and black. Through still Lake waters, and I bade us doff our clothes.

“You know, Ted, wind chill factor simply means you die. And me too.” So we were fully nude, stripped bare and sans our skis, while he did not attack me anymore. Somehow, we both recovered quickly, as we were Athletic and fairly Young. His tendencies to act lecherous disappeared, dispersing like bad dreams. But everyone other than me, once again – whiter than sheets of ice.

Headless, heartless, Ted Bundy clearly outside of Reality and Gone. Looking more like a Cartoon than a Person. Wanting to leave the World behind, for the woods, outdoors, and something away from cars. Next, I remember we made it to a giant, rich people Ski Lodge, and he wore Animal Horns. Stood there shyly, looking for all the world like a peculiar Shaman.

Only the women sympathetic, only we willing to fight to the Death for Love. The old maxim: God carries you up the Beach. Which didn’t seem to be there, where men were Evil and women were Good. Ted needed to become a Real Man at last or at least Die Trying. I wouldn’t allow it, because it only meant more Murder, that of probable actual Men.

God is a rank Human, and Covid is likeliest to Win against all such people. Good and Evil? Like a Catholic premise, it explains why Theo thought he was evil. Coming around later on, he finally began to see himself in a much better Light of Day.

Which is now in Dire Straits, Doomed to a Worse Death than Theodore’s. Well, he wanted Vengeance, and the World is now Asphyxiating. Ironic, isn’t it, as he pled for Execution through Burning Alive at the Stake of a Chair.

Not in it, while I wonder about Life in General. The greater questions have no greater answers. Being willing to Die for what you Believe in, or Kill for whom you don’t, is possibly ended shortly by Covid 19’s million derivatives. So promoting our Humanity seems futile, useless, gone. Ted and I had an action-adventure story, which is here partly told.

It involves his having been willing to brutally fight, kill, and die solely for his woman, his Wife, who was temporarily me. While hoping for a child, possibly a boy. The world’s evilest Man was only the same as the Rest of us. This, a tale told within Sept/Oct 2021 by me, full of sound and fury, signifying nothing. And my Ingratitude slightly returns, drowned by hard drugs from psychiatry. Good. Theo wanted me to know he was the Guilty Party, not me. So I could write of this someday.

There is no way for me to have the Spirit to write this properly. And it involves matters too personal in our families. I’m pounding it out in lengthy hours of work, a whole day at a time, while rapist schizophrenia dominates my Soul. I’m afraid I’m trying to injure myself, but maybe what doesn’t kill me makes me stronger. If not, this Hemingwayan attempt will still only bring me business, perhaps.

I didn’t mind Theodore Bundy’s so-called domination, male as it was but old-fashioned and weirdly normal, not solely to me; nor Ron Schwarz’s, which was oddly pleasant and fulfilling considering what transpired between us. Black magic with Theo, white magic with Ron. Too old-fashioned of white men, both Jewish and able to take great amounts of agony between us, but unable to fully compensate for all the wrong things they did. They both tried, each in his own way, to compensate for hurting women badly. Seems I only marry Jews, or somehow strong men who hurt inside in ways I cannot seem to reach.

I have minded my husband’s interference instead. It lead to my Sacrifice, an attempt at a Greater Good, through medications, which are rank poisons intended for Serial Murderers. I don’t deserve the ill treatment I have received, and neither do you.

What is the use of protesting love? Ted, well, I helped arrange his horrifying and brief but painful execution at his personal request, and Ron I humbly tortured to death, over four years of being his low wage “slave” and home health care aide, as his just damnation for causing the suicide of his lady love, Angela. It’s all like an Edgar Allen Poe tale, two Angela’s deeply involved, Ron’s girlfriend and my own daughter with Reggie.

Reggie my husband is a more powerful Man in a lot of ways than Ted, and scarier, but without being Genocidal. Reggie has only defended himself, Ted was homicidal, lunatic, tried to kill me several times, and was still someone I bitterly loved, first and foremost. Problem is, I turned him over for his Crimes, a Cross he had to bear, which he fervently Prayed I would do. As a full-scale Salaam, as a Muslim relic of the Catholic Church, and a Contributor to the Inquisition of Europe.

Mostly, he knew exactly what belonged upon the two crossed sticks instead of Jesus: him. He had nothing but enemies, paranoia, and the knowledge of himself as the Murderer. One who was constantly getting away with it, sans mercy. A simple begun Poor man with no name but homosexual.

I recall his subdued affection for me, and his constant returning. He cared about me, perhaps back. Like a lost puppy dog, he wouldn’t let me leave, and I couldn’t let him leave, either. Our Fight to the Death turned flat, sorrowful and Lifeless – and then somewhat distracting, as he gave up on his real Girlfriend, throwing himself away on my Rescue. Apparently, he was more willing to Live, Kill and Die with me than with her. Or he was so Worried about my impending Doomed Health that he left her. In turn, she must have stayed with him, buying his Clothes, but turned him in for Real, for once, in a Manner involving Paperwork and Signatures. I never did that, once, somehow, and finally during the day, I called the FBI but never signed anything.

So this story doesn’t involve Coming Forward on rape. I did, too. Fall in Love, as I am now typing to Exhaustion, needing this to have truly Happened. The thing is, as in the early film version of King Kong, t’was Beauty Killed the Beast. Psychic messages via YouTube, from Ted perhaps. Or the Diabolical Forces. I need to be with my Husband, and I’m hoping my True Love wasn’t Ted Bundy.

Meanwhile we are probably all going to die soon. The entire World. Maybe the diabolical Messages are from Covid the Viruses. That would explain it. Ted called me Gorgeous, Ron called me Pretty, Reggie still calls me Beautiful. I like to think I got somewhere with my Actions, but they’re for what occurred. Both Ted and Reggie, his apparent Derivative, hate being thought of as Romeo. I don’t mind being Juliet, but the Suicide theme is not a good one.

So I’m dressed without skirts or dresses. Easier to move around. Enough for me. I’ve always wanted a greater life, but it is Desire. I have done what I have done, and now Covid begins to wipe out all traces of the Good. That I have Done. I had to Eliminate my Desire to go on Living in 1986. Done. A reflex saved us, I jerked my head up, then I had to break my neck to get them to run away from the house where the fire would have spread, engulfing a great deal of the region. Including the Seattle Arboretum and five other huge forests. And people. Once my desire to go on living was gone, I was happier. I wonder about Ted’s.

I’m not Beautiful and never was, but Ted decided I was enough, as I cared about him enough to Die, fighting his Horrible Whimsies, and to help him Live, while he Smiled Aright on the way to the Hospital. A normal, human smile. For a change, instead of that hideous Jack O’Lantern grin I have seen on Others. Even Family, also Strangers, but it takes Strangers to Enter your Family. The Stranger Next Door, Theodore, maybe wanted to be with someone Brave as him. I know that sounds impossible, how could such a Coward be brave?

What life or lives is this missive bound to portray?

Mine, but a beauty intangible and Rare, involving no Purity; for I only saw through it to Ted’s Mortal Soul, which like mine Threatened, by Black Magic. And Hellish Damnation. Whether in this Life alone, or in the Next, it was ever Present and thoroughly Demanding of our Attentions and Demeaning of our Unspoken Sexualities. Good enough for Government work, a Joke. By Harley Quinn and the Joker, AKA Ted Bundy and Karen Cole.

WE FOUND A SEA OF ALIKE DEMONS, ALL OF WHICH MEN WERE INTO UTMOST GANG RAPE. Of “that red-headed cunt over there.” That was 21-year-old me. At the time, Ted’s leading Lady. Well over a dozen times, our homeless kind “was not welcome here.” It forever Humanized rapist, pervert, and genocidal murderer Ted Bundy, out of his wayward Predilections. Or so I thought.

His heart seemed to grow a kind of unveiled sympathy for me and others, he’d not Experienced before. Presaging the events of 1986. Which was in Heaven, Preventing a Major Hell, Involving the Events Overriding this News Story. Involving Chernobyl, its lingering Aftereffects of Radiation; so due to the Theory of the Butterfly Effect, it’s possible that Serial Murders saved Seattle and the World. Unbelievable I know, but I love the Idea their Deaths were not in Vain. Somehow in this Time of Covid, it Presents an Eerie Hope.

Don’t run out and do it. You will be pursued as an Absolute, forever looking over your Shoulder, as a Kind of Derek Chauvin, murderer of George Floyd. Ted Bundy, even though I attempted his Rescue, it could Never be Accomplished. Yet potentially those several Genocides thus held a Secret Meaning.

Including those during the Holocaust, as that saved me from Mark Henry Campos’ strange desires to be like Jack the Ripper and also to murder me. Why I have attracted so many Murderers…I can’t begin to Comprehend. My blog never attracted anybody real, even though it went Worldwide. I seem to have Ted’s ridiculous and hidden Courage, but it is Nothing. Guilty as charged of Not Breaking any Laws, hardly any but Misdemeanors, myself a humble woman, who writes Earnestly to make her Living.

My Challenge herein is to Be Convincing. This doesn’t sound Real, more like a Hallucination from well over Forty Years Ago. Did any of this Ever Happen, or is all a Bohrian or Einsteinian Physics related hallucination called Reality?

By Karen S. Cole

Ghost Writer, Inc.

www.rainbowriting.com

But he loved pursuing Justice far more. This story sounds like fiction. Like…Batman? Or Sherlock Holmes, defending the world against a Moriarty named Coleman Calloway, Black, a sophisticated House Burglar with a young Partner named Fabian Frazier, also Black, respectively 18 and 14 years old. Rapacious, murderous, inclined towards the hottest day on record in 1986, the night of June 16 and 17, precisely at Midnight, during a kind of Juneteenth, to set an enormous Arson fire involving Mrs. Vera Cooper and a row of kindling wood houses in a Black neighborhood guarded by a Giant White Tower, 100-feet high, with a Gun Turret on top, outer facing side a mere Windmill for those who passed by to Never Notice it, but I finally did, in time to Prevent the Wildfire. Which would have taken out five forests and the Arboretum, plus lives, property, and me

It seemed Important to him. And me – but traveling to Vail meant my Torturous Death of two week’s duration, once we made the location of his infamous Volkswagen. What kind of man decides to be the Joker and laugh? The one who made a twisted Smile out of the Whole United States, in the twilight zone of the 1970s. Who attracted me, after I explored Female Valor silently in Battle with Deadly Animals, in 1979-1980 as a concept in Stehekin, Washington, while needing something like a Real Man in my Life, one who would make Love to me.

For the first time, and maybe not Forever, as I hurt expressly about his Death. My head leaning upon that White Male Bosom of his, listening to his heartbeat and remembering, “My heart only pumps blood,” and feeling comforted. There is little comfort in realizing I am partially responsible still for his Execution. So I’m typing this out as fast as possible, sort of a pulp nonfiction

He cared enough about me to let me scratch his eyes out. This may not sound like a big deal to you. But I think I also gave him something like a few “diseases” to think about, and avenged the relatives of those he brutally killed. His eyes were risked, at least, during a period of time involving motel room beds and trying to figure out how to get me to finish him off instead of the Authorities.

WHILE SCRUNCHED DOWN into an ancient grey business suit and traveling light with me in 1981. Set in Boulder, Aspen, and Vail, Colorado, involving Downhill Naked Skiing, witless Death-dealing Gang rapist perversion, “your kind isn’t allowed here or anywhere else for that matter,” and carrying me with Great Affection through the snow while Swearing Vengeance. Due to Love. I think I was a Substitute, temporarily, for his real Daughter, Rose. I’m small, he was large, and oddly big-hearted for a serial murderer who was Dog Snot.

Too much the Phantom Prince, a men’s rock and an island called Seattle, serious male control freak issues, beaucoup Drugs, especially cigs, heroin, booze, and coffee, which code to you Genetically, hopping moving freight trains, battling to the Death, collecting Body Parts, and a Tendency towards Infamy for Rank Genocide.

Within the “sacred” and female-oriented but sexist USA, or America, the country with No Real Name Yet. Executed for the mass murder of “my kind,” female college students, all much Older and more Gone than me. Taking an interest in this meant learning Martial Arts in a big hurry, as I was Going to College soon. Where I learned more MA, enough to defend myself against quite a Prosecuting Attorney. My Defense Attorney, one Malcolm Little X Shabazz, whose mother I cared about enough to enter the Wrong Kind of Court System, the one for Mental Illness, where they judge you Unfit for anything but being Poisoned to Death Slowly. A Genocide far worse than anything concocted by Theodore Robert Bundy, may he Rest in Peace. I need to do that myself, someday soon. Without the theater.

Nowadays, over 100 pounds plus, I’m two people in the Usual Manner, not a Stranger. Nor the Phantom Prince, but I was his Princess just long enough for it to matter. Maybe for all time, as I had to answer his question: how do you want me Executed?

Because we’re not the Real People. We’re Misfits, a Service Brat combined with a Homeless Serial Murderer. I could go Home anytime; the Law awaited his Date with Destiny.

Ted Bundy’s Unimportant, but Highly Pivotal and Seattle-Saving Third “Vacay” in Colorado, on the cusp of Sept/Oct 1981, the actual events unrecorded on the Internet after two earlier escapes from Aspen, Colorado’s prison. He made a Beeline to me. But to this day, I can only suppose it happened. Something untoward disrupts these events, 40 years ago, that makes it all Hallucinogenic. Perhaps my Guilt over having Killed him, as a Group of People, so Like a KKK Lynch Mob.

Involving Karen Cole’s third memoir about ghostwriting. I run a business, first discussed anywhere with Ted Bundy at a restaurant to which we went Dutch Treat, said female-owned business nowadays called Ghost Writer, Inc. I told him my dream about Rainbow Writing, Inc., and he fully approved of it. Unbelievably, he was a Feminist. He hated what had happened to me in front of him, the total rejection of me by “other people.” He never lived to see me succeed, and he thought I died before it did. I rebranded from RWI to GWI in 2011. I’m its Founder, Karen Cole, Ted’s lover after his wife and girlfriend, whom you’ve never heard of before.

This is a little more painful in some ways, I believe, than anyone coming forward to pronounce the Sub humanity of Ted Bundy. Really, we have the right to not have forced sexual intercourse and death with a strange man. However, I didn’t quite see things “that way,” even though I knew him all too well.

And two Interviews with Ted about me, one in a courtroom, and one on the evening news, where he asked where I was. I’m a little stubborn now about writing this piece, potentially of excrement, at last. I suffer from major schizophrenia and am Ted’s fellow Rape Victim, multiple times over.

A time for love, someday there’ll be, when shades are torn, and currents worn, through a love that’s free, a time for love, someday there’ll be, a new world, a world of shining hope for you and me.

–Romeo and Juliet, but also Barbra Streisand

This is a real-life Romance Novel. Try thinking the works of Charles Dickens, you’re squeamish. Please. Dickens at great length on torturous Deaths, especially those of the Innocents. Ted raped up the butt repeatedly, the night before his execution I understand, by four stronger fellow male prisoners, needed it by then, after a lifetime of self-defense. Men he had once trusted with his Life.

Against that God-given Christian Name, from his Mother, that of a Cartoon Chipmunk, Theodore, “a little weenie boy” in other words. What he’d been called Repeatedly, in my personal presence, by those who reminded both of us of the Denizens of Hell. Only. In smoke-filled rooms dedicated to heroin usage and seedy living. By robots, not men. Who were into gang raping his Lady, me.

Rape for a rapist. Enjoyed or tolerated it, in the name of Dire punishment for his crimes against Humanity. So he told me, in little increments, as he had his own Macho to defend against all odds and truths. It beat him down. So said “enjoyment” not by a Gay man, but by a Heterosexual who enjoyed my company. I heard from him well before 1989, the year prior to my second marriage, to Reggie. This repetitive story is mine, and his, but I have to find a way to ghostwrite again. My eyes are gone, my brain is Shot, and I feel Indebted to do this. Obligated in some Strange Manner, after forty years of postponing things due to the FBI, also known as “the Fib,” or a liar about Ted’s not being Human or Real.

Whatever do you mean, are you lovesick or biased? Perhaps.

This my version was of course, vu den, well before his Death happened, after eight long years of struggle. Spent wondering what had happened to his Karen, who was possibly dying of Toxic Shock Syndrome, out there somewhere. I go into a kind of shock realizing it; he bore it well enough, according to the cameras. Due to the nature of Reverse Psychology, he pled his innocence in a manner calculated to find him guilty, and I would swear to God he did it on purpose. I truly loved him, and so I feel like I knew him well enough to state that case. “There is a woman who deserves to be in this courtroom far more than I do…Karen Cole.” Meaning, maybe he believed me when I said I’d killed someone. I hadn’t really, not in a manner involving my actual guilt, in Ohio. Also, he may have been trying to use me as a ploy, to get the court to smell his stinking carcass sooner. I think so. Abnormal psychology is not my forte, but he was trying for Lack of Sympathy. Why be your own lawyer? They said, control freak. I say, wanting Death.

“It was the Worst of Times, it was the Best of Times,” and it certainly was fulfilled, Thataways. Featuring both the Guilty, usually the Authorities, and the Innocent, usually Everybody Else. Ted and Karen, whom you may not know, and hopefully this book tells you something new.

I’m not “coming forward” about my rape or death or whatever. This was a good time for me, except for the part where I couldn’t have him. For life, like he was Chained around the Neck like a dog. And following me around on a leash. Nowadays I’m physically disabled, not due to Ted, due to my desires to help those in mental institutions before and after the Death of Ronald Gary Schwarz. It was prolonged, quiet, agonizing and involved me torturing him, physically and repeatedly, all night long in the Name of Range of Motion Exercises. Bed with Ted had been bliss itself next to that, a kind of Vacation in Heaven.

How can you say that about a Mass Murderer? Maybe he tried to kill Mass, ha-ha-ha, he was Sacrificing Virgins right and left. I was, “Sorry, neither” like Nichelle Nichols said in the Sulu with the sword Star Trek episode. A fun time for me, an extremely Hideous time for all of Ted’s real-life Victims. And I knew about it all, during our making love, not afterwards. What was our story, really? My tale of considered, Spock-like woes, as I was on my Period the entire time. Dying somewhat of Toxic Shock Syndrome, due to tampon usage. It was the early days of tampons for menstruation, and also of abortion drugs.

So Democratic, not Republican, in its scary wake. Both Ted and Ron, Republicans. Caught by a Nazi cop named Adolf Hitler, who labelled them both Supremely Dangerous. Me, a Democrat at heart. I never sought wealth before, now and forever yearning for longevity.

This true ‘80’s story of ours mutated into A Tale of Two Cities, where I offered to die to get Tedders home at last. Which was impossible, because the police were waiting for him there. He never took me up on it, after several attempts to kill me during a swift process of falling down. Into a morass of being helpful, loving, sincere, and otherwise assisting others, in an attempt at well, something unknown. Maybe I’m right, he really did mean to be a good man.

If I fall in Love,

It will be Forever,

For I’ll never Fall in Love…

–American popular song, by a woman mostly

In downtown Seattle, Ted spurted downstairs, out of a skyscraper featuring a luxury apartment he was living in, only to ask me, “Are you all…right? What’s wrong? How can we help you?” The word “we” about him and his girlfriend stressed me enough to shove me over the edge. Hell hath no fury like a woman scorned, although I’d been willing to turn my back and walk away on Elizabeth and Ted and let them Be. As a pair of equally matched Tall Lovers, one with a great deal of money, him as a Kept Man, potentially forever without any real life or expectations of success in the workaday world. No legal Identification anymore. With luck, she is harboring him safely somewhere in faraway Africa, under no extradition treaty, where he’d spend forever looking over his shoulder.

What this Tale of Woe and Undue Longing is Actually About?

Concerning a pair of love-blind Germans, woodsy, Goddamn fool ninjas, who Freudian wanted to make Love: a valiant (not boasting, I’d taken on a 1,000-pound Black Bear recently) poverty-stricken living off her savings 21-year-old me, finally becoming an Adult, and an evil-minded, lecherous and simplistic 36-year-old him, growing old before his time – and gaining in Nobility, as he went after the Green River Murderer; respectively female and male, not gay, spending the night illegally at an American Youth Hostel. Exactly one of us illegally there, you guessed which one. Tedders was like a Sir Lancelot of Evil, one who was never caught. But I knew he would be, unless somehow everybody looked the other way.

The Strawberry Statement, about Vietnam of the 1960’s: “If we don’t care about this, nobody else will.” Which lead to ending the War, a small conflict and a Revolving Door, through which men and women entered and never returned. Leading me to care, along Malcolm X lines, about Ted the Peculiar. He seemed to have a Dark Patina around him on the News. I don’t like Racism, Ted, I reflected, and wondered why drawings had been replaced with photographs. Courtrooms were supposed to only feature art, not real life. Why was that?

The Civil Rights Movement also attracted my fancies. There must be a way, I reasoned, to be willing to die, not willing to kill, but mostly stay alive. Dead bodies do not combatants make. But what of the story of our Romeo and his Juliet? “If you call me Romeo…I will kill you where you stand, Bitch.”

Only one of them illegally there, only one of them who should have been in trouble for it were anyone paying any attention whatsoever to Invisible Him, who thought they meant good; one a dramatically insane and incredibly swift, strong, and long slow Serial Murderer. Who dealt out death to young college ladies, the first major wave of campus co-eds in the United States, on a ridiculously repeat basis. Slashing and burning his way through half of America. Attracting my due attentions. We were set to be going to school with boys for the first time. Under some very sexist bylaws of Unreason. In Catholic schools, up until those times, there had been a tendency to keep the sexes separate. Not then.

Easily our body count was racking up to the skies, so I spent years being fascinated by Mr. Bundy. At a great distance away. After much studying him, I traveled to Seattle and then Colorado: there he was. Skied right up to me on the slopes of Aspen, saying, “What do you want, Bitch?” When I finally told him “your head,” he acted a bit offended. But not terribly so. I couched said statement in other terminology, involving his not having one.

The other “guilty party” was a female nitwit with “some small martial arts skills,” like playing a particular Violin, who was into Taking Vengeance as a Vigilante. Due to a serious Adult matter, not for playing games. I wanted to Live. Not “live it up,” although I wanted to enjoy some skiing in Aspen, not Death.

Problem is, I knew bloody well how illegal that was. And in the Society for Creative Anachronism, I learned before encountering Ted how likely we were to mutually die. Battles like ours generally result in killing each other, according to the SCA. I fought in simulated battles, and sure enough, we “killed” each other. I took out two girls who didn’t know anything, one at a time. I was into legal issues, such as knowing that if I murdered “innocent” Ted, I would have to pay with my Life.

So was he, and he had every right to defend himself against me. But little did he know this, as he didn’t read minds, as it turned out, and he never knew I was out to “get him” at all. His version of taking vengeance, Teutonic and German as it was, too slow to count. Taking your time murdering somebody can mean they will murder you first. My methodology was finally a legal lynch mob, sailed with the approval of Ted Bundy.

I decided he was Batman and I was Catwoman – to keep him Busy. After I stated this maneuverable point, he strongly kissed my Third Eye, smack dab in the Middle of my forehead. Superman style, subtly like a snake, and ultimate grace on his part, unfortunately. He was a supreme Charmer of us. Other than that, I knew about everything, pretty much, and accepted him as he truly was. This may have lead to him genuinely Loving young me. I firmly believe that. They say he put on a show, airs, lied a lot. I know he alternated claims of his innocence with his guilt, but he did at least tell me he had murdered all those women.

Ted Bundy was a huge (to me, size is relative), six-foot white gorgeous hunk of Man. Whom I suddenly had at my complete and utter Disposal, like I was Sherlock Holmes and he was my Dr. John Watson. Knives, guns, and all. He was a Wild thing; he made my heart sing. He meant everything. Except for me. Selfishly, insecurely, I decided I meant more to me than that, but he was goddamn exciting.

One who was Beautiful and Whiter than Snow. He said the nicest things anyone had said to me, up until then, maybe to this day. He told me he was the Guilty Party, racially impure, and not worthy of me.

I played his games, out of Dire Necessity, because other lives and mine were Involved. It began at an American Youth Hostel in Aspen, Colorado, and ended in 1989 in “Old Sparky” the inhumane Electric Chair, as Ted wanted to die an unspeakable death. To make up for what he’d done, to my mind, to others, well, to whoever was already dead.

Somebodies, NOT nobodies. Bow out if you can and go Behave. I suggest doing something about Covid, in the realm of Cure not Care. I guess it’s too late, Trump and China destroyed the Human Race. Or there is always Hope, the Thing with Wings, involving opening a door instead of a window. They say, God will help you, and when He closes a door, he will always open a Window for you.

This is about a Battle to the Death. Between me and Ted Bundy. We were Lovers too briefly, but I ended up persuading him to Die. Yes, that is it, except that was his own Decision; he maneuvered me into assisting him with his Choice of Executions in Florida. Finally, nailed in 1989, January 24th, and I saw two different versions of what happened. The real one and a recreation on TV.

I had an extremely hard time with it, for I still loved him dearly, and knew he was a Jew they had exterminated through being Burned Alive at the Stake – no, I inwardly screamed. Not my Tedders, but unfortunately, he’d argued me into it. A Catholic really, so exterminated in the Holocaust he didn’t believe in it, due to his Neo Nazi friends. “I’m just a Nazi,” he said when I asked if he had any Ku Klux Klan membership problems going. I’d been in the KKK when I was four years old, due to Adolf Hitler being in my family, bastardized version, as my blood grandfather, according to “his own” sterling claims. A long haul of Smoke and Mirrors, organized by the evil CIA of the USA in 1947, due to Hitler’s PHONY suicide.

Can’t say that I blame him. He tried to invade Russia, found something out, did a Reverse Invasion, stormed through Western Europe and was planning on invading America, those Europeans, for the Second Time. Glad we and Russia caught them between us like two bookends, smashing the Axis cold. In the 1940s, so long ago you have to doubt I’m anything but Crazy.

But like the FBI once claimed, he only tested me out. Such a seasonal thing, for a happy Tedders. Due to my being willing to die fighting, strategically enough to impress the daylights out of Ted, and also my abilities to stop him from killing me. I placed my self-loaded luggage, assisted by one white girl who was half Chinese, and whose mother was Murdered by Ted Bundy, in the center of the American Youth Hostel room.

I spent an hour collecting myself outside of that room, having used the Bathroom Excuse to get away from Mr. Bundy. Thought of everything, kept him waiting for sixty minutes, Freud’s Golden Hour, and figured out he’d be waiting behind the opening door of this second Nonsense Room. The Real Deal when it comes to what I’d been waiting for: someone it was Legal to Kill. By ripping his throat out, which was something I never wanted to enforce. Instead, I ended up standing there with one arm outthrust, luggage in the way, waiting for him to grab it. So that I could pull him over to me and launch one Hell of an Unexpected Uppercut. Boy, would that have been Grotesque. I’m sure he would have Defeated me.

Ted immediately bowed to my luggage. “Chick, this is my room now, and you’d better believe it.” At least I had him on bended knees, no difficult feat for him, as he peered down into my morass of doubt. Probably trying to decide if I had enough money to support his activities.

Serial rapist and murderer Ted Bundy: able to love, but quite a sponge when it comes to living off of women. They call such men Gigolos. “You’re very funny,” referring to my attempts at witty repartee. “Sign over all of your Traveler’s Checks.” I kept him at bay by telling him I wasn’t able to do that, my parents’ address was on them. Also, by making plenty of Love to him, with him, and us both breaking down and falling somewhat at least in Love with each other.

Believe it or not, he tried his level best to slash me open and strangle me. Due to karate, Chuck Norris, and six months or more of practices, I’m alive. Mater Ted was “the real thing.” The kind of guy they trained me to look out for in restrooms on the Ohio University campus, from 1978-1979, where I was a college co-ed studying Journalism.

I’ve been an online Investigative Journalist. I’d like to think I’m another Richard Engel, but I’ve only been Amateur really and vastly underpaid. I’ve stood up to the Mafia over The Sims Online, and the entire world through Serious World Politics, which included defending the Jewish People from Neo Nazis by running a rather useless (to me) piece where people could sign a petition to end the Neos reign of Terror against the Jews.

I’m glad if you never hear of us again. I was “forced” to learn karate by two lesbians at school and stepped forward. Instantly brutalized, ouch. Call it habit forming, I decided to have some guts for a change. It takes that and the willingness to get badly hurt, injured, or killed brutally to really learn, as in Sartori of Japan, to REALLY learn about how to use Martial Arts. You almost need to see it happening right in front of you to take things seriously. The evening News was sufficient, it let me know about the petty details of my potential oncoming demise.

Ted was the rough equivalent of a Black belt. I only made it to Green belt status, having survived the Nonsense Room, and a sword whistling sharply in the air directly behind the back of my bared neck; this all in Utmost Pitch Darkness. However, I liked to think of myself as something vegie healthy that way. Like the Green Belt in the South, like beans, cornpone, and shut my mouth. Funny, he sure offered to belt me in it without ever getting close enough. I guess you have to be willing to take chances. Finally did run into Master Ted Bundy.

If that sort of thing is all the fault of just serial murders, well, I don’t see it; but Richard Ramirez, AKA The Night Stalker, and I agreed about something back then due to my Dad proving him right, outside of court of law. Richard claimed that the Armed Services deal out the same degree of torture, death, and perversion. Whether or not that includes weeks of unfairly tormenting locals is a mystery, if it counterbalances with what was happening overseas. I guess so.

Ted started out pissing me off on TV throughout a jaded, Vietnam-ridden 1970’s white America. Cutting a wide swath through our entire Country, murdering as he went, girls and women. Useful, attractive ladies with lives, many of them named Karen something. Such as Caryn Campbell, and other names bearing my initials as Karen Cole. A sign from God that I had best find a way to deal with this Wolf at my Door. Sooner than later. Before he traveled to Seattle again, likeliest, and killed both me and my sister Connie.

Ohio was full of such murders. I shudder to think about New York, right next door. I contemplated suicide, homicide, and riding my bicycle while ignoring such pestilences as Mr. Bundy and their many other men. But as of the age of 15, school began training me in the centuries-old Japanese arts of Karate. Which were far more accessible to we girls, especially learning disabled me, than the highly refined and only recently accessible arts of Chinese Kung Fu. Thank God for Master Fu of Ancient China, and most especially thank the Buddha for Bruce Lee!

This is like Fiction based on Fact. Fortunately, it is Fact based on Nonfiction, and the best I’m going to do with our little Seminar in how to go on living during a brief period of time, where Ted Bundy skirted the Authorities as much as humanly possible. While hanging out with me, while I spent time together with him. He kept leaving with the Authorities and returning straight to me, while enjoying the time we spent together consensually. It was sensuous, we did have plenty of sex and lovemaking time, among other activities. But I had to think constantly of how to get away from him – permanently.

I turned him over to the Police six or eight times. He tried turning me over to them thrice, imitation is the sincerest form of Flattery, I guess. I informed a motel manager that I was not a prostitute, “You can look through the room for money, there isn’t any in here,” and showed him my ID. I had to drag Tedders out of the manager’s office before it was discovered he had no such ID on him at all. Whew. He clearly wasn’t always thinking straight, which is how I knew he was on heroin.

The drug takes you over Body and Soul, so far as I can tell. Did my level best to get him off of it, make him healthier, and knew we were only killing time in advance of Death. His mother and or father were addicts, don’t know. He’d licked onto it somehow, through being rather unafraid to die, or so he thought. I was afraid to die, knew better…I was a substitute for his Mom. A man like that, as Loren Eisley the famed Anthropologist studied and found, tends to take a long time to “grow up,” is creative, imaginative, and can be incredibly difficult to deal with, especially when inclined to be a violent Murderer. Of women. We found over time he wasn’t a coward, only out to inflict himself on easy targets. Nor is he someone we or me will ever be able to drive as a square peg into a round hole.

We lived like twin Turtledoves. For all of two weeks. One was aggressive and Male, the other one was Submissive and female. Well, two can play games, involving Self Defense, military strategy (which I’ve learned from Birth, due to WWII, mental illness, and my Dad, who was NOT a “nice guy”), and a lot of speed. What Theodore taught me was the lighter side of how to defend myself against all others. While he was into, clearly, being a major Domestic Terrorist. He did finally want to defend me, outside a court of law, all around, inside and otherwise.

Meanwhile, Ted was into toying with the authorities, which was his Crystal Blue Persuasion and Undoing, as he talked me into his oncoming Execution. He was to die young. Middle aged really; at the time, I had to think of Vietnam and 17- to 24-year-old boys dying of machine gun fire all over places like Hamburger Hill. Why not Ted?

This book is Science Fact, His and Herstory. I’m expecting a shitty Truth: you don’t like that I’m female. Reality abhors a Slave, all her or his Life; but in the End, it abhors a man evenly. We’re different genetically. Ted and I were neither sexist nor racist, but Life is. This world is Half and Half, but I like to think Evolution will cure everything. If not, I guess Covid will, breaking and entering all unicellular organisms above and below the Seas.

You should consider taking the Cure, before it’s Too Late. Half of you will survive is the Plan. Until otherwise occurs. I do, due to the efforts of many people trying to save me from myself, and this includes Ted. Pedestalization was the Order of the Day; they should have left me to Life instead. But when you stray off the beaten path, be aware of the Obstacle Course that awaits you.

He was into killing all the Blue-Blooded Girls. I was into saving them. This lead to some hairy undertakings on my part, right in the middle of the Play. I call myself Mercutio, as it’s Enough; I follow Thomas Wayne (Batman’s father); I am a Referee in my Games, I got between the Crooks and ended things. Several times, not just once, and I would say School is what taught me to breathe Free. Bundy, in spite of aberrational Fantasies, is a name that means Free. Requires his family at some point in time were Slaves. Thus, a name for a Freeman.

You mean Ted Bundy was a Snow White Negro – Yep.

You wanted a book about Theodore Robert Bundy. This is NOT what you’re expecting, so my first lesson: Expect the Unexpected. I’m alive today due to the teachings of East Asia, not Christianity. But in 1986, I fulfilled my Manifest Destiny of heading backwards into Buddhism, the Source of Christianity, and so this book may be Futile. I’m hoping otherwise. I’m three parts Black. Also, far more than two parts Native Aboriginal, and I’m sure Bundy was much the same.

The man I’m forced to rationally call Robert studied Chinese, and was his best attempt at BEING the Unexpected, so he was a kind of tiger. The knife drew him, he couldn’t resist what he experienced, and he fell down. I followed him there, I learned from him, I’m alive today due to his group efforts. Our Domicile is due to him, and this is like milking a Bull instead of a Cow.

The living in it Thereof is due to Emily, who found us this apartment building, from her father. Who due to being able to pursue legal Conjugal Visits, was influenced by Robert’s being courageous enough to “bang his wife” behind a Coke machine. In the olden days before conjugal visits in Prison were Legal. White privilege allowed it. So Black and White Bob is still around in my life, because.

There is a way this is Worthwhile, although our Lives were worthless before Covid came along and ruined our Good Works. Unless you survive. It helps if you realize your Life matters, even if you have to Lie about it. As Ted’s youngest Love Survivor, I am lost and dyslexic, and forever female. Also, farting my lungs out, while my current and final husband does the same. We are dying pilgrims. Related to John Bunyan’s A Pilgrim’s Progress, written long ago in Europe.

Don’t mix up good with evil, unless you find what you need that way. I have found Maturity in helping other people. Really, I don’t think Karen here got to do anything but be out of place in all the right ways. By virtue of pursuing Flight, which is Lifelong and difficult to understand. I was born apart from my family of origin, which made me an Outsider and too like my Dad. An honorary Boy, not a Lesbian, while Ted ran around killing women. Why?

I will attempt a why I can deal with, involving Life always being a Journey, whether into Hell, Heaven, work, or the Imagination. Sherlockians like Ted Bundy and Karen Cole strayed off many a beaten path, into the Twilight Zone. Well, I’m “Me TV,” too Generation X, thus the beaten path was Nonexistent. I’m the wrong age to be either of those or was born into Living some other way. Hated and loved Television, which Dr. King blamed for my problems. It’s still on.

Ted was more self-sacrificial than you know, thus this book. He was a Christian, competing with a guy splayed across two crossed sticks. He wanted “up there” as the Man who belonged there, and I’ve got to admit his argument is Sound. Only along the lines of accidentally ending up being the Murderer. Life is a pilgrimage, a journey to where we don’t know, along the lines of tomorrow. I’m an accident, not a planned birth, so I can relate to his needs back there. My own sex drive was always tied up to the wrong things too, but he was Violent. I’m not, I’m Nonviolent, but that is the most Captain Obvious thing I’ve ever seen.

I’m selfish, selfless, and desire to spread info as the right thing, the correct way to go, but there are many paths in this life. Ted Bundy took the wrong one and turned out Right. I took the Right one and will turn out dead eventually. I don’t care so much anymore, but will when it comes unless I sleep through it, you know? Meeting my polar opposite Male Counterpart was a screaming success. It’s a bit like I attended an eerie Symposium back there for two solid weeks. My Vacation in Hell, but the FBI thinks he planned it all. I’m sure it was Spontaneous, like Ron Schwarz’s Seattle Metro bus trips were supposed to be. Ted accidentally, through using heroin, talked me into becoming a Personal Care Attendant.

Are you sure this isn’t your Third Memoirs, girl?

A memoirs is an account of a brief period in your or someone else’s life. This is a joint one, covering those two weeks we spent together in three cities in Colorado: Boulder, Aspen and Vail. Ted only handled two legs of that journey, found out I was moving back to Seattle, followed me there and found his other girlfriend, the wealthy architect, living with her as a Kept Man. Means he was a gigolo, like it was a suggestion from me, which I seemed to him to want to give.

Eliminating all desire is the First Tenet of Martial Arts. I had to eliminate my desire to go on Living, then chosen reflexes kicked in and I saved Seattle. Both Ted and I had done this, separately, through the Chinese, and he was Master Ted and I learned. Boy was Bruce Lee overinvolved. I used Ted Bundy like a tool, imitating his stand that he took for me, that I had earlier taken for him and three other people, including me. This stand was a Fight to the Death, over human lives. I saved about four people the first time: Ted, the Chinese landlord of an American Youth Hostel, his White Daughter, me, and Ted Bundy.

Ted turned around and Outclassed me, on a freight train from Aspen, Colorado to Vail, Colorado, where he planned to take me to his blue-painted Volkswagen Beetle, where I was in both sides, the passenger and the driver’s. I drove it back from Vail to Aspen, after he “showed me” what he’d done, to others; but the back of the vehicle, so used to Implements of Catholic and utilitarian Destruction of Women and Girls, was suddenly emptied out beforehand. Who knows why. Like he somehow knew I was coming along, and he wanted to enter a silent plea about how he was both Guilty and innocent. About death. And action-adventure stuff, which we undertook, and stemmed from his heroin and heroine Usage.

None of this was my fault; I had been kidnapped at knifepoint. Which under Colorado state law, at the time and right now in 2021, only favors the Kidnapper and not the Kidnapping Victim. I was going along with things for a reason, but I couldn’t bring myself to kill Ted and end his potentially ENDLESS spree of killing other people. This is selfish of me, but I didn’t want to go to Jail for Murder One, which he invited me to do, not once but several times. To kill him was to murder a technically still “innocent” man. I had opportunities I turned down. One time, he let me hold his silver switchblade, a twelve-inch, permanently razor-sharp instrument, to his throat and said, “C’mon, Karen. Cut me from ear to ear. You can do it, you know how.” What he meant by that…I thought of somehow, he wanted me to give him a scar, something like “love” back, something in return.

Briefly thought of licking blood up, like a cat. Realized more maturely the right thing to do was “treat” the Vampire below me like an Animal and slaughter him, solely because of what he’d done before, and what he’d do later. Once we separated, so I had a tendency to stay there right with him. Deciding to spend more time with Ted, I gently folded the weapon and laid it down on the pillow beside this errant Stranger, and lay down beside him instead. To watch some television, I recall it was the TV show “Get Smart” with Don Adams. I had to remember my boyfriend David Baumgardner of the CIA (Central Intelligence Agency) who had died defending his country against men like Ted, or at least against the country of Russia and the USSR in the 1970s-80s. I saw his death notice online, it’s all the proof I have of David’s sacrifice. I lay with Ted Bundy, thinking about killing him, dreaming of only lying in his arms. What was the way away from a man who was a Stalker, a Homicidal Lunatic, who wanted me to Destroy him simply so he wouldn’t give in to his baser Impulses?

All I could picture was a straight slash across his windpipe. Too late, while a lady knocked on the door. “Would you too like some popcorn? We have it downstairs.” I immediately excused myself, thudded down the wooden staircase and purchased two Hard Lemonades and a bag of popcorn, they popped it for me those potentially DEAD ladies, as Ted was a stone’s throw away Upstairs, and were potential Witnesses. I returned to our room upstairs, and gently closed the door. We’d already enjoyed a simple dinner of Fried Rice, two plates. Ted was a large “gentleman” and needed food to continue, of course. So did I, but I had to think it; we could have gone without. I just hate being hungry, myself.

When I came upstairs with the two plates of our meals, I went across the bed from Mr. Bundy, for whom I had respect now, and once again, as he was abruptly awakened from a sleepy reverie, he SLASHED the air with his razor-sharp knife. No big deal, I managed to duck it again. By heading backwards. He vaguely apologized with, “Bitch, don’t sneak up on me like that, ever again,” and put the knife away briefly. But our love games soon turned to our non-bitter rivalry. He was into handing the blade over to me, as he felt guilty about his crimes. All it would have taken was me having “the balls” to go to Jail, for what I believed. Which was that the right thing to do was to stop Theodore Bundy, at all costs.

You can’t be serious. Why would he want to die at YOUR hands, Karen? Blood on them would not be sufficient. It would not bring him back, nor Ron, from the Dead, which you shall join soon along with the Planet.

Supposing Ted recovered from any such knife wounds, even across his Throat? We would surely be History, due to his Violent Proclivities of Killing Women and also Men. Fifty each of both, from the sound of things. Well, we ended up instead enjoying popcorn with peanuts, freshly popped by Innocent Fools downstairs, lemonade with assuaging Beer to keep Ted Bundy occupied, and our own Careful Regard for each other. Life won. We had our black and white TV going and fell asleep in each other’s arms. I was his Sweet Young Thing, he was a young Dirty Old Man. Who was clean, neat, showered, and attractive. Not a hot body, more like someone I was breaking down and getting to know. Was there a reason to cause his early demise, other than fear of my own?

Death is permanent, you know, I had the strength but not the Will. And mere seconds to decide, before he changed his fool mind and grabbed that stick from me and slashed. I probably should’ve taken the chance and thrown my own life Away, because purportedly several more people vanished from Seattle office buildings, later on.

Thought you were implying this is not “Sicko” somehow.

Not sad masochism, but a Happy Splendor in the grass, which involved Private Love. He sat on the bed opposite to me, and with wondering eyes called me Gorgeous. Didn’t know why he found me so, but we were a man and a woman together at last.

Because I attained full Maturity in 1981. Therefore, none of what happened was a Rape, which lead to none of what happened was a Murder. Complications abound, but as I was perfectly willing to have sex, it was consensual. Meanwhile, Ted was Innocent until proven Guilty in American courts of law. As his friends bailed him out of jail, or otherwise sprung him, or possibly he picked a lock and snuck outside his jail cell, the which I shall never know, he was “on the lam.” Due to earlier capital offenses, which the Law had been Letting Go right and left.

What do you think this Book is about, in the end?

The difference between the sexes is Paramount, and difficult to Overcome. Still, he so much as taught me to Hide, and it worked on the Streets of Seattle and kept two men from knocking me down, stealing my purse, dragging me into a dark alley, and raping me in broad daylight. I kid you not, Ted Bundy was Useful. As to his “useless” victims, I’ve buried them only in my mind, under little wooden crosses and a Mogen David, because one of them looked Jewish.

Lying in his arms was my only reward, along with millions of other such moments in my lengthy life of 61 years. Hands are Parkinson’s ridden now, so like Hitler’s when you come to know him, so like Robin William’s also. You need something from me, like knowledge and imagination. To guide your Destinies. But this is Rank Escapism, so if I were you, I’d try to escape it in Increments.

Without that, we’d all be firemen, who may be desirable shortly. Be ready for that, boys, and girls. Cure Covid first if you can. I keep thinking forest fires will stay there, but they will come soon. To a neighborhood you’re in, put this down and do something real.

And come back later, for a decent act of escapism.

Call me Pocahontas, she was a real person living in England centuries ago. As a painting, so who knows? Doubt is the painful retribution of those who realize they don’t know anything yet. There is a Line to cross when it comes to dying horribly; once crossed, it’s like Joseph Conrad’s Heart of Darkness, and involved Killing Horribly in a group act.

Without that, we would have a giant Camazotz of a woman, a child, and an Eternally Bouncing Ball. Not everyone can maintain a real life, especially when we are all Service Brats. So was Ted, the second Author of this book, posthumously.

Not figuratively, what the Army welcomed. Able-bodied and partly able-minded, which is the most I can say for everybody but the Disabled. I’m sure he was Able-Disabled, but such Rigmarole gets in the way of my stories.

This monkey is at the typewriter, trying to assist you. Ted and Karen entirely had the Good of the Human Race in mind. But I couldn’t stand dying at 21, at the hands of a 36 year old “geezer.” Thus, this story happened. I told Ted I was planning on writing one about him; whether that saved me, I shall never know, but I am sure I saved myself from him through karate and kung fu. That proved to be my Undoing, as I saved Seattle with his advice later on.

This is One for the Disabled, all of Us and You, who have trouble reading. Due to passing Traffic, your TV set, and every other Distraction in the World. My Rinpoche Chogyam Trungpa of Tibet had the exact same problem, like me and Anton Chekov, with how what passes by your window can be deadly. My advice to those who want to deal with anyone like Ted Bundy: LEARN MARTIAL ARTS. You may think otherwise, but if so to me you’re mentally retarded. Bye.

An essay, travelogue, tell-all, and family history, cousins. About a man who could leap sideways onto a small checkered red and white restaurant table in less than a second, without any martial arts skills. Sort of a Rainbow Belt kind of guy. An imitation Bruce Lee. Due to my verbally telling him who his Master truly was. Ted was too Free to have one of those, so he thought he was Master of his own Destiny. While it was all around him, even in Colorado, that he would be caught and have to be Executed very soon. So he showed off at me, a bird with his Elegant Plumage. Mostly, snow white skin, which I don’t have.

While landing on his bum without bothering me. I thought of it as a miracle because his feet never touched my breakfast. The waitress nearly called the police, and he was ready to be arrested. Which stopped me. He taught me a lot about how to think for myself, because I was young and impressionable. No, not how to Kill People. How to avoid being brutally killed. I’m one of the wives of Ted Bundy. He was sort of a Muslim druid and a Mormon either, but neither. On his part, actually.

There will be some repetition of facts, while I hope it helps you remember things. I studied Scientology, which told me to repeat my memories. I’m fading away like an Old Soldier, due to my own proclivities, missions in Life, a major Success rate on my female part that you may Doubt as what I did was far more Important than any books or writing can say and is Undoable now by Covid. I am grateful more to people than to God, and circumstances more than to people. We are lucky Americans, who from birth are not landed gentry anymore. Back and forth the silver arrow slides, pointing to our obscurity in the Future.

This is about Old-Fashioned Colorado in the 1980s, again. It swallowed up Ted and me alive, spitting us out while we took partial control of our circumstances in a team effort to relate to our own personalized Destinies. Poetry may be Insipid in the face of Serial Murder, but nobody is truly sacred, including me. I have a bad heart and am set to die anytime. So when did this story occur to us, considering he’s dead, I’m alive, and we have already been replaced?

Around the Birth of his Daughter, Rose, that year anyway, of Florida fame

Leading to the Birth of my Daughter, Angela, much later in Seattle. A place known to be the Emerald City, or the Land of Oz. Which is why I found Adolf Hitler, in his secret post-WWII identity of Albion Pendragon of the Ku Klux Klan, the main Holocaust victim indeed, living in the Environs Thereof in Monroe, Washington near Seattle in the Year of Our Lord, Sept/Oct 2019. Coincidences abounding all through this because Ted Bundy managed to die on my sister’s birthday.

We appear to have “replaced” some of the dead people. That is the point of Reproduction, and I’m a student of Dr. Sigmund Freud’s. He’s real, but he’s an Austrian Jew with three University degrees who saved we mental patients from Death, by inventing the Golden Hour. I am forever grateful to my favorite Batman, Sigmund. My favorite Superman is Hitler.

It’s because they’re both Austrians. Half of Hitler was good and going highly undocumented. Over time, more than half of him will be good, due to the evolution of the American automobile into Electric Cars. That will cancel out the hallucinogenic auto exhaust fumes. But I’m getting ahead of myself. Who know, what with Covid and wildfires, what tomorrow will bring – our Deaths, I’m sure, while gentle Reader, I am hoping you will live on somehow.

This is my Time Capsule. I’m a Dickensian at heart, which means I’m one long struggle to be the good person I was born to be. The book A Tale of Two Cities is thematic throughout this. The two of them are Theodore Robert Bundy and Ronald Gary Schwarz. They accidentally switched places. One of them hit the guillotine, and the other went home. No, it’s merely comparable.

Me? I’m an American Civil Rights Worker, indoctrinated in by Dr. Martin Luther King, Jr. at the tender age of one and a half. I met him, Malcolm X, Kwame Ture, and Ralph Abernathy before the age of five. And saved the Life of Bruce Lee, I’ll never know for sure, when I was a day short of three years old. Studying him and imitating him has saved me innumerable times, from and like Ted Bundy. I stood down Ted to the Death, and he leapt away to examine my luggage. Due to it being in the center of the room, as a battle strategy. I digress a lot. I’m also going to repeat myself throughout this missive, so bear with me.

Due to racism and sexism I have a nasty tendency to compare apples to oranges, because they’re both round fruits. Fond of both, Ted was my heroic villain able-bodied athlete, too big for little me. Ron was the guy he gently led me over to taking care of while they were both dying. This whole project started at Gahanna Lincoln Junior High School, where the Spartans lived. I determined to help juvenile delinquents, the mentally ill, serial murderers, and forest fire participants in the US Forestry Services and Parks and Recreations Department during the brief time frame I was patiently perusing my public school library there.

Who are the Mentally Ill?

They’re people, oh Paparazzi. Like Chinese Bruce Lee because I do. Snappy patter is what US Marine Farid Hotaki was into, and it works for me too. But nobody is expecting it, we all need our “normal” reality structures.

Normal means White People only. I pity the fools.

– Mr. T. You have to be quiet in the darkness alright.

Ted Bundy, alias a series of camera angles and carnal human flesh, was not white and neither was I. So they killed him. Through luring him into a life that wasn’t anything but meant for Black people wrongly. They stuck him into a janitor’s closet and expected him to behave, which was pretty idiotic of them.

Ted immediately found a way out, because he was alone in Life, like me. I would have been stuck forever in there, until they let me out. Which I would have waited for patiently. Years ago, this stood me in good stead with them. I entered the “other” court system, which I’d agreed to do in junior high school. None of my life is Ted’s fault, as of age 21 on my part. So we were reciprocal lovers.

He was black and white, and I was ginger colored. This is an attempt at a German American record because the way my life is structured, it is for posterity only. I have no intention of making money, all my books are now on the side of my career. I’m an agent now for my own ghostwriting agency. We send your work out to better professionals than me, and that’s saying something. I have experience at writing since before 1980, been ghostwriting since 2003.

Ted never got to witness my business. He’s dead, they finally caught him and fried him, the year before I met my second husband, Reggie, the man who gave me Angela, although I would have liked to have birthed Ian. I think when you have a daughter, you’re also Chinese enough to want a son. We’re lucky we ever had Angela, who is estranged from us as Rose is estranged from them.

DISCLAIMER: This is FOR, and both against, the faint of heart, mind, body, or soul. It’s not adult literature, and not oriented that way. It’s a romance in reality, so long ago I have trouble recalling it, due to my own actions. When I was seventeen, it was a very good year…Frank Sinatra. Music that ran through my head when we were together will predominate. Park benches, restaurants, and an unapproachable “real life” involving real people with houses, lives, fortunes, and sacred honors driving up a lengthy farmhouse driveway out in the country around Aspen, Colorado.

I don’t mean to discourage you, but this is based on a truer reality than you’re privileged to know. It’s a work of journalism, and there will be several attempts to resuscitate Ted Bundy throughout. It’s out of a longing in my heart to never have been a member of what killed him. A far away African act of sight, where somehow nothing bad happened. Where he and his victims went on living, but where would the story exist?

Married to a permanently deaf man, and two extremely dead men. Plus a lot of other people, somehow. It reads as written by a junior high school education. I have a self-determined college co-ed degree in journalism, fine arts, and creative writing. So you’re entitled to wonder about this book, and whether I made anything up. But it’s nonfiction solely.

I’ve often wondered what happens to high school dropouts. One of them was Malcolm X. I think most of them get jobs driving trucks or whatever or go to college. We need them, especially while we are dying of Covid. Except this may be it for all eternity. I grew up during the Cold War, so I simply wanted to do something on my way out of life, living and the Universe. One of the things I wanted: to kill Ted. I took a vow to Malcolm X to eliminate Jack the Ripper in my lifetime.

Who is Jack the Ripper, or are there several such people?

One of them stole a comic book when he was five, and he’s the subject of this book. Once you commit seriously to a certain set of acts…you’re not him. Never happens.

Of course, there are the imitators of Jack the Ripper. I call them Ripper clones; they didn’t seem mature to me until I met my lover. He turned out to be a homeless and hopeless Romantic. So he made the best love to me, as I was helping him kill time until they caught him for murder. Due to my studies of karate and kung fu, I saved myself from Ted.

It seemed like some long, slow deliberate plan by God. Half his victims were named Karen, and I came along sixteen years later. My name is Karen, but I was belated and never stopped Ted from killing anyone but me. That’s what you want, but I helped him get ready for the guillotine and he was set for electrocution, which rhymes with execution for some obscure accidental reason filed silently under science. Weird.

What kind of man would kill people without the pay?

Who cut a swath across seventeen plus states, killing women with better, more active lives? Women who knew absolutely nothing about martial arts, in any way, shape or form whatsoever. Whose throats were cut in the middle of the night. On college campuses, brilliant young girls with promising careers? Back in the 1970s, and who was I to oppose such a horrible but introspective being? I turned around, and there he was in Colorado, as I knew.

The Monster turned out to be a man. Similar to the one between his legs, technical equipment for a nut and a bolt to meet. I’m an empty space named Karen, a vacuum, a living person. I sucked Ted into me, while he was running past me on skis. Type of guy who could ski straight downhill in a tight-fitting business suit while wearing a vision-obscuring ski mask. We got “married” in ten seconds, standing there on a ski slope.

Bitch and bastard, man, and wife. Being that I was on my period at the time, there was no hope for us to have a baby, which was forevermore. We discussed this, and its name would have been Ian or unknown. My ending up aborting it led to Ted’s being caught and executed.

Same as my legal husband, Ronald Gary Schwarz, and Ted and Ron were the Jews Hitler warned me to avoid. I had no chance with Ted, none whatsoever. He kidnapped me at knifepoint, which meant I had to save over a dozen human lives from him. Ron was dying when I met him, Ted was my “normal” athletic cool dude. He was the entirety of Detective Comics at me, including Batman and the Joker.

This isn’t a fantasy, it’s a reality, about how a tall man and a short women met. I feel simplistic, but I lied once about murdering somebody long ago.

He believed me and tried to get me to leave him behind. He also attempted to turn me over to the Authorities, which he thought he was a member of while knowing he wasn’t. Neither is anybody else, but the paid people are an intricate network of slowness in this story.

He was lower class; I was middle class. I had an edge over Ted from Day One. He was male, so he had an edge over me from Day One. We met as Equals, but he was like a Big Brother, Father Figure, and cuddly Mother to me, enough that as Radicals we found each other. He’s the victim of a lost cause. Involving finding himself in a lengthy journey as New Ager, and my lost cause is explaining this to you, dear readers.

Everything for free due to working for a living in the days before it was totally okay for us. Which is still Nowadays, I guess. The armed services makes homeless people out of everybody, and serial murderers are homeless. Due to being chased. I started out a hooker in Boulder and ended up a President online. How did this immaculate event happen? Through people. My life has been saved innumerable times, and one of those saviors is Ted. Men and women are saviors, also children, and I recommend Martial Arts.

I’ve escaped the noose only to hang myself as a necessary event. In 1986, in order to flush the Enemy out from under heavy cover. I never did make it as a Vietnam War veteran, but my husband is one. Next to nobody believes him, about half the time. I’m a veteran of the War on Afghanistan, from the 1800s. There was a Dr. Jack Reinhardt, AKA Jack the Ripper, who may have been a war veteran himself. Don’t know if he served there, but chances are he did. As a medical doctor, like Dr. John Watson, a fictional character. Jack was a forensics type, like the Skull and Crossbones club of regressive worried Inquisitional types were. But that’s over with, Jack the Ripper wrote the newspapers like he was ignorant and he was a degreed medical doctor instead.

None of this is lies. It’s nonfiction. But I’ll never be able to get all the points across. Ted, as an actual murderer, knew which corn dog belonged nailed to those crossed sticks. And how much I didn’t, and he was left wondering why everybody in our perpetual universe wanted “his” dead Karen. As a corpse. Wondering why he was being allowed to run around forever getting away with murder. Over one hundred times. Also, he was wondering why other people seemed like a sea of simulated rapist automatons.

I’m post Protestant, which means I fall back on Protestantism. Like Hitler fell back on Judaism. As a sword he needed, due to doing nothing but losing. I’ve been doing nothing but winning, but we crossed paths.

By Karen S. Cole, with no friends but rescuers, so I guess I’m in the same boat as Ted was all along. Whew. I like direct actions, so my curse was to be a piece of the puzzle. Because I made Chief Executive decisions all my blooming life, including putting things behind me.

This recalls those events, it is a travelogue, about the 1980s in Colorado, USA. It’s by me and the ghost of Ted Bundy. I am that ghost, so this will also be an attempt to write in Ted’s voice. So far as I can bring it back to me. We loved each other well enough.

Female murderers: used as villains, now heroes. Good idea, but as time shifts, Jack the Ripper is going to leave us permanently. There is a lot of money to be made in the cinema, though. “I liked watching those movies. But in the end, they were all bad ones.” Nearly hired Bundy to be a ghostwriter on our team. Could never have done so once. “Hmm. I’ve never tried that type of work before. I’ll consider it, thank you.”

The color pic is Zac Efron with no mole. It’s hidden under his shirt, whether he had one. To say the least, he looks like the man I spent time with in 1981. Forty years ago. My Titanic. Ted’s King Kong. But his shirt hides where the mole could have been removed. Well, I spent a week having a great time with Zac back in 1981. Doubtful. He’s too short…or is he?

One thing he didn’t do is “order” people to kill. I seem to have been a member of a legal lynch mob several times. I’d say that KKK membership I disowned is haunting Christy Connie Karen. Because I left that group behind, without ever having been enabled. Except by me, alone in the world. The other day, I may have been saved from Death by cell phones. Enablers are disablers, my husband lurks around the corner.

Welcome to my Kundalini dance with a serial murderer. It involves being honest sans able to tell the full story. That would involve a million-page book. Those don’t exist. By Golly, Ted was feminist enough to believe me when I said I would found Rainbow Writing, Inc. So he was the world’s most hidden feminist, and I am hoping this book brings him out into the Light. Because he’s the first person I shared my petty little dream with, in Aspen, Colorado. It’s a major company now online, but I never made it all that big. I’ve been too busy fighting forest fires and suchlike.

This will be short and succinct, like 43 years on Earth. Nobody knew if this man was Devil or Angel, but he was a human being. I felt good in his arms, so he became a mom and dad to me over time. It’s always a back-and-forth type of thing, it started with me vowing to kill him. But neither one wanted the Death of the other, so he protected me thoroughly.

And so my Love is baring his mole for a reason. Dreams of this selling will never come true. But a few people will read this book. The FBI got something right, except for the part about his escapes had to do with becoming normal. The Impossible. Like me trying to keep him alive, and he’s just another man. But unique. He was our Enemy and killing us, so I took a hand in things for the first time.

The cosmic irony is he tried to kill both me and Gary Ridgeway. For salutary reasons. In my case though, he was right; I’m innocent. I’m going to try to sculpt this puzzle of a book. Well, Gary and I are members of the same ethnic groups. He’s more like my Dad than I cared for, and that German wood elf known as Ted looked Jewish to me. Curly hair except when wet. Gary is an “obvious” Protestant, and the Green River Murderer.

Sometimes when you hate someone, you grow to love them instead. I strategically lured Theodore into bed with me. I used feminine wiles, which is not a weapon that Gary Ridgeway had any access to. That is Captain Obvious, but he gave better massages than me.

Were you really involved with Ted Bundy?

Whether or not 21-year-old me was an influence on Robert. Bundy was the Evil One, Theodore was the Good Man, and Robert was the Normal Person. Both Mark Campos and Ted Bundy had multiple personalities from killing people. We don’t handle truth that well, not all the time, and my Dad was a member of them.

I keep thinking Anne Rule already covered this story. But she isn’t my angle of view because she never loved him. He loved me the most, out of everyone else he knew, but it sounds like idle boasting. We only knew each other for two weeks, but it was an Instant Marriage. Probably for life, but according to the Venusian Church, it simply took more than one man to make me pregnant eventually with Angela.

Yes, Ted Bundy was heterosexism incarnate. Because he only was a ‘60’s and ‘70’s Radical who wanted to improve society. He did, by virtue of going everywhere to do Editable Evil on purpose. Sort of. He was also in a limbo where he had to deal with his last name meaning buns. Meant he had to be an honest dude pretty much at all times.

A “professional” murderer under Sherlock Holmes. We were both Sherlockians, he must have read some of the Canon, at least, of Sir Arthur Conan Doyle. He only watched the movies.

Goodbye young lovers wherever you are, goodnight, ladies…Ted’s Native American name is White Snow Cloudy Bank. I’m entitled to name him that, because I did, and I’m a Cherokee Trail of Tears aboriginal. My self-named, masturbatory Indian name is Little Bird Bear Wisdom.

This is far more probably the “ugly” man I spent some time with inside of September 1981. We’re all racist idiots. He was a sexist fool. Because he’s still got that mole on his neck, and Ted was that kind of a guy. Very scary, scared, and fearless. Easy to intimidate. Lifeless now. He faced down a whole boxcar of intimating gang rapist men for me in 1981. Courage is nothing. But there were at least twelve of them, you see.

How did he manage to live through that, Karen?

Through being a poor man, and heroin usage. He was an XY chromosome, and I’m an XX chromosome. I’m eventually headed for a hospice. I saw that mole on the man who ably bedded me, left side of his neck. It wouldn’t rub or pick off. We were once in what’s left of the Wild, Wild West, folks. Fairy tales all have to end, but this was a true one, oh commies.

I wish I knew whether it was Zac or Ted – I fell so damn in love with him. Well, that big galoot carried me naked, while he was naked, through “miles” of Vail, Colorado snow, long enough for us to find civilization again. It may have been all of one mile, but it was a fantasia of love.

Until he took me to that sawmill down the road. Well, I survived, or I wouldn’t be here writing this brief book. A visit, where he asserted himself again and let me know he could have killed me once more. I’d told him I was planning on writing a book about our adventures, so he freely gave me yet another one. Polly Pureheart, with the manacles. It looked bloody, so I guess someone else may have bit the dust there earlier. He actually clamped me to a lengthy method of sawing me in two, twice.

Both times he asked me if I was really Hitler’s granddaughter. “YES, I AM,” I roared over the noise of the moving saw. “AND YOU’RE NOT,” as he stopped the wheel capably enough each time. Cut the top of my head slightly and some women later on bandaged it with some herbs. It never cut anything but my scalp and healed completely. To this day it now feels imaginary, like nothing of the sort ever happened.

Less angry at that dude in Ohio shooting at me in 1976. Christian forgiveness is “our” forte, if I ever met any of those Civil Rights personnel at all. It’s pointed that I never met a single one of their wives.

Six-foot plus inches of Ted Bundy. Not five foot ten inches of him. Ron Schwarz was five foot eleven, more or less. And he held me in his dying arms, on seven different psycho medications. We’re all Rasputin now, and I just don’t recommend seeing a psychiatrist…due to this. You start out a fetus, become a person, and you shrink and grow. So does your little man. Purple or otherwise. Or an area of the body from which there is no turning back. Babies come from it, not little wind-up dolls.

Two black men in 1986 and the third one too never mattered to me after that. It was a rape, finally, for the first time. Because they were house burglars and arsonists, at the time of their doings. I talked them out of completing both.

Yelling at people can at least slow them down. I learned to ki-yi, and all I know is ducking worked for just me. It was that Karate backing up thing, the first step in learning.

This is a short book, about a nonexistent rape that never happened. I liked the joke where I was the one who “attacked” Jerry Lewis and Ted Bundy, on separate occasions. They were both willing to die for me, although it could be argued they each had such individual longings for merely themselves. Due to my real master, Bruce Lee, and Dr. King, I was willing to die for them too. Bruce is whose hand I held before being gutted by Theodore Robert Bundy – may he Rest in Peace.

How do you write for a sea of conflicting readers? Who think you know it all, but not really, due to Covid? Very carefully. All of you know life is spontaneous, nasty, brutish, and too short or long. And we all have to go to the bathroom.

Ted needed direction in life from his dead victims.

I was the lady who was his dead victims. I’m covered all over with age spots, and the rest of them were not all white and racially pure unlike Me’s. Some of them must have had “me” about them.

I was the only such victim studying Bruce Lee. He’s my man, my Jesus, my…Ahhhh, Tedders wasn’t trying that hard with me. Also, the car was parked in Vail, Colorado. The car is now in a museum. He was a Daddy, and something tried to turn his story into A Tale of Two Cities.

It’s true Zac Efron or somebody else could have done some of the murders. It’s just highly unlikely. Murderers are everywhere. I am one. I shall never know. I had Premier or President Vladimir Putin set off two Nazi neutron bombs in Northern Russia. I will always recall Vladimir until the day I die. Rainbow pastiche nowhere. Yes, Vladimir did his own thing.

What is a man during a giant crisis ridden world?

And if “he” had to stay alive during overwhelming odds. And he was one. An overwhelming odd. Well, that’s Jewish humor for you, stating the obvious case. I’m not a witch. I’m not a bitch, those are female dogs. The idea behind bitch is we are the Expendables. Fancy name for bitches! The entire human race can fall off a cliff, oops, not me.

I honestly think he could have escaped. But we are sympathetic eyes and monkeys. So he stuck around to die at his problems. Ted could have kept looking for a way to escape. He bravely faced the law because I asked him to do so is HIGHLY probable. He asked me which execution method I wanted him to exercise on me. Kidders do prosper when the other guy is too Nazi to know what you’re talking about, Jewess Karen.

He wasn’t all that bright by then, you know?

Also he knew which method was the worst one. So he could monkey pay for the crimes he committed. Much less pain than he put all of his victims combined through. Hopefully. Or each one of them is now Ted Bundy back there somewhere. How about me instead, but no, he’s a man dead and I’m an alive woman…

“Well, Ted, how about the electric chair?”

They ended up choosing it for him in Florida. I’m no man. I’m lower IQ than the Green River Murderer. However, I turned around Ted Bundy after he’d already turned around. He was almost going to eat one more peanut, namely me. Only if I didn’t duck his knife.

“What about ducking is so damn female, Ted???” I immediately asked him. Obviously to Tedders it was more male to thrust with the knife. Woody Allen got it right; it’s a symbolic penis. Like the Nazi salute. Why we don’t tend to do any of that. It’s not a decision. It’s not a choice. And I can do that with knives and salutes. Those other women do too.

Liked the lying in his arms best because I’m low thyroid.

You know, you readers are entitled to not believe me. One more time, I watched Bruce Lee for years, took off running, found the forest fire, put it out before it was set…and it’s all idle boasting by Minnie Mouse.

Donald “John” Trump is also a master at turning things around on the rest of us. I’ve long suspected and admired him because he is me.

I next ended up with people using disabled folk electric chairs right and left. Tedders would have given me an easy death of about two or three weeks of subhuman torture. With me going into and out of shock, finally just once, and succumbing. To good ol’ Death.

Dr. King wanted me to tell the truth and wanted to lie himself. Well, he wanted to write fiction. He never seems to have gotten around to it. A Round Tuite is the things we all need and each other have. Doc is documented as having killed one person. Not legally, directly. By having broken her neck and tossing her out a window.

We are all sinners. There is no such thing as sin, then. There’s just life within the limits, such as when I pulled a blonde, blue eyes white thing that had stolen my nonexistent previous chair, who needed it possibly because of his lack of glasses. He was sitting closer to the blackboard and was either big for his age or too old to be in that classroom.

I got upset and flipped him through the air. We made a great team; he flipped himself through the air and landed right into his chair perfectly. Just like how Tedders legs perfectly didn’t even touch my food. Sat in his food and was contemplating eating it. I immediately got him a new plate of food, after he’d formally announced he’d murdered tons of other people and had been being a selfish lout.

Of course, I influenced his behavior. Because I’m…a student of…

Juliet and Romeo. He was dead on his feet, I was New. That’s how I ducked his switchblade. Big man with a little knife. Good for slicing throats, he tried gutting me with his. Whoopie twang.

I am not the typical Bundy victim. Due to Robert of Theodore “Robert” Bundy fame. Because I noticed in 1976, he was headed straight for me. Well, the dates are going to be all fucked up in this book. Because once you meet the billionth name with no meaning, no sex, no ability to ascertain it without going over the new spelling of Geotgajjerelle…

I recall TV in Ohio. Whatever he was, it was Kill him or Kiss him.

Both he and my husband asked me to Kiss it. That’s okay, I would have spent hours doing oral sex with Ted. But I was afraid of hims a bit, and I also was afraid for me. It went back and forth, fourth and back.

I mean, he was mean, and I was EXTREMELY angry at Jack the Ripper. I had a hero named Batman when I was six years old. Then I was informed by life that Batman descended like a monkey from Jack and the underground cult trying to take us over now through technology. Well, porno with no names and faces doesn’t work, you know?

Two racially impure Jewish clowns for you folks. If you sue us, his wife and kid, go ahead with it. We have no money. One two one two one two one two can’t count up to three anymore. One two three four five six seven eight nine ten if I do it in four other languages, I will putz, but it takes too great of an effort, Ted.

I finally gave up and tried killing someone instead of me. Recently. On a mental ward in WA State, I tried to join Hitler at something. Because my husband left me there to rot and then took me home. Nobody cares, but the girl I tried to kill. I wasn’t successful at it. Well, she is now out to kill Ted Bundy, when you come right down to it.

Because I’m Karen the Nobody. Period.

Okay, he liked having sex with us and was a Daddy. According to Freud, Ted Bundy was a major success in life. In deed and not word, because he killed people and replaced a few. I’m a Mommy. Ted can go down in history as representing entrepreneur Karen the Jewess.

So…I “killed” people and replaced a few. As a home health care aide and a mother who saved human lives. I met the nurse who was a homicidal lunatic. I was more or less forced to give my first husband his medications until he died. We in the medical establishment “accidentally” killed my first husband, a Jew named Ronald Gary Schwarz. Cultural Jew didn’t believe and did believe, at least in the state of Israel.

Ron’s last words: “I didn’t love Angela enough.” More like an idea occurring in the middle of his death. He felt like he caused her suicide, and the death of their mutual baby. And two different women named Angela are involved. I have to work hard in order to keep me, my husband, my family, and my friends okay. Online exposes you to the Universe, but you have to take risks to get anywhere in this world.

I primarily went crazy because of other people. I wish Ted could clear them all away like so much rubbish. Welcome to Covid again, World of the Weird. My husband calls it Covie like cozy like the Koz Apartments. Place is a brick shithouse with plenty of bathrooms and nice neighbors. We’re all so old and Seniors here, contemplating old age and death like the Buddha.

I hope you can spend some time with this book and enjoy it.

Okay, King Arthur. Guinevere here is going on at great length about Sir “Ted” Lancelot there in print and see if it finally works. And puts bread on our table because I’m afraid of my job as an agent. Intermittent pay, about as dangerous as the week I spent with a serial murderer. There’s a sweet death waiting for those who take limited chances. It’s hard and harsh capital punishment for the disabled like me who are being killed.

The truth will never set us free, due to lying and everything else.

–Dr. King, at some point in time.

Ted was sane and mentally ill. So am I.

Ted could just do stuff and went ahead and did it. No, Ted knew better, so he got himself executed in time to make one serious statement about how pornography ruins his Karen. I am the Karen. He was bright enough to know he was Guilty, and I was Innocent. Also decided I was no warrior in advance. He was half right, and the Civil Rights Movement won.

He took a Vow to destroy all that did it to me. Welcome to Covid. Well, I hereby doubt little Tedders caused it. Of course, so do you. The thing hyper-evolved through us in China which is sheer chance. This is a Universe due to sheer chance. “God” does play dice with the Universe, Albert Einstein. And Imagination is far more important than Knowledge. Because knowledge leads to nowhere eventually.

Ted: “I’m the one who’s guilty, Karen.”

–last words: Give my love to my family and friends.

Hitler’s last words, too. They will be different than those. Ted gave me freely of what love he had outside of a concentration camp. Hitler was and wasn’t responsible for those. You knew it.

Life leads to death. Why care? My problems: I have them all along due to cigarettes. Which are half good, half evil. Go ahead and vape, you might meet somebody. Like my road to Ted and away from him. I finally had a baby with somebody. He’s sitting in the living room having fulfilled all expected of him by his Mother, he never really had a Dad.

Ted was born in a home for unwed mothers. He’s permanently a bastard, like my Dad who was born to serve in WWII. Lucky him.

He’s sort of the reason why they fried Ted and not him. I mean, not me. There are similar reasons as to why they didn’t fry me. But I’m digressing. I had to lie a lot to get away with not having committed the crimes Ted committed. Because of earlier events in my life where I’m a Negro replacement flat out. Well, I could have testified somehow, been a character reference for Ted somehow. But the FBI is right; Ted did it somehow of his own “free” will. I may be an influence but that is too bad. And yet I almost would have taken his place at the guillotine.

Because I loved that bastard dearly.

My problem is the same one: I could just do stuff and wasn’t allowed to do what I got away with. It’s because of Sexism, not racism, but you know. Oh, all those poor invisible nonexistent people. With luck, they’ll ALL die out. I made it up a gym rope I wasn’t allowed to make it up. They’re right, I didn’t wait my turn forever in line waiting for hell to freeze over before I made it up that guy rope waiting for me to try to kill people in the US Armed Services. I had dreams of being a German soldier for the Nazis. Not the ones you’re acquainted with, Dear Readers.

The ORIGINAL Nazis. I’m happier that I reproduced. I didn’t WANT to kill Vietnamese because I don’t have a penis. There. Now you know that I am a Freudian unto the stars (and you sure do), half and half world…

But there’s no such thing as luck. His name is Greyson, dude. Ted, if you’re out there reading this book, my grandson’s name is Greyson Constantino, and you can have him. But you won’t, Dead Ted. Dr. King was right, might as well risk everything you ever were precious. Including risking it, because of serious legal issues that matter.

Ted wanted to kill my boyfriend and then leave. He didn’t want to replace him with Ted, he WANTED to replace him with Ted. He wasn’t able to do so. Hold fast to dreams, for when actual dreams die, life is a broken winged bird that cannot fly. Hold fast to dreams, for when dreams go, life is a barren field, frozen with snow.

–Langston Hughes, gay or otherwise VLGBTHQV

YHVH – a mother imagine that.

Yeah, I looked like I was already Dead, so he fell in love with me. I think just being his bitch cunt mysterious other lady Jewish Karen wife did it. But I also had American Express Traveler’s checks. About $500 of them, so I had a temporary Gigolo who was a husband, a tour guide, a skier, and who could do everything better than I could. Including what I could have done, a psychology degree within two years. At Naropa Institute, but I was blocked by Alan Ginsberg from ever getting one.

Julius Caesar, Hitler, and Hess are right: Life is a Chess Game. Well, that got imprinted on my mind when I was six but being a kid, I was able to rebel against that and not mire in a mental institution in France. I still don’t know what happened to my little 10-year-old Black female friend there. They claimed she grew up, okay!!!

Ted had friends too. Similar group of people. My friends? Disabled in advance, like I was by being female at all. Other females have found a way.

Men since before Rocky don’t care what Talia Shire looks like. We have vaginas and get pregnant. They don’t. Except for annelid worms disguised as Real Human Beings which they are, they’re “disabled.” Okay!

When the moon

Is in the Seventh House

And Jupiter aligns with Mars

Then Peace will guide the planets

And Love with steer the stars

This is the dawning of the Age of Aquarius.

Ted “Sherlock Holmes” Bundy did a compromise out of all the Hodge podgy things he was exposed to. While starting out knowing what?

Well, welcome to the Ted Cult, you who are already members through human sexuality. Dr. Sigmund Freud has us pegged and we are criticized by religion. Former President Donald John Trump is still President as I write this. I am trying for Dr. King’s freedom causing truth, as an Exercise in Futility.

Therefore the arrival of Satan Bundy. In 1981. We rutted like crazed weasels. Very slowly, because one of us was on Heroin. I was on Coffee, which at least sped me up slightly.

Bruce Lee is God. Well, he was just little Bruce, you know. I lived for Him is how I survived the switchblade of the Tedders.

Lesson: This guy’s in love with you…dudes. And woman. And children. And dogs. And vengeance. For being badly hurt by obscenity. So obscenity breeds obscenity. Blaming Ted was exactly what to do…the world blames me for being female. It’s an obvious thing. But I’m Rasputin. It will take forever for me to die…sneeze…got to die the billion deaths followed by the One and Only. That seems mysterious, black, and night-time.

Can’t sleep anymore should kill me.

I’d hate to wake up in a hospital on eternal Life Support.

Making love come from love like Ted works far better than waiting for the inevitable future where I’m kept alive indefinitely as something like a brain in a jar, due to Modern Technology. Depending upon the actual real kindness of our captors. Everything flows past like a River. The girls all lined up to be saved by me because they are lazy bums.

It isn’t all low thyroids, it’s low motivation. What else excuses them? Everything, but lazy bum college students? With careers, showing potential, after the fact of the world’s most ultimate Panty Raid.

Just die loving somebody other than masturbatory you.

Up and down and sideways, I’m going to die loving Ted Bundy.

Fortunately, I have distractions in my life.

I like them older than me.

Wiser than me.

Maler than me.

There is no choice in this matter.

But…but. I am an Old Soul…age spots…no baby with Ted. It’s name is Impossible. No baby with Ron. No baby with any of them but Predestined Remigio the Filipino. God wrought that sword on a rock on an island, somewhere in Guesswork.

–Kevin Rogers was two years younger than me. He was the Love of my Life, of course he turned out to be Gay. I turned out to be Straight. And I have too much material for a book, including all such Periods in my life. Like Malcolm X and Alex Haley and Ralph Ellison said, this would need to be a million-page book about what was primarily a weekend or one week in Colorado, the skiing capital of the Multiverses.

Aspen. I had a tour guide named Ted Bundy. Yes, the serial murderer. Mostly he was a tour guide in a very repeated manner. My husband wonders why he just didn’t get a job. It was because Tedders couldn’t have gotten a fake ID to save MY soul from Cleveland.

By Karen S. Cole – Venus and Mars

NOT by dead Theodore Robert Bundy, an epitaph

Dedicated to: L. Frank Baum, the guy who wrote for everybody. Meanwhile the movie version killed Judy Garland because her mother was the one under the house that fell on me. Judy drank herself to death, drugs, she’s my fellow Rasputin, it sure did take a while.

Moons and Junes and Ferris Wheels

The dizzy dancing way you feel

When every Fairy Tale comes real

I’ve looked at Ted that way…oh no, he wasn’t Perfect.

The world’s most ultimate Critic is children. They’re New.

So all I’m hearing from now is Children. I asked God to make me not a virgin. Now I have the unbelievable feeling that I or someone else has done everything the human race could have ever done. Woe is us if this Covid thing are what Zynn Berry and it is. What we’ve all been wanting by now, but this is me under Bohrian Physics.

I can stand there and take it somehow. I’m a coward who didn’t want instant (it never is) Death. It always gives you ages to contemplate it. Ted the corpse is waiting for something. I hope not me, Ted, because I found that new man you promised me back in 1981. If you’re show biz Ted, I have no startling announcements for you. Or anyone else. I finally got pregnant, and it was the usual painful experience.

Yes. All you need is love and money. And the human compassion you’re born with, so you can raise your children.

What if I “knew” it all and surely couldn’t, since 1974?

Mein Kampf tried hard to be a Bible for me. It is not a bible; it is a book. A book is a bible, it’s a French word for book. I have material for books coming out of my ears, but Geoffrey Dahmer only made one significant point and for fear of LGBTQ I can’t mention it. We just all can’t have children. I just can’t write for everybody. Still, that’s what we writers do, period.

I fell in love with Robert through a TV set. Also Jerry Lewis, but I’d known him before and knew he’d be married by the time I got there. Ted was also married, that’s sacred somehow in a world where nothing is sacred. I said, “Ted, if it necessitates dead Karen for you to spend some time with Rose, your daughter, do go back after killing me.” He didn’t.

My high school nickname was Mr. Spock.

Action reaction makes us all at each other’s throats while we’re dying. I guess her parents wouldn’t pay for everything in her all-white life. So now she’s coming for me. I wish Ted could have picked her up and eaten her pussy very fucking slowly. In a painful manner. With his teeth. Well, he already took a bite out of that all-white pussy.

And left dental records behind. By dying in 1989.

How am I to avenge his death through suicide???

It’s just that overemphasis of Me in Eternal Hell. Why don’t I want out of it, what IS it, a feedback mechanism? I mean, I don’t want out of Life. Like Jews said, it’s the only thing we’ve got.

There’s an afterbirth. Flows like blood out of you during childbirth. There is no Afterlife. Now, guarantee it. I look down at my cheesecloth forearms at 61. Freckles galore, I’M the only real human being on the face of this planet of Angels. And Demons.

Why am I going to Eternal Hell anyway, in spite of both Ted Bundy and me being technically innocent animals with Hell fetishes?

I’m a Punta, a bitch, a subhuman being. Because ALL of us are references to mortality and dying young. Gee I such in a fight. Gee, other women don’t. Gee, I’ve lost many and won some.

But who are I and my Philippino husband?

Just a pair of Nobodies. Somebodies die before you are born. Before they pop out of the womb, which we both did. All as multitudes of Jesus Christ, comedians, but now I have Jesus and the Two Thieves as husbands. Dead husbands, two of them, and one dying husband who likes me. As I am. And he wants me to love him as motivation for him to keep going.

Everyone is stuck railing against their parents to the Moon. Our parents are all half good and half evil. Courage helps?

I don’t believe it, but he got some in jail. He’s as mentally retarded as I am. I pushed past it and became the author of Flowers for Algernon. Who is somebody else, an Ohio University professor who shot up his bathroom with a handgun back in 1979?

I never had the balls to just go die. And I still don’t. Never will.

Somebody else hates Frank Sinatra. I have one hated enemy and it’s still The Virgin Mary that has children. She’s a lie. So I’m a “lesbian?” Parthenogenesis WAS doable in our lifetimes. Yay!!!!!! Through science, but I’m going yay Covid and a thoroughly Dead human race. Seems I’m a Neo Man. Who never will be one?

Down around the corner

Half a mile from here

See those long trains running

And then watch them disappear

Without love, where would you be right now?

Yeo how without love, uh love.

Adolf Hitler isn’t the first one to get this right: we ARE all alike. Why do I feel like I knew or learned everything on the face of this planet (and deeper) except for multiple languages? Did learn how to read and write, had significant advantages over Ridgeway and Bundy.

Who all has learning disabilities anymore…?

A nonfiction based on fact story, due to my fading memories. Of an extremely needing to stay alive baby called Karen.

Actually, I clearly recall all of this happening to me in the ‘80’s. What happened to Ted is what I’m struggling with through this. Something private, for if truth be told, I’m not Theodore Robert Bundy. He died on January 24, 1989.

He had a Jesus complex. He wanted to save and serve Humanity. Well, so did I, for want of anything better to do, really. There’s money in it, in a service economy, in everything. Including drugs and sex. Prostitution, which must forever include Biblical kiddy deaths and selling them for sex. Due to technology, at least it may only be pictures of them soon.

Why did you end up in Ted’s loving embraces?

It was the 2.2 children premise. What is a .20 or .02 child? The disabled. And the dead. Yes, I certainly ended up with the “bravest men on the face of the planet,” we were all just Americans. Ted Bundy (alias a Nobody who tried to be a Somebody – hello, Dear Readers), John Tyler, Ron Schwarz, Jerry Lewis, Dean Martin, Bruce Lee, Adolf Hitler (whoops he was European, but he said he was American), and Ted Bundy again because he was the bravest one. He wasn’t trying to get out of it, he was an actor. He liked to get it across about the things Evil MEN do.

Brave is a word from Native America. We’re all colonizers. But the word brave is Scottish, and it’s been around the block.

Evil women sleep around. Sure.

So Ted Bundy went out of his way to be as evil as humanly possible. Then he ended up going out of his way to be as good as humanly possible. Then he ended up following me like a little lost puppy dog. Then I ended up writing this and trying to remember what all happened for you readers.

Over there, over there, over there. WWI song, about WWII. And WWIII. Over here. January 6, 2021. Well, if you set out to be brave against Hell and Damnation, you do get what you wanted. I set out to have exactly one kid in this life. I had her, she’s somewhere. I don’t know if Ted and I were lucky enough to attain our goals. The one kid premise is due to me. I thought not overpopulate the globe with people while we’re all dying. I had a selfish desire to have a kid in spite of everything. It is the desire to go on living, and I’ve been caught at it left and right by everything.

To the point where my life is just a hallucination of abuse.

But Rose Bundy his daughter is also safe in England now. Ted’s real “girl,” and any of his other children are potentially hidden away.

And he wasn’t me. And he wanted all about me. Like he was interviewing this journalist in depth somehow. Romancing the Stone. I responded by telling him everything. Nowadays, I’m crippled up, not directly from Ted, but indirectly from pollution, loneliness, and a lack of available men in my life who could make me pregnant. Well, ALMOST all types of men quickly visited in four days in Boulder, Colorado, and otherwise throughout since 1960, the year I was born. Which is fading fast because I just don’t sleep anymore. And let’s face it Ted, you may as well be The Murderer because of a lack of one available Satan.

In this life there are many such Satan’s.

WARNING: This is about Ted and other people in his life, including me. And also a few deep-seated political matters, such as genocide and sexual slavery. And you can’t always get what you want. For example, if you’re sweet, gentle, and brave, read this. You might find out something you never knew before. About serial killers known as the Catholic/Muslim/everybody hurts…sometimes.

A man. Mysterious, dark, forbidding. Don’t romanticize, sexualize or overpromote? Might be racism afoot. Come to think of it, sexism matters. And I’m disabled now. He was a poor man, circumstances well below me, who strove mightily and harshly to rise above an ordinary life and death, while simultaneously lowering into an obscurity of obsession, murder, torture, and damnation. And I don’t want to be melodramatic, but he was a human being, and I was overnight his second girlfriend. We were hot after each other like a pair of lost teenagers.

I wanted to kill Jack the Ripper there, and he wanted to know if I was Jewish and then probably kill me.

Hate and Love, according to the Hippies, is often much the same thing. But which comes first, when two people are suffering one man’s fate between them?

Check out Romeo and Juliet, she was his second girlfriend. But Ted was married. The good and evil ones are often taken soonest. And we did all that we did while potentially aiding and abetting a wanted escaped fugitive. He may have been innocent, which he technically was. That’s American law, innocent until proven guilty in court. The whole thing was like A Tale of Two Cities, with some swapping around involved. I don’t want to be blamed for his actions. He was a man, and he made his own decisions in life.

In fact, Ted was willing to die extremely horribly in order to avoid me being to blame for his brutal actions. To be a human target and take it in the chest for love. He had one of those male bosoms from the olden days of Europe. Mostly, he was protecting his woman from deadly enemies. Then since I tried to turn him over to the authorities over a dozen times, he tried to turn me over to them too. About three times. The meaning to this shall remain obscure, but I hurt his feelings while giving him something to do. And he was 30+, while I was 21. Such a birthday coming of age gift for me – maturity. Ted kept handing that matter to me; what to do, like he’d been missing his Mom for a long time. I overnight “owned” a giant tiger with full killing capabilities.

Well, there is the matter of racism against us, dark white people, and ginger types, they treat us like kids and then expect us to be their parents. Sounds like normal role switching, not like when we’re considered to be crooks.

We never exactly made it into the WWII concentration camps, they blew off our heads and threw us into huge open pits. Which was also the other way around. Jews in the camps were the big secret, “we” and of course not me were elsewhere, half the time. I’m Protestant, neither Nazi, Catholic nor Jewish, but I’m post-Protestant and I thought Ted was Catholic.

The way he La Pieta bowed to me, he was post-Catholic, and a Nazi. Ran around killing his “own” women off, or the whole thing was staged for the cameras. Using fake blood, dummies, horror movie props, you name it. And receding rubber knives. One photo showed a girl with her head sawed off, but there was no pool of blood under her body. And it looked like a fake rubber body, a Hollywood prop. So I remain mystified.

1966: I was the little red-haired girl in a French chess movie. About the first Grand Master female chess player. Child actress. It’s like I met adult actor Ted Bundy or one of the men who portrayed him. What scares me out of my gourd (how much I still love him): Ted remembered his Karen one time in court and another time in a public interview. “Have you seen Karen Cole? Can you look for her for me? Can you find this Karen Cole and bring her back to me?” Loving me or stalking me.

Then the real Ted Bundy bowed out, but I deeply suspect I spent time with him for one week back in Aspen, Colorado in 1981. Pheromones are chemicals that kick in once you sleep with somebody you consider to be special. And you tend to forgo your most painful memories.

I couldn’t help loving a serial rapist, murderer, and brutal torturer. I even had a crush on two out of four of my grandfathers, like Freud said. When the father is not available and is often away, she will fall in love with other male members of the family. Two of my grandfathers served in the armies of the USA and Europe. I’m technically innocent of war and crimes. Yet I’m going to state one more time there’s a strong possibility I’m one of Hitler’s bastard grandkids. Because he told me so at a party when he was 75 and a CIA escapee from South America. So I remain unbiased in the direction of judging people to death, due to being related to the original Nazis.

Nuremberg was a dismal failure. I wish it has been a big rousing success! Concentration camps still too often plague our world.

Dr. Sigmund Freud and the Kinsey Report: all is normal in human sexuality.

If we all could be allowed to be human, for a change. The rainbow movement includes killers and victims. Ted was a heroin addict, and I am a caffeine fiend. Like every other writer in Seattle. Attempting to sell this book. Darn, I gave a damn about him. The instant he had a brain. Hitler in his writings I studied at school said I’d have to get my act together soon, so did my older sister, and Ted was my wake-up call to leave Colorado and go back to Washington State. And to get a job away from “hooking” – not a job for a talented female college student.

The gist of this is we ended up falling deeply in love with each other. It took some time but happened throughout just one week. Or longer. Men fall hard in love, so do we, but I’ll try to let memory serve as my way of pulling the pieces together of a shattered jigsaw puzzle. It’s been over 40 years. Dare the statute of limitations be out on me yet? When it comes to harboring the fugitive of an escape. Ted was simply out on bail. But I’m a little suspicious. His friends sprang him somehow.

I suffered through two dead “husbands,” one in 1985 and one in Dead Ted 1989. Ron Schwarz was my legal husband.

Ted’s not exactly to blame for my problems in life, other people and I are far more the sources. I’ve broken my arm and my leg. They’ve healed due to medicine. But sudden changes can be shocking. Also, why not blame a serial murderer and rapist (and Inquisitional torturer) for several of the problems of this world? Or for that matter, his sea of Aspen skiing friends who may well have been assisting him at what he was doing. Catholics. Well, I always somehow thought it was the fact my parents chain-smoked that most seriously injured me. Ted vaguely used heroin and was a major warning sign about drug use, sex, and death.

Mostly, this is an attempt to not cast aspersions on Theodore Robert Bundy.

As dark as it was. What can I say about a man who was racist, pro-white, anti-normalcy and phony “goodness,” a Neo Nazi according to what he told me himself, and an amoral perversely mortal soul who tried to mold me into something along the lines of an adult woman?

By injecting me with heroin and hurting my feelings, after I clearly indicated I was scared and didn’t want it in my veins. While I was asleep – waking up abruptly. I pulled the needle out, and he didn’t insert it ever again. By introducing me to the fine arts of becoming a home health care aide. Due to his falling apart due to shooting up junk and needing to be hospitalized. He was the first person I managed to take care of, really.

I spent one afternoon dragging him to the hospital. Down a hotel’s outer metal stairway while supporting his head; it made me feel adult. And far more mature than he was. He wasn’t faking his arm in a sling that time. He took a dose of hard junk and fell off the bed. We walked one mile, with his hanging off my narrow shoulders. He finally fell down and told me to leave him there on the sidewalk to die.

“Leave, girl. Don’t stay. Go home, I’ll be fine. Leave me here to die.” I walked away about 30 feet, knew I had my freedom back, and felt obligated to take further care of a dying man. I turned around, ordered him to his feet and had him hopping along nicely. Dragging and carrying and supporting serial murderer Ted Bundy made my wildest dreams come true.

Noble man, but if you think you’re noble maybe then you act the part. Biggest, most purple penis and balls I ever saw. On the one hand, swiftly and slowly tortured dead girls and women, on the other hand willing to die a long, slow lingering death lonely and lost forever on the street for me. Willing to take bullets, knives, and spittle directly into his chest and kill human beings for me by slitting their throats. And worse.

This after telling me, by way of why he didn’t love me, “My heart only pumps blood.” A cold-hearted white killer. A man in hopeless love with me in a few days’ time. Was this an actor, or Ted? A doppelganger, or a magician who could change his features like Sherlock Holmes? He wanted me to make his baby, then he was fine on my either having it aborted or naming it Ian. Or my own name for her if I ended up a single Mom. My period precluded any such pregnancy. I went overboard and shoved two tampons up inside me to prevent…things. What would I tell Ian or Iona or whoever about the father of that child? You can get pregnant on your period, which is why the Rhythm Method is abysmally ineffective.

Who or What was Theodore Bundy?

Free man. White and negro. Unapproachable. He always came back to me. Even left his gorgeous girlfriend to spend time with his pretty little Karen. Liked to scrunch down and make sure I was all right. Wanted to know if I ever set up Rainbow Writing, Inc. I never told him about it, he died before 2003 and my finally becoming an American businesswoman.

I’m an agent now, as Woody Allen set me up to be through suggestion. Teddy: Like a giant black and white dog or man. My tiger for a week, on loan from somewhere else. One who was selfishly doing anything that pleased his hurt feelings. Whatever I felt like I’d been forced to become, as my folks had paid for less than half my education. Leaving me to fend for myself. It took years for me to get a self-determined degree in fine art, English literature, and journalism.

We seem to be like the Joker and Harley Quinn in the Batman production DC universe. He’s executed and I’m lingeringly alive. Or we were Big Moose and Midge from Archie Comics, which is now defunct, gone, featured racially impure clown Archie Andrews. Somehow Teddy was also my first “Reggie Mantle.” I’m married to a real Reggie now, who gave me my real daughter. So Ted had Rose and I had Angela. Rose is somewhere in England and in hiding. Angela has cut off from us and I don’t know where she lives anymore. Because I’ve had my own struggles with mental health issues. Serious ones. The right to be angry isn’t something that belongs to anyone, it involves a lot of hidden domestic abuse. To this day, I feel responsible for Ted, but he was him. He killed every person he was proven to kill long before I ever met him. We loved.

Never be afraid of anything. God carries you up the beach.

–Something a lady told me on the bus. Ted carried me through the snow barefoot. For miles. He tried to get his shoes onto my feet, as I’d lost mine, and we laughed until we cried. I finally wore his socks to keep me from frostbite, and never got any. There’s no way in Hell he could wear my shoes and socks. He needed his manhood, I guess. One time, we were in a position in bed where I could have yanked his junk off his body. No thanks, he would then have beaten me to death I supposed…or not. Lain there and taken it while I exited out the door is likelier.

He felt supremely guilty, he was the Gary Gilmore of WA State and so was Ronald Gary Schwarz. Ron’s difference is his girlfriend he didn’t love enough suicided. I took care of him, my first legitimate husband, while he was dying on seven different psychiatric medications.

Gary Gilmore of Ohio had killed his girlfriend and wanted the worst possible, most appropriate punishment. He felt total remorse for what he’d done. He chose a firing squad, bullets for the death penalty. But I’d researched plenty of times about execution methods. I wasn’t busy studying law, but I read everything like a maven, including the backs of cereal boxes. Because I was bound and determined to become a writer. Electrocution involved pitilessly frying someone unto a perverse pop-eyed caricature of a human meat black thing conclusion that lasted 15 minutes to half an hour and often left the victim alive like that. He did maneuver me into choosing his suicide through homicide state execution method.

Because he thought I was braver than him. Or not.

I saw Ted’s corpse. His face looked saintly, like Malcolm X’s. Like nothing had fazed him, like he died dreaming of love. Eyes wide open but face thinned and an imploded brain. He didn’t really want us to hurt as much as he should have over his death. They speeded up his execution by turning off the lights everywhere around him in Florida. I’m grateful for that, he was ready to die like a bull and scared spitless, reaching out for something real. They had a good-looking girl flip the switch, one in an arcane outfit to convince him he was going to Hell. To this day, I believe like Bruce Lee that the only such Hell is in this life.

Whatever it meant, Ted ended up letting me choose electrocution. I felt mature enough to assist him in making this important decision. I’ll bet he asked his wife as well; if not I apologize, but I was one of his kidnapping victims. Sort of, as we fell in love. I knew electrocution was potentially the worst possible one of all…I went over hanging, lethal injection, a firing squad, and told him electrocution was the one for him. On a beautiful day.

He bent his shaggy head over the lovely, small, private restaurant table where we were eating lunch al fresco in Vail, Colorado and bowed to me. Laid himself on the table, daresay he had a Jesus/Satan outlook going. Who is the right kind of execution victim, really, when every type and their dog have been executed in a stage attempt throughout history? The murderer of something like 35 to 100 people?

That “eat me” at the breakfast place in Aspen I’d taken him out to had never been fulfilled. I never did, we were just playful, and I kissed him enough to see how clean his body was overall. I never gave him a single blow job, and he never demanded one once. “Kiss it,” he sighed, and I gave such a monstrosity a swift peck or so. He never demanded sex from me, so it never really felt like he was raping me. He rubbed against me, stopping when I asked him to stop. He pumped into me, ceasing when I said, “Get off please.” And slowly but surely, he truly began to love me.

The pounce to kill me was about it, a genuine physical assault; but his hands were loose around my exposed neck and easy to snake around and stop. I wrapped my hands around his broad shoulders, pulling him down to my naked bosom: “Rest here, Ted Bundy.” A man that big needs food and exercise. Took him out to eat, we ate at a house, we did laundry, I vacuumed, we left whoever owned the house $210 on their kitchen table. I bought him new clothes; I had his yellow teeth cleaned. And when I took him out for breakfast, he thrust both legs onto the table.

Ted’s feet inches away from my food, his butt in his own food.

So easy to fix that. I just had the waitress bring us a fresh breakfast. Ted had needed to announce who and what he was: the murderer. No way to fix Ron’s death. No way to fix Ted’s. They both called me their wife, several times. I loved the both of them, Ron far more over five years. It’s a logical progression that led to the birth of my only child Angela. She will never talk to me again because she eloped with an all-white man.

Reminders of Ted are everywhere. I don’t cry over him; I cry over Ron. He took a lot of time to die more horribly than Ted, for his girlfriend having violently killed herself. I don’t recommend psych meds for anyone except those who know they are going to kill people. Or that they are going to commit suicide. If you’re just thinking about it, seek counseling instead. I am thoroughly crippled up from one of them alone, Risperdal. I’m not crippled because of Ted, although I did make about a dozen suicide attempts after their deaths. Loneliness on my part, and air pollution from vehicles. I got tired of walking across bridges and thinking about jumping off them and went on meds. Downward spiral like Ron’s, but I’m doing okay.

I’ve dared dream Romeo was taking vengeance for his Juliet.

All white female college girls with parents paying for their full educations. I have a sad story myself to impart. As I’m “half a person” due to racial impurity, or due to my parents not having the money, I had to find a way over years to finally pay for the second half of my own education. It was an interesting road. Half a person in the gay community meant male looking for female. Was Ted Bundy half of me? We are all half of each other. No matter your color or sex, a human being needs social contacts.

I wish I could offer the victims’ families some comfort. It would be better for me to believe he was only a movie actor, not a man who ruthlessly killed women. But those who need to blame me for his crimes are wrong. And pitilessly a crowd. I call it a lynch mob, as I have profound asthma and great difficulty breathing sometimes. I’m a pretty good person overall.

Ted was forever shy, cloistered, speedy, and a drugs, sex, and fun addict. He really enjoyed downhill skiing and hopping trains. Reminded me of the boys I went to school with, who hated my feminism and formed up the Kill Karen Cole Club. I’ve had to face death on its own terms. I think of bicycling alongside the big trucks going past me in Ohio. Most of Ted’s problems, I think, stemmed from decades of addiction, ranging from huge amounts of beer, wine, and other alcohol, using an opiate drug that robs you blind and makes you think you’re the greatest hero in the world, and killing and torturing young women. One of them was only 12 years old.

It’s no shock that Ted used drugs willy nilly and was gone psychologically. That stark staring evil face from heroin. Small amounts over time. Guilty or innocent, Ted was a domestic terrorist. Whether he prevented any women from going to college and they got jobs instead, who knows? That is the fuel of Judaism, the “who knows” that feeds all uncertainty. They said there is the Jewish “get” which means they get money and laid and everything. I say the people who travel the vast unknown with me are the ones turning me on the most.

Evil can lead to a greater good, Good can lead to even greater evil. Now we’re all dying of Covid and have more reason than ever to be romantic. Or happy before we die, somehow. The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, but in the end this life ought to be the only one. Jews worship Life, and a Christian worships Death. That feeling again. It expands my female chest, like I’m an imitation of what Ted did in that boxcar, the male equivalent of a type of Superman or hopeless romantic who had to defend his “baby machine” at all costs. A person, though.

Am I more than a reproductive device loping after a man running through someone else’s cornfield? Was I a hooker, or were we hooking each other like pins into place in a bowling alley? Mechanical love is real, but somehow Ted made me feel like I had a body, a soul, and a mind. Pretty okay. Godlike to me. His hands, heart, penis, and soul existed. The hard part was realizing I might be down and out, end up a street hooker in Aspen, Colorado and swiftly dead for all infinity. I wanted far more out of life than that, and years later I’ve achieved what I’ve set out to do.

The better part was Ted patiently made true, honest love to me for the first time in my life, then didn’t care if I got pregnant or not. He slept on the floor for me, he ate out my period without asking for anything in return. He loved me. He didn’t even offer to pimp me out and was surprised about the very concept. Thought higher of me than that. Everywhere we went, others thought I was his hooker. Instead, I told Ted I might have a job for him someday, writing his book or books through Rainbow Writing, Inc.

When you tell a man you love him and you treat him right for the first time, not, you’d be surprised how well such a man, as lost as he might be, narrowly responds to you. By the skin of our teeth. I recall being willing to die for him several times, and first. Then he turned around and outclassed me at that pursuit, in a rattling freight train boxcar. His version of being willing to kill and die for me was far stronger than mine.

Sometimes they love you unto the bitter end. As long as you’re willing to take chances and potentially get messy. Bloody, bowed, broken, or freer mentally. Yes, to the point of death and beyond. Well, they say love is blind, and Ted was not incredibly handsome, sophisticated, or charming. Only about six foot plus, I’m guessing six three when I met him. Tall people tend to scrunch down into themselves in order to appear more normal. So he’s been measured at five foot ten. Just before they executed him in “Old Sparky,” the electric chair, in 1989. So long ago. That I can only recall an inexorably growing handsomer face.

I’m an ex-hiker who had to encounter and overcome black bears, cougars, other such animals…deer. That includes does and stags. I was certainly to learn more about which sex I was.

First, he leapt upon me like a tiger. What he didn’t know is that since I was four years old, my honorary “Dad” was Bruce Lee. I may have saved Bruce’s life from a gunman once, I tried to anyway. I trained in both karate and kung fu, so I had an edge over Ted’s other victims. Bruce was the One I watched constantly, fighting like a dog to teach us the most kung fu he could model in his brief life of 33-34 years. He was my hero, my Godsend, the person I wanted to model myself…nah.

I’m a Buddhist due to him. It’s from India. But he was a Washingtonian, a Seattleite whom I was hoping would help me. Well, I’m stuck thinking of that song from a Batman move, by the Black artist Seal:

Shall I compare you to a kiss from a rose on a grave

It’s strange to you-all the way that it feels, yeah eh-eh

Well now that your rose is in bloom

Life kissed the gloom on the grave.

Big men are big men. Ted had a foot long hard-on, and I don’t mean a hot dog. Serious erectile dysfunction issues too. Good for movies, daydreams and hotel or motel rooms. Well, he and I made his dark purple equipment spurt through the ceiling of our bed. Because I was on my period, and he didn’t need to take care of another man’s baby. Course he was gonna kill my parents, all my relatives, and especially my one and only boyfriend. Because he thought any of them had made me suicidal. Leaving me stranded in Boulder, CO as a hooker forever.

Ted manned the suicide hotline in Seattle for three months. Character reference? He was looking for me, figuring that’s where I’d call in sooner or later. Stalker’s stalk, haters hate, lovers love. I told him to forget me and go back to his wife. Well, I couldn’t forget him either. I forgave him, I hope he forgave me for betraying him. But one of us had a thorough Date with Destiny to fulfill, even though it took another eight long years.

Namely, Ted. Well, he was fearless at the time and willing to do anything. And was into prognosticating my future in petty details such as what I was gonna become: a Home Health Care Aide for Ronald Gary Schwarz and many others. Ted was wildly different from everyone else. Typical human. He was my Joker, Batman, the Flash, Green Lantern…he made me feel like Wonder Woman. Made me leap into and out of moving freight trains. So glad I was an athlete before, due to school. Mr. Lawyer Two-Face and me. We made love under thunder and lightning and danced outside in the pouring rain. And exchanged some loving words.

It was ridiculously comical and frequently normal. Like US Marine Farid Hotaki, I bantered with the Tedders in order to stay alive and feel alive as well. He wondered what in the world I meant, was I making FUN of him??? “You think you’re funny,” a frequent comment of his.

Yet he didn’t kill me. And was willing to kill and die for me. I hope his real wife and child are okay. I kept offering to die for him if he’d then go back to her. He could bury my body in the woods. “You can kill me if you need it. I’ll never kill you.” I threw a switchblade away until it bounced against a wall. He made gentle giant six-foot love to five-foot me for days and days. And nights. I helped him with his difficult and dysfunctional sex drive, slowly. We held each other mostly, as his language changed from bitch to lady to sweetie to wife.

I need your love

Because your love is real (and so are your ugly hands)

I want your love

Because that’s just the way I feel (like solid gold cadmium)

Tell me now, is it so

I have to ask you, then I’ll know (why Ted was popular?)

My hands are shaking

And yes, my heart keeps breaking up… (lost two husbands, found two lovers)

I searched sometimes…

–Herb Alpert, the Tijuana Brass Ensemble

I’m sure my lyrics are not perfect. I’m not sure my dates are picture perfect either. Ted was “free and clear” from Colorado jail between 1980 and 1989. His friends paid his bail, and he ended up downhill skiing.

It all began for me when I was working in Boulder and Denver, Colorado. For Rocky Mountain ACORN and Greenpeace out in Denver. I raised money for a living by doing door to door canvassing, which was an artful kind of street begging for public service organizations. Also phone work, for tickets and encyclopedias. Sales jobs especially.

One smoke filled room from Hell. Ted stayed in it briefly braved it and left to follow me. Made me think I was braving Hell itself with my man.

And I worked part-time at night at an adult bookstore that sold sex toys, magazines, and other weird paraphernalia. My introduction to the international, male-dominated, and owned slave trade. Well, for exactly four whole nights, I also “turned tricks” on the side. I was old enough but unwise, though I carefully used condoms. And I gave unprotected blows, counting on my acidic digestive system in order to avoid pregnancy. At the time in Boulder, the penalty for all of this on the law books as I researched it turned out to be a third-degree misdemeanor. Not counting the time I ran away from home for exactly one day, it was the first time that I’d broken the law. Everyone reassured me nothing was wrong.

I heroically stood up to the most dangerous of one of the Johns. It had to do with a trailer, his wife, and the vats of human flesh he was keeping there from the movies. I dunno, it was all movie props in his and his wife’s trailer. Who knows? It was trailer #9 in “our” park, and I never entered it to find out – too many red flags. Ted suddenly had no red flags. Innocent or guilty, his only “red flag” was I was accessory to his escape. What escape if he was bailed out by his friends in Aspen? He and I were available for each other – sort of.

There was a Latina gal who did outcall sex and disappeared. It was a job that came in, and they autopilot sent it to impure me. I turned it down; I might be responsible for her death. She could have been assigned to Hollywood underground porno “B” movies though. Sheesh!

I felt like such a gutless coward when I found out that odd couple, a phony nurse, and a subhuman sex monster, were living in my Boulder, Colorado trailer park. When I keyed in, I thought of things like that Black man Rudolph Giuliani had shot by the cops, so many long years ago. I was keying into a place I was staying for free.

The young man there was a comic book science fiction softcovers fan who was into writing Fan Fiction. He and his roommate were gay, except it was only him there at the time. He was a virgin at 24. A good friend and fun to be with until I lost the only key to our trailer, and he had to pay for a new one. I offered him me in order to pay for staying with him, and he turned me down. Pretty sure he was gay. One of the best friends I ever had, and he let me stay in his trailer indefinitely.

And due to my hitchhiking proclivities and tendency to take chances, due to my study of international investigative journalism at Ohio University for about two years, due to my being a regular and far-ranging bicyclist and a fourth kyu karate student, and due to my deep and everlasting affection for one Bruce Lee…I hitched a ride that changed my life. And may have changed Ted’s as well. Except his wife is more responsible for him than me, and that his having a daughter Rose turned him around.

There are more things on Heaven and Earth than are in our philosophies.

–William Henry Shakespeare

I read every one of his Bowdlerized plays except for the one written for their current times. Clearly left alone, it has a Bilbo in it. What if that Bilbo was a meshuga and a schlemiel named Ted, Gary, whoever? I had to do it sooner or later. Finally, the condom went flying into the wall, for once.

I’m not in love

So don’t forget it…

It’s just a silly phase I’m going through (remembering much of it)

And just because I call you up

It doesn’t mean a thing, so act your age

I’m not in love, no no…

–Thank you, Simon Lewenberg, Jew Pole survivor of over 12 concentration camps. You’re helping me and so are the Scientologists. We are all writing this book together now. Where did I get the weird idea about corpse germs from, making me syphilophobic? Lying. I have no venereal diseases. Jack the Ripper never had sex with any of his victims. What if it was the other way around for a change? Competition. Well, forensics of the time proved he never did. Kind of a stuck-up husband and father. I doubt any of them ever dug up any corpses they’d buried and had sex with them. Too rotting of flesh to sustain anything real. I asked Ted, he said he never did that. But he freely admitted twice to me that he had killed those women. This was after he’d been found to do so, and they were working on the rest.

Never victimize the person you have sex with. However, Ted was thoroughly in love with me before, during and after trying to kill me. I was his bitch, young lady, and wife. Well, bigamy is real on the books, so I was his temporary wife and not his real one. The Youth Hostel was for 18-to-24-year old’s, I was of age, he was taking all the chances as it slowly turned out. But I had Civil Rights Movement training in being willing to die at whoever it was.

“Make love, not war. Make friends with the enemy.” So I had to be willing to be injured, die, not care. To say Ted and his friends tried to MAKE me care is an Understatement. They did succeed. To the point where I did my utmost to turn Ted over to the authorities, and nobody cared back.

–the Strawberry Statement (white half of the CRM really): “Even if nobody cares, we have to. Vietnam is a poor man’s war and a revolving door. You go in and you never come out.” Whether Ted was avoiding Vietnam in order to be braver than it was over there is a moot point. Instead of killing the enemy women and children, he killed our own. Enemies domestic, foreign, and abroad. Richard Ramirez, another serial murderer, agreed with me that it is all murder, period.

Here’s where the Story Actually Begins – Finally!

Somewhere inside the University of Colorado, I was checking out the rides board near the kiosk for students. I had traveled to Boulder to attempt studies at Naropa Institute, which was East/West Asian classes, mostly about human psychology, some of which were led by the famous homosexual poet Alan Ginsberg. I was a sweet young thing, innocent as a lark, but had some dark shadows in my background.

I had run away from home when I was 14. And due to my participation in the Civil Rights Movement, I’d faced down guns several times as well. Not in the commission of crimes. I took away a man’s gun at a shopping mall. When I was 16, and he was trying to blow away several innocent people with it. That is a crime, though. It should have been, but they tried to railroad me into jail instead of him. And so did Ted!

He who said, “I’m dirty and filthy. I’m racially impure. You’re not.” The sweetest thing anyone had said to me in my entire life. Aside from my current husband saying that he will love me forever. A Catholic, I think, in both cases. You know, I had something mildly against Catholics at that point in time, when I was with Ted Bundy. Sometimes they claim up their own. They’re like our weird Mom and Dad. Jerry Lewis got it partly wrong. I’m not necessarily the Diaspora, but damn am I not all-white looking.

I’m Protestant and into protesting not being allowed to be a Buddhist.

There’s a Chinese conversion device called Bruce Lee.

You are Buddhist now. Happy swastikas.

Ted was about 10 years older than me. My weird Big Brother of sorts.

My Dad was a mentally disabled WWII veteran who served in the War in the Pacific against the Japanese. He was the chief ship’s navigator on the USS Enterprise. We knew people like William Shatner (Captain Kirk) and Lucille Ball. She owned Desilu Studios. You may know them as the people responsible for Star Trek, the TV show. Anyway, on the rides board I noticed a skiing trip up to Aspen by a group of people in their twenties. I was 21 I believe, but it’s so long ago in 2021 now that I can barely recall what year it was, or how old I really was then.

I only know that I was “of age” and was no longer a juvenile.

So I went on the ski trip to Aspen, Colorado with a bunch of people. I remember riding the lift to the top, and the people at the ski lodge helped me assemble my boots and skis and somehow, we kicked it through the snow to the top of a wonderful snow-laden mountain, and I prepared to ski down it. Fully dressed in fluffy winter female clothing my new friends had provided, and while wearing a ski mask. I was warm, cozy, comfortable and surrounded by a bunch of intriguingly white people. But it was a bit odd, they wanted me to ski down a sizeable slope first and not the “bunny slope.” Then I was shown the main attraction at this ski resort, the incredibly long and dangerous looking slalom slide, and laughing the men all asked me if I’d care to “go for it” and do a flying leap down it. “You’ll probably be brutally killed.”

“No,” I sighed. “Not my cup of tea to die young, before I have a crack at anything else.”

So we managed to get me to slowly ski, while falling frequently, sprawling, and laughing, down a leeward side of the mountain and I began to get my ski legs while learning. I had read books about how to stem christie, full christie and stop, what to do in general, and I was an athlete. Long distance runner, frequent speed walker, Olympic quality swimmer, skater, bicyclist…cross training was easy. I had fairly good upper arm muscles, too. I felt built to last. Somewhat. Had broken my left arm when I was 10. I knew I wasn’t anything that could really keep up with the guys, or the Joneses. How right that was to prove to be. Well, when it comes to Ted, it was definitely Expect the Unexpected. And if my studies of Bruce didn’t actually save me from him, my name was never Karen. It was permanently mud then, I guess.

As we reached the bottom of the mountain, I could swear I saw a very dark man swoosh past me on either skis or a snow board, out of my glasses-coated and frozen over gaze, and to my aghast wonder I thought he was wearing a business suit. A grey one, pin striped, and sort of resembling something like the Joker from Batman comics.

“Good grief Mac, watch where you’re going…”

“My name’s not Mac, it’s Ted,” replied the skier. He disappeared. I asked one of the other young men with me, “Who is that?” feeling an abiding sense of wonder settling into my five-foot four little girl form. An adult, not quite, but I was flabbergasted. “Why is that guy wearing a full-scale business suit? Who the f—k is he?”

“Oh, that’s just Ted. He comes here on a regular basis, I think. Seems to know his way around. I can arrange for him to meet you if you want.” Some vaguely smirking laughter from the bunch of the men and women I’d been traveling with. I said no, I’m not that “into” him.

“Well, he’ll be sure to be into you,” one of the women there guffawed. “Oh,” I demurred. I wasn’t that into having sex with whomever it was. Even though I’d been a prostitute recently. I wanted to either work an honest living or go back to school and better myself.

OH the shark he

Has his teeth and

He will show them

Pearly white

I ended up helping Ted Bundy get his teeth cleaned. Cost $200 back then.

However, as that business-suited clown was eerily attractive, I instantly dreamed, I’d like to spend some time with this Ted person. I hurt down below something fierce. God, answer my prayers for once, dear Lord, send me an interesting older man to…teach me something real! He sure knows how to ski. What is he, some dark-hued shadowy apparition, wearing a suit on the slopes? Nothing did I know as his form swiftly disappeared downhill what trouble this man would bring to me. Along the lines of being an accomplice to an escaped federal prison convict and aiding and abetting a fugitive Murder One homicidal lunatic.

I had no idea that I’d actually met Ted Bundy. Theodore Robert Bundy. The last name means Free in an old-fashioned German tongue. His only “normal” name was Robert. I remember being lead over to him, and he was wearing a ski mask.

“How are you, sir?” I asked him.

“Fine, what do you want with me, Bitch?”

Hmmm. Not a polite gentleman at all. “Oh, nothing. I thought you might not be a bastard…”

“Watch what you say to certain people, young lady.” Swooped away fast. Like a dark eagle, but ugly and puke and mysterious and weird. He was far handsomer than that, unless he was into making himself…he wants to test out how much I can love him. How far the limits of eternal love can go. He has a daughter Rose; whatever does he want with me, a son? Well, the name Ian came up later. Ian was duly aborted by me. Slowly. Hurt for days over an abortion drug. Somewhat. Even if it was Iona. What sort of person would single Mom raise the child or children of Ted Bundy? One day, that kid would need to be told who his father really was: a horrifying serial murderer. Wo those people get around. Geoffrey Dahmer? A real life opposite of Geoffrey of Supergirl. Somebody liked the name Geoffrey. Yep, it sounds like that, and so does Theodore the Chipmunk. Or Hess the Mess the Egyptian.

Camera angles of the human eyes never really tell you what’s going on in Real Life.

He was just like my Dad. I’d heard about him, read about him, and dreamed about him in detail in Ohio when I was 17. It wasn’t because he was insidious and weird. It was because for half a second, he looked introspective, like he was questioning authority. My Dad was a real bastard, not the phony terminology. This skier was one too. I smiled, that’s what we’re meant for, babies out of wedlock. What kind of baby…it’s nowadays, World of the Weird, they are ALL legitimate? What is it with the Male Fascination with Evil?

What have I got, a slantwise cunt?

I should mention again that my father was a bastard. Both kinds. And there is an odd chance that he was the blood son of a man named Albion Pendragon, which could not be his real name. No, and if I mention who he really was, I may get in a lot of oblique trouble for it. Well, there is a strong possibility that Gerald Clyde Cole was an alias of Hitler’s. A basement in Silverdale or Bremerton, after a party, and Louise Schuldt was all of 17.

Dad: Gerald Clyde Cole, Jr. I was rattled, here comes Ted Bundy.

He turned and skied away off in the distance. Not a man I wanted to know after all. Still, as his backside retreated, I thought to myself that for a clown he was eerily alluring. Because he was able to ski in a business suit while wearing a ski mask and doing no stem christies. Schussed away after all that time of jail…did they spring him to meet one of Hitler’s kids?

When it comes to men post Jack the Ripper, they’re mostly stalkers. All of them, I grumbled to myself. I recall some of those people I was skiing with asking me how I felt about Ted. “Did he bother you? Are you okay? Do you want us to call the cops or something…?” Chuckling and pretending they were seriously out to help me. Weird.

“Say what?” I asked, now alert that something was up. “What’s so special about that guy?” They were all acting so upset that he’d called me a bitch. Laughing, I cried out that I am one! “What are you all fussing about? What is he, Jack the Ripper or something?” A sudden dead silence ensued. “No, just an old friend and a semi-regular kind of person. He drives a truck or something.” Fine, I mused to myself, hoping he wasn’t going to come around me again. Not soon. He made a semi-regular living at odd jobs.

“Nothing,” somebody said. “But you have to admit, wearing a suit on the slopes and all is pretty pathetic. I’d suggest you avoid him; he’s trouble. People suddenly disappear around here and in Aspen for no reason. Let us take you back to the lodge.”

“No,” I said, feeling like I was getting warmer. The lodge would be a really expensive place to stay overnight. Flushed in the face, reddened, and socially embarrassed now. Was this fiend one of those Ripper types? I’d show him a thing or two with my karate if he bugged me. I’d rip his throat out with my bare hands, or something. If, sigh, I felt up to it for a change. “I’ll go back to take off my skis though.” In karate class back at Ohio University, I’d been trained to kill people. I had a great aversion to this idea, feeling like I was hiding behind Woody Allen and not caring to do anything of the sort. But I did know exactly, more, or less, how to defend myself. Still, legal issues precluded my really doing such stuff.

So did being Female. I’m genetically 100% normal according to stupid tests.

Not at a ski lodge, I reasoned. Legally, you don’t get away with such things. Not in front of a bunch of people or otherwise. If I met him again, I’d just brush him off. He surely wasn’t the type to give me any good times whatsoever. I’ll bet, I darkly brooded to myself, that he was the type who would insist on my doing all the sexual work. I bet that he was the type who’d go “blow me” or other obscene idiocies. To Hell with such creeps in this world, I muttered.

“Yes, Ted’s probably going there soon…” one of the other women tittered.

This was strange. I wandered over to the front desk, glancing behind me at the people I’d thought were my friendly skiing companions. This was in something like September of 1981, I was alone and available and clearly unarmed and unprepared for something the likes of this sort of thing happening to me. I asked at the desk if there was an American Youth Hostel anywhere in Aspen that I could safely stay in overnight. The answer to my simple request?

“Sure, Pussy.” Lots of laughter and evil-sounding tittering sounds. From the entire crowd. For as you may know, in spite of all accusations of an alone evil man being a narcissist or whatever, a crowd is sometimes a lynch mob. Especially when an easy target like me is involved. Alone evil people are bad enough, but sometimes you can get to know one. Perhaps. And the sun will come up in the west, I thought, gazing at the expensive flooring.

Jesus Nobody, Jesus me, Jesus is standing within a tree.

“Guess you think you’re all very funny,” I growled under my breath. “Very…funny.”

“You will soon. You’ll be dead, I’m sorry, I mean in bed soon.”

My head reeled. Who were these Aspen skiers? I went upstairs as someone indicated, turned around and came back down. Backed down and turned. Thudded down the expensive marble staircase. Headed out the door but went over to the local restaurant nearby and called a Yellow Cab, or it was a Far West cab, the first one I’d taken on my own.

“Take me…oh well…to the local American Youth Hostel.” I was free, white and 21 I thought. But I wondered if that Ted idiot was going to stalk me. I noticed the cab was taking over half an hour to get to the hostel, and by golly I prayed to God for my own personal safety for a change. Halfway into the prayer, I stopped. “Just send me someone other than this Ted,” I breathed aloud in the back of the cab.

“That can be arranged,” the driver stated haughtily. “Do you want a woman?”

Long pause. “No, I’m not gay. Nor bisexual. If…you’ve got to send someone, I could use a real man in my life. Not a bastard, nor a goose, nor a good gray pudding…just someone my own age.” I thought but didn’t say “for a change.” Or, I said, “for a change.” Can’t recall. The Johns had been a huge lot of older white men. I think in four days, I counted to myself, I’d seen about 16+ of them. I’d been careful to not get pregnant, but that involved a lot of my and their washing, and my giving hand and blow jobs. I made enough money to see my boyfriend Mike Hagen for a month that summer. We ended up going on that trip to North Dakota for a while and had a very interesting time on a horse ranch. Mike later turned out to be thoroughly gay. I thought he was the first man I’d ever slept with, but I forgot some other men who had proceeded first.

Men like Dr. Martin Luther King, Martin, and Lewis, and the vast unknown of my fellow “nobodies.”

Now I was being told I was Doomed because I’d slept around. Doomed to die.

“Who is this…Ted bastard person, I asked.”

“Me.”

Oh c’mon, you’re not him, I started breathing heavily to myself. “Wrong answer.”

“Want me to stop the cab and you get out?”

“Nah,” I said with my arms folded across my chest. “Just…you’re not Ted. Oh, and does he have a last name at all?”

“What, Ted Bundy? Sure, but he says his last name is Satan.”

Ouch, I thought to myself. I am indeed surrounded in a desert by a Sea of Fools. And their excuse is not that I fucked around when I think about it. Just that I’m alone and vulnerable. My Dad had tried to kill me on the day I was born, by spearing his finger into my face. Hard, but my mother had pulled him off of me. He also did this to my two sisters, in turn.

He and Ted were just huge is what it was. Like, the Jewish “big?” Names.

“Got any good bike riding around here…?”

“What’s that you say, Whore?” God, these people are subhuman monsters.

Call me Chuck Norris, I mentally breathed in the back of the cab. By golly, if it happens, I wasn’t going to ball up in a corner and scream for all these “Godfearing” people. No, I’d find some way to insanely defend myself. Because in “space” nobody can hear you scream.

“Sticks and stones may break my bones, but words shall never hurt me…”

“So that’s what you need.” Blaming the victim was definitely these people’s approach. “You want me to use sticks and stones on you?” The worst thing is this guy wasn’t even that Ted. All of these weirdos were involved somehow. I could somehow see he was someone else, a fatter man with designs on being nothing but a weirdo to me. “Just take me to the Youth Hostel,” I breathed harshly and silently. Pillowcase under the clothing.

‘Twas Ted. Phony mustached and all.

“Don’t worry Little Lady, you are going there.”

Now I was aware of the fact I would have to fight for my life. Who me, I was Make Love not War? I was from the butt of Dr. King…I’m a Kinjite Xite. Follower of King and X. And not necessarily a Black man who said Karen is Beautiful, namely Kwame Ture.

I’d been walking and talking in complete sentences at a very early age.

So had Woody Allen unless he kept shut about it.

Ted Bundy is some phony name, I reasoned. I wouldn’t bother to remember it. If I get raped…it will be all my fault, I decided. I was thinking some very harsh thoughts about Mr. “Bundt,” along the lines of tearing out his eyes, his throat, and getting him on the floor long enough to slam him down and break his neck.

Heck, whoever loses loses and whoever wins wins. They will win.

But he’ll win. I’m such a wimp. Damn, this is my last day, and night, on Earth. I’m an ex-hooker and here comes the wannabee Jack idiot again, for the McDonald’s billionth time. “What planet are we on exactly, cabbie, do you think?”

“Earth,” he merrily replied. “Oh, and welcome to your vacation in Hell, bitch.”

I had my parents’ number memorized. “Depending on who goes there first. How much are you overcharging me for this wonderful ride to my death?” I was angrier than afraid, after a lifetime of persecution for being freckle-faced and racially impure looking. Shaking, scared, but growing angrier by the second. I had glasses and knew it was Ted.

Welcome to 1970’s white America. In the early ‘80s, just like in Reader’s Digest.

“Somebody is going to…”

“Going to what?” the cabbie laughed. “Eat your pussy?” Yep, eventually.

Welcome to beautiful downtown Aspen. It hovered into sight, almost looking normal. That means “bad north” I thought. I was certainly alone. Forever, now.

Didn’t know how oddly wrong I was. Just knew how totally wrong things were. After a lifetime of misery, perversion, and abuse, along comes my “handsome prince.” Shrug. I had dreams about something better, had them anyway. About having a family and children.

I’d been checked for diseases. Everything came back negative on absolutely everything. Just in case, I’d taken an antibiotic to ensure things were okay. My skin seemed fine, my mind seemed fit, my body and figure were decent enough somehow.

To Hell with me then, I reasoned. But on the other hand, I’d make him pay. This was turning out to be the usual boring horror movie, and why was it happening in 1981? Jack and all was from way back in the 1870s. I was related to the Nazis somehow?

There’s no such Jesus Christ, indeed. Maybe Death is best. For me and him.

____________________________________

For me and him means for life, you know, as I bemusedly shuffled my luggage out of the back of the cab. I began humming a tune from the radio as I carried all of luggage by myself out of the back of the car, beginning a theory about feminism that goes it springs from the mind of a ruthless Zeus. If they don’t help you, you have to help yourself. Meanwhile, I either had a date with destiny with The Murderer (again), boring redundancy…why doesn’t he just stand me up and go date a hot chick about his height? I’m small and tight. I guess.

He did, I did, we’ve done it all before. NO, I don’t know where the bodies are. Half of them guaranteed are males. Why skiers think they’re godlike I dunno.

Carried my luggage in a few bags at a time. Reluctantly, the cabbie began helping me so he could get to another fare in time to make his evening meal. “Are you married?” I asked him. Nearest fare was a long way away, you know? “Not your business. How much do you take, girl, for your services?”

Flat out question that. Lifelong prostitution wasn’t for me though. “I need to pay you for your services. That is, if your head is still on your shoulders…”

“WHAT???” the brutal and overly sophisticated cabbie shuddered. “I ought to shove in your mouth. Okay, it’s ten dollars and thirty-seven cents. I only take cash.” So I gave him the cash I had, plus a small tip, and he begrudgingly left without buying “my services.” It wasn’t Ted, I think, as I’ve always had really super sharp vision wearing glasses. Just in denial. Went into the Youth Hostel and observed the writing on the wall. It was for 18- to 24-year-old people only. I knew this from before, as I’ve had not the right to stay at youth hostels before.

Females clearly have to human rights whatsoever. Only men are allowed to be human. Well, I shrugged, imitation Bruce Lees will have to get over there and sign the register. He’s already signed it, and I know who Ted Vogel Pohl is now. I can get the girl behind this motel room pandered from a hotel room ringing bell down pat. I can Richard Nixon keep ringing it over and over…there’s the old man, he should be heading my way now.

“Yes, yes. I’m coming. Oh, it’s you. No, get out of here, we don’t allow your kind…” I’m 21 years old, and they suddenly don’t allow adults into a Youth Hostel. That was the moment I grew up, staring at a crusty old Chinese man who couldn’t allow in a hooker. How did he know? He reads minds, I guess. “I’m…legally entitled to be here.” I scraped the roster over to me, thinking I was now a Ching Chong Chinaman indeed. The only man who ever forgave me for his murder was Bruce, because he knew in a split second it was the dude coming in through the doorway with the gun and not the four-year-old little girl.

I had spent forever waving at the gunman trying to draw his fire.

Jesus is always male. With a hidden penis. Woody Allen wins.

“Let me sign this,” as the Man was trying to take it away from me.

“No, you don’t have money. Get gone.”

“Right, I have American Express traveler’s checks. Don’t leave home without them.” The utmost disgust on my face could be viewed by dead Bruce from China.

I was slowly jerking the roster out of his hand and reading it. It said, T. Bundy down the list. Okay, it’s a very brave jerk who gets away with every murder of a female he can grab, moves quickly, I’m dead in the water, wait a minute it’s the nonsense room all over again. I survived it…thinking a mile a minute, or one per day, I signed the roster he was trying to keep the evidence off of. Seems reality abhors a woman and loves Ted Bundy. A serial murderer.

Everybody’s talking at me

I don’t hear a word you’re saying

Only the echoes of my mind…

I’m gonna leave this world behind.

I’m gonna leeeeaaaaavvvvvveeeee….

It was Saturday night. The words are gone, but I’m an ex-hooker now who can still read and write. “Does it count at all if I’m a literate human being?”

That knows karate and how to kill him, I thought to myself.

“No.” So, he doesn’t read minds then.

Well, now I know I had exactly one soldier on my side against the entire planet. That seems typical, normal, and fattening. “Where do I get anything to eat here…” I saw the machines standing around like the only soldiers I had in my own personal Army. That seemed strangely normal too, was tired and wanted to start piling the luggage into my little room and sleep. “You need to be carrying a sheet and a towel. You must obey…”

“If you keep standing around like that, you’ll kill me.” I finally decided to let Teddy Boy have his way with me, but first let’s see if there’s anyone else around here. Me and Bruce.

Because he’d exhibited human compassion for this helpless white female.

Because I was sexually attracted to that movie star.

Because… “Is your daughter around here somewhere?”

“No…oh. So you want my daughter now???”

No, I breathed heavily to myself. But I’m certainly Bruce Lee at last now. At 120 pounds, standing there with winter clothes on, and I am going to try to kill him at that. But he’s a set up victim and an easy target. Got to enlist something on my side.

“Just wanted to know if there’s anything female around. Because she might be in mortal danger, sir. There’s a man running around killing white women…”

“Why is that any concern of ours?”

“Because your daughter is a white woman, sir.” Just call me Sherlock Holmes. Often.

“Oh. And what do you want her for?”

“Why, my very own mental retardation (mouthing the word moron) at Chink hims. I’d learned some Russian and how to put things the other way around. “I’m not as alone as I look. You know, you’d think human brains would grow on trees around here. What’s your name?”

It’s overpopulated thought. “Is your name Overpopulated?”

Startled look to kill me. “What?”

“Do you value your daughter, sir?”

Long pause. “She’s in the back. Do you want me to get her for you?”

“Sure.”

He went and brought his incredibly gorgeous White Daughter out from the back. “There’s a very dangerous man here named Ted Bundy and he might be,” I indicated the direction of the Youth Hostel rooms, waving a finger around at them, “In one of those two small rooms.”

Rubbing the sleep from her eyes. “I don’t understand. What are you talking about?”

Chuck Norris here decided to can it. “Okay, can you give me the keys to my room?”

Well, we don’t operate that way here, she said frowning. You have to have your own sheet, towel and pillowcase or you have to pay for them. Here you go, just use cash or what you have, oh you have Traveler’s Checks, that’s fine, and I signed them over to me and me and waited for some kind of mind-reading reaction that never came.

I was going to have to kill Ted alone.

But it was only Saturday night, so he wasn’t there yet. He’d be waiting to kill me on Sunday. I should admire my own mother’s family’s Hell-flouting Uncle Neal soon, but he’s going to kill me. Martial arts, sheesh. I’d trying making love to him instead and see if it works. He has a wife and kids and is a “fun lover.” According to the article I read when I first came into this youth hostel, and he was IN it. As according to it, he was in Aspen at the time. And had fled through an open door, never to return. White men, white privilege, nobody shot unblack him in the back at all. Whoosh, out the door on flying feet. Shod ones.

Nervous nellies need apply to Cleveland. I moved my own luggage, under her protests, into the room, which was of course completely unlocked in every way. No locks on the door. No other people in the room, never again. My corpse, rotting merrily away, for all infinity because of nobody around but the hostel manager to clean it up. There’s a phone.

“Mind if I call the cops for some reason?” In life, it’s only who wins. That counts. All others pay cash, trading stamps notwithstanding. I’m now a US Marine maggot finally. Well, women’s lives never counted for anything anyway. She got me the clean sheets, made the bed, was gorgeous some more and fluffed my pillow for me.

“Thank you, I go to be with my Daddy now.”

“Where’s your mother?” She was around somewhere. “Oh, she is dead. Thank you very much for your time here at the Aspen AYH. See you soon!” Closing the door gently on the way out. I’d be a lesbian, but I had in mind having a baby someday. Smiling and taking my shoes off, I thought briefly, even Ted would do…what the fuck am I thinking???

Karma.

He has even the law on his side. No, he doesn’t. Anything happens and I get away, I’m calling the local police so they can take hours and hours to get here and my corpse. Guy is experienced at killing people, other men too, and we girls especially.

I’d tracked his career in Ohio. He was heading straight for the Pacific NW.

What do you do, be amateur FBI? Trying to call them. I tried calling absolutely everybody using that hostel rotary telephone for over an hour, and either all the lines were tied up or on hold or nobody was home. Yes, that included my parents. Whose address was on those American Express Traveler’s checks. I guess ex-hookers do think of other people occasionally. Okay, he can have me, but NOT my Mom and Dad, Detective Comics.

Dad he could suddenly have, forever. Fighting him to the death. Mom was standing behind him and beating him to death with pots and pans. I smiled to myself, because I came from a military family, and I was seeing Chuck’s entrails all over the room’s furniture…Oh darn. I’m hungry. I think I will get me a Snicker’s bar and eat it slowly. In the lounge.

It’s such a black man’s dick. Dick Grayson!

Went into the room and laid myself down Saturday night. Got into bed partially dressed. Had brushed my teeth, flossed, and was waiting for the handsomest solution to waltz in through the door, more than one of them. Fell asleep waiting. “Oh hey, there you are.” Was hoping it was someone else visiting the Youth Hostel from far away. It was a little short darting figure, it was Ted’s son, gee incest, coming into the room. “Let’s have sex, Lady!!!”

“No, I’m too tired and it’s not for free.” But he kept pressing and pressing me. Over and over and over until coercion rape was enough. But he was so shocked when I smiled and pulled him over to me and guided him to on top of me. “How much is it?” Nothing, I beamed at him. Little guy, not a day over two years old mentally, in his 20s. I supplied the condom from my Indian fringe bag. Such a temporary relief. They sent a vanguard to pave the way so Ted wouldn’t even have to pop a cherry. Why, it might hurtie his mentally retarded little genius huge dick, right? Right, Bill Cosby.

Even if I were married once, I’d be too tired and it’s not for free. Melodrama is out of the question. We fell asleep in each other’s arms. He was gone Sunday morning. So now I had all the time in the world to know for a fact that Ted was stalking me. Probably because my next profession in life, as of Boulder, was to help men with their erectile dysfunctions. By stroking them, holding them, doing whatever I could to make them feel better.

I’d had dreams about him in Ohio, back when I was a teenager. They involved noticing his mug shots on TV. He looked introspective just once, like he was actually using a human brain. I thought, kind of an ugly handsome plain dark ugly guy. Would have fallen in love with him if he hadn’t thought he was so ugly. He’d make a great traveling companion. How right I was, I mused, but when does he arrive? Expect the Unexpected, so it would be in the middle of broad daylight, of course. There is no third option. Night and day, day, and night.

I’d taken a vow to Malcolm X to kill him very dead. Extremely. All he does is run around killing people. Could he be lonesome and talked to? I sat out in the lobby all day reading a book, I forget which one, maybe Jonathan Livingston Seagull. I wished it were a book about guns. That involved where to buy one in this boonies town. Arnold Schwarzenegger has nothing on me. “Do you mind if I practice my Karate?” I asked the empty air. No one was there. I went a loud “HAANNNHHH” that could be heard from beyond Pluto. Nobody behind the desk responded. You know, Dr. King and the Civil Rights Movement had trained me to die at the enemy. THE Enemy (nah) was sitting in there waiting for me. I made a melodramatic trip to the bathroom, washed up, and came back to ring the bell. She took forever to come and answer it. She looked like she’d been making out with her Dad when she came back.

“Yes, do you need anything?” Yes, all four Marx brothers and the Stooges.

“Umma. He’s pretty big. Over six feet tall. Do you have an axe anywhere on hand? I was thinking of chopping down some trees in the back. I’ll buy it from you…” No, said the incestuous young lady, being so suspicious of me for not being, er, normal. “We don’t sell axes here. Want to go to the hardware store in town…”

No, that’s okay, I silently assented. I’ll just dance with him somehow. Glanced toward Date with Destiny in room. Sighed for being such a coward. Don’t they all do that nowadays? Why be scared to die, you haven’t done anything real with your life yet, I decided. That’s it, I need to. Well, begging and pleading with the worst murderer in human history, and yes, I decided, there was a chance for pulling out his windpipe then, that has a law degree. He’s huge, he’s waiting in there for me, and he needs a challenge, I guess. Very comic book, Batman. The Hindu Atman. Well, I had better get in there, but there’s a guy with a towel on slipping into the bathroom. I turned, and he was gone.

The boys are tons faster than we girls. Mister Coward knows which sex to attack. But given the nature of the authorities, they’re going to take a very long time to catch up with Mr. Law Student. Who knows for a fact how normal and wonderful he is? Why, I’ll bet he’s even good in bed by now, considering all the corpses who held perfectly still for hims all along…I smiled to myself. All those young ladies just stood around and screamed. Trembling in more anger than fear, I decided to finally check out The Unexpected in the room.

____________________

Opened the door. It creaked. Bare foot sticking out under the door. Huge man, just as I thought, looked down just as I crossed the threshold to see white male hairy toes. He could have anything, a shiv, an axe (too messy) or just his bare hands. I dashed through the door really fast, in time to avoid tripping, but knew about it in advance just enough to catch myself. Why it’s Master Ted slashing the air in front of me. “Why don’t you scream?” he leered. You know, this sort of book is old hat, I tried beaming at him with thoughts. He did have a shiv or two and I doubted he’d be sharing any such thing with me.

I danced out into the room and bumped into my own baggage as he gently closed the door. “Hi Theodore Robert Bundy,” I sputtered. “I’m not your all-white Christian Mary chicks. I’m something new in your life, a Black Belt Karate expert. READY???” Master Harry Golden at the OU classes I took for six months had told me to go through them psychologically. Meanwhile, this murderer had attained a bachelor’s four-year degree in psychology (which includes reverse and abnormal psychology) in just two years. And was working on his law degree. Which means he was knowing inside out of how to torture me to death while…while.

“Oh, I’m sorry, this is YOUR luggage on the floor. I needed to get to MY room.” Sure, I breathed, going over to the bed and sitting on it. Shivs slicing through the air via six feet of Man are not easy to get past. Trembling, I tried holding my breath at him while waiting. I was going to be waiting for a long time, something like a week or more, to be “free” again.

There is no such thing as freedom, for the entire human race. We’re just imaging things. Well, imagining things. In the light Theodore Bundy looked ghostly and willowy, like a corpse in advance, wearing a sexy towel and naked to the waist like Bruce Lee. What an enemy, my chances with him were 0.00 percent. I’d need to produce another strategy…do the opposite of what he’s expecting. Now.

I laid down in bed invitingly, after taking off my t-shirt, and was half naked right back at him. If Bruce and Ted think it’s distracting, they’re right. Let’s see what he does! He immediately smiled, I nodded, and he dove through the opening between the top and bottom bunks. “Hi, I’m (banged his head on the top bunk underneath it, to show me he wasn’t afraid of any of my petty little karate moves, which all involve the mechanics of hitting or kicking your opponent) Ted Bundy,” and he instantly wrapped his hands around my throat.

I broke his hold, by snaking my hands through his slower moving ones, and up his arms and grabbed his firm shoulders. Then I pulled him down to me slowly, thinking he had a wife and children (and another girlfriend) to protect. And he thinks he’s Batman, or he knows he is. Or Superman. He’s crazy and so was I.

“Rest, Ted, you’re going to need it.” I thought, breakfast the next morning around here wouldn’t be so bad. If Teddy Bear allows me to get anywhere near food again, I’ll kill him. I always had a weight problem and was always hungry. I’ll bet he’s hungry in the morning. I was used to practically dancing on cliff edges and was a former rock climber. Except for his being male and moving around quickly, I was him. Sure he needed to eat something other than pussy, so I stroked his Joker bushy hair and pulled it into my Mama breasts. “Need any Gorp? I’ve got some in my bags over there.” Big fellas always need to eat in Colorado.

“These will do,” he said, starting to pull at and mess with my breasts and nipples. “Ooh, do some more of that. You know any good breakfast places around here, the lobby…” Hand over mouth, stifled breath. “You talk, or scream, and I’m going to kill you.” But he’s going to take his sweet little time about it, and I’d already reminded him of something. I flipped his hand off my mouth before he slowly clamped down. “You seem tired, Tedders.”

“I…” pulled him into a big old kiss. “I like Death, Ted Bundy. Do you like eggs and toast, hmmm?”

“What, huh?” More humble kissing followed. Something weird, he suddenly crawled away. Now what really happened here that isn’t as important as the here and now? Well, as he came through the door, he had banged it open with a loud, “Hi, I’m Ted Bundy!!!” and burst into the room. The problem is, I remember both events. They don’t conflict, they both happened. But the first time, he few over to my bed and had a condom palmed.

I thought, who is paying this guy to do this, the Catholic Church?

The second time, I had excused myself in the self defense maneuver department to go to the bathroom. Then when I came back, the shiv etc. He doesn’t need another pregnant girlfriend. How far can you go when you work odd jobs? Far away from what he was. The Catholic Church was paying him to run around ripping up Virgin Marys. Well, that’s what I thought, him and his Volkswagens and all. Obvious Hitler/Jack wannabee.

For a little while, I was an obvious Marilyn Monroe wannabee. Hiccup. Lots of lost memories about dead ladies who don’t fight back later, he was asking me if I’d like a cigarette. “No thanks, Ted, I don’t smoke…” The name is Theodore, he growled at me. So, I’m bedding a giant tiger now, with jet black hair that looks dyed and straight. I reached over and flicked his cigarette against the wall. “Well, that’s a fire hazard,” he pointed out.

“I’ll break your finger if you do that again. Smoking is bad for you,” I grinned at him.

If looks could kill. I stroked his chest with some pretty available fingers. It was thick, muscular, inviting and darkly fascinating. I rubbed his tummy. I was Hitler’s little princess granddaughter, which Teddy wouldn’t believe I figured. We spent several hours together, laying in each other’s arms and talking. You’re now so disgusted, you want to leave this book for several move theaters, am I right, Dear Readers? But I was still plotting to kill, maim, torture him for house, and drag his large body out to the woods and bury it.

No, that’s thanks to Sir Mahatma Mohandas K. Ghandi. Look him up, you might find something. Years later, I turned out to be partly from East Asia, which of course is India. Well, Ghandi is the one who said, never do like your Enemy, love your enemy. As thyself, which of course is Jesus Christ’s philosophy. And turn the other cheek. Well, you got a fast-moving guy who pounces on beds or whatever and he doesn’t give that other girl a chance to turn anything without him turning her over and doing it to her other side. How disgusting can you get?

So… “When are you planning to kill me, Tedders?”

“I…wasn’t sure. When do you want it, now?”

I’m still an investigative journalist and inquisitive at this point in time. “Ted, Theodore, I’m an investigative journalist…” With what paper? “The Columbus Dispatch.” And what is your position there, he sighed, cradling my chin with his hairy hand. “Oh, I do a kind of outcall massage involving big strong backs and fondling penises.”

He looked a little startled. “But I thought you said you were a journalism student. Oh. So you’ve been a hooker all along…” Yes Ted, I said, since the day I was born. Shot him a Biblically knowing grin. It wasn’t that wicked grin I’ve seen on many Jack O’Lantern faces. It was more of a knowing, fond of hims kind of grin. “I like you, Ted; you really know how to please a girl. This ones for free on me, Tedders.”

“THEODORE. The name’s Theodore…” lots of looking at me and frowning. The heroin look, there wasn’t much junk available in Colorado, was clearly gone. He didn’t exhibit it the entire time I was with him. I keep thinking he was trying to tell us how evil he was for what he’d done, not boasting about it, or relishing it. Hard to tell.

Big, big fella to five foot four little me. I laid my light red-haired head on his black and deeply furry chest. I rubbed it and began playing with twin dark-hued nipples. As I glanced down at the Monster, I began seeing what I could do to appease it. You’re right, readers, this is swiftly turning into erotica. Whatever shall we do at this point in time?

Man he was bigger overall than he’d looked on TV, all parts of him. The most gorgeous royal purple junk was down there, similar to what’s on my current husband, except his is much smaller and shrunken away. He’s 80+ is why. Ted was a different story. A huge and ample lot of it. I began grabbing up his right hand and looking at it.

“Ever read palms, Ted? We do that.”

I spent about ten minutes kissing his werewolf hands. “These are ugly hands,” he whispered. “Nah, they are human,” I sighed, fondling my face with them. Dirt under his fingernails, from time in jail. I liked the fact his nails were human and normal and not well-groomed.

“Who is ‘we’?” He has trouble getting it up or it would be pointing at my face by now. “Why, the FBI of course, and they’re surely on their way here. I tried calling absolutely everybody, and the entire crowd of cars is going to arrive about now or so. Unless they stopped for donuts.”

Silence. I looked at his face and saw only a kind of assent. Dark hued, rustic, straight haired assent. No smile, a flat lined hate stare. Romeo was clearly waiting, I gulped to myself, and has courage, compassion, and a weirdly honest look to him for a change. A set up victim of the Catholic Church, waiting to be hauled away and executed for crimes he actually committed. To this day it’s a mystery as to why.

Look at us baby

Up all night

Tearing our love in two

You don’t have to worry

Just hold on tight

Tears in the park

Ahh ahh ahh ahh…every time I try to walk away

Something makes me turn around and stay.

I can’t tell you why.

No no baby I can’t tell you why, why,

I can’t tell you why…underpopulation? A token effort against overpopulation in outlying areas where it was harder to get caught explains why he did it that way? Mad Magazine was right, the east Midwest west etc. is set to fill up overnight with people. Thank God for Covid. Maybe. The Chinese are really great at doing things right, you know?

Well, that’s mixing up good with evil, I guess. Is the big bad man trying to show us evil? It thundered and lightening flashed outside. Yes, I looked as light played across his bearded features. Exquisitely handsome ones. Ted had found another lady and had fallen in love with “it.” Well, I might be a corpse soon, but so what. I had found me a bold buns-ridden in shape hot guy at that, but let’s see, he’s available only until Johnny Law catches up with him. And then he’s set to die one miserable, wretched death. With me being unable to hide, re-identity, or otherwise help him leave.

It’s a dude with an erection problem. Not like Jerry Lewis, his banana sprang to the instant my fingers brushed it. He’s a Jew. Therefore, trying to reproduce like a lost bunny Rabbi. Meanwhile, Theodore must be the most Lost Catholic in the vicinity. Yes, the Vatican itself was paying him, but I bet he was living off savings from student work. Driving trucks and suchlike. So like me, winding down similar paths, but he’s ten years older and wiser than this stranger down here, below his shoulders and beneath his poverty originating dignity.

He’s a stranger, I’m a stranger. Stranger and stranger than fiction. “I never smoke, it caused all of my problems in life…” Did it, he smiled at me and cradled my chin. He wants me to direct him in this Me Generation movie of mine. What would Woody Allen say in this situation? Confuse him mentally and then leave him forever. Wow, then he kills more women.

I’m too punk rocker back then and not aware of it. “Hmmmmmmmmm.” The Cradle of Civilization versus The Crucible by Arthur Miller. Where a young couple consisting of a man and a woman are subject to the authorities being anyone at any time who can burn either or both of them alive for being a Witch in the church. Ouch, he’d said he was “taking vengeance” when he started to not exactly sexually assault me. More like a pure assault, attempted murder, suchlike. And he’s pure looking, and I’m the most racially impure Protestant around here.

Whatever would Martin Luther do in a situation like this? “What do you want, Mr. Bundy? Respect, love, concern? A few last words to tell one of your victims. You did say vengeance, but for whom against what?”

Silence. Still the light played on his handsome face, which had no unearthly Joker death grin on it at all. Like some mystery force had wiped it away forever. “When did you study Law?” said the discombobulated, disambiguous rogue elephant murderer. How to handle Tony the Tiger, alias Romeo of my wildest dreams. There he was in a dreamlike real life. You know, this is supposed to be fiction based on fact, because under Colorado state law, you can’t be an adult female kidnapping victim. I then was one, whatever were we to do now?

Horrors. I feigned a slight chuckle. Suddenly while I was playing with his furry chest, his mouth shot over to my forehead and kissed it hard. In a wonderfully loving way. Then settled back to being turned to the left. Bored and disinterested. He’s set to leave in the morning. But you know, when he was running down the hallway, he seemed to be signaling me something. Like an eerie kind of semaphore from Hell. That the Volkswagen was parked nowhere in the vicinity. There has been a very unscheduled jailbreak so that he could kill somebody in particular. Wow, that is paranoia, and I don’t need their tea and sympathy pills.

Meet everybody in Hell soon, including me. I had run around saving lives back there, which had been totally discounted and reported on wrongly. I had done nothing to deserve the terrible reports about unimportant me, except for the fact I was potentially one of Hitler’s bastard grandchildren. Daughters. That I’d learned about at a party when I was four in Woodinville, Washington, due to having met the dictator himself there at 75. Fresh from South America, and to this day I wonder if he’d been trying to make my family into a German Fifth Column of some kind, against brown and black or Jewish or whoever people. Includes Catholics, including this breakaway guy who is clearly Catholic…or whatever.

“Ted, are you trying to get into the KKK? What is your quest?”

“Hey, I’m only a Nazi. Whatever are you talking about?”

Pause. I’m nasty, British, and short too. And have to figure out what to do next before he kills me. Which he may never get around to doing. “So, tell me about how the crimes were committed…” “What crimes?” He seemed vaguely bored and pretended to be startled. “You know, those crimes against humanity involving the War on Women.”

I smiled at him honestly for a change. He looked at me, highly amused. I covered his gestalt in my best Christian romance, which was entitled What if Romeo had stayed the Morn and Slept In? Gee young girls sure do get faulted for wet dreams. Courage attracts the daughters of men who fight. This cat is into killing off our women. Which one is the enemy, whose women, whose children, to everything turn turn turn, I started singing, and every time is the purpose unto Heaven? A time to be born, a time to die, a time to reap, a time to sow, a time to cast away stones…some spittle landed on that brawny neck of his, so impossible to strangle now that I saw it up close, is this really even Ted Bundy considering those others. Yes, that face was too familiar, or he has a doppelganger clone or a twin brother.

“I’m sorry,” and I meant it, “I didn’t mean to spit on your neck.”

I avidly wiped away the spittle. Slowly, with a longingly personal regret. Like I’d somehow again offended my cat Tidy. I licked at it, and you should have seen the look on his face. Big dogs don’t lie, I guess. Mike Hagan had a cat he named Big Dog. He was the man who popped my cherry.

Dreaming: what if there was a way to save Ted Bundy’s life?

This guy was a media darling at that. Handsome really, different, primarily intelligent, strong, capable, easy to discard…like a lost pair of Jokers. Cough, cough I coughed into my outstretched palm. “Do you read minds, Ted Baxter Birney?”

“I’m not…you mean the show business actor?” Nah, I got one right here. Media moguls, they’re Jews and don’t care. And my dead body is only fodder for photos and the press. People make money off of you all your life, and that is more important than any such Romeo and Juliet. Except that I’m typing this now because Ted saved my life right and left. While we raced around Aspen, and Vail, Colorado trying to look for a place where we could exist. Together. Even if only for the briefest of times.

A time for love

Someday there’ll be

When shades are torn

And currents worn

Through a love that’s free.

A time for us

Someday there’ll be

A New World

A world of shining hope for you and me.

–Romeo and Juliet

You guessed which play. Well, gosh and golly jeepers. I’m not in love, no not in love…so don’t forget…it’s just a silly phase I’m going through. Closure stinks.

“Make love to me, Theodore Bundy.” Like an absolute demand. I’d been paid to make love to 16+ men recently, and they’d all laid back and let me. As lazy bums. Like I was the man and there was a woman named John between them. How unnatural can you get? Mr. Natural right there, in the buff and a Teutonic warrior, um, “king?” His name means Free Gift of God. He murders girls and takes off running, this flash in the pan. But I heard he’d stopped, although if so, what was strangling me all about?

How to get him to “do it?” Hmmm? He’d donned a condom instantly, like a lost little boy who couldn’t get his dixies wet in a hooker’s vagina. A single German germ would come out, emerge, and bite him in the nipple. “Erectile dysfunction. It takes a small dead woman to make you happy, right Tedders?”

“My name is…” It’s Karen, I told him, and that might be a kind of forever. “Well, I’m married, Karen, and have several children. And a pregnant girlfriend.” He’s lying, I reasoned, but he’s clearly not available to me, and out to kill the rest of us while on heroin. He has to prove supreme male authority somehow. Because he’s still trying to sacrifice virgins to it while pretending to be roadside flares for God. Enemies DOMESTIC, here, and abroad. I guess. Tons of ladies later who fell for a sympathy play involving an arm in a sling or the like.

“So you’re a Black Muslim then.” No, he sighed. “I’m a Jew, Karen.” Really, as he lurched up and hovered over me like a giant black and white angel. I demurred; I’d better keep up some banter with this big strapping Jew. I’d not shown him the reaction he was looking for. “I’m a Christian,” he smiled down at me. In the darkness, while Fate abhors women, he looked so completely diabolical. Heroin does that to a man. To me, I was writhing slightly under there, but at least something real was happening to me for a change. Instead of all those empty promises and broken dreams. More forthcoming surely.

I’m heroine, I said to him. Why don’t you sample my delights?

“Whore,” he mouthed. Some Romeo, I looked away, bored and disinterested. Well, we surely were having an effect on each other, but things were taking too long. I looked at my watch, which was ticking away slowly. A little slower than usual. I had the Catholic or Muslim Inquisition up there instead of a boyfriend or lover, and I wanted to know why he wanted to know which sex I was and whether or not I was a lesbian.

Dr. Sigmund Freud of the three Austrian university degrees back in the 1800s said there are No Such Things as Lesbians. Tiny little island, women’s rights, it’s something to fall back on if you worship nipples. Or need to suck out cunts. I had worked for a living and was only avoiding pregnancy. Or pregnancies.

“Take that condom off or I’ll…poke your eyes out slowly…with my toes.”

_________________________________

The condom stayed on infinitely. So finally, he rolled me over onto my back and the thing went flying, uh, all by itself through a quick thrust against the wall over to my left. A dark shadow occurred as it bounced. It fell down to join the other condom. Boy was that a meaty right arm that wasn’t mine. It was white and racially pure looking with a few spotty freckles, moles, vague actual skin stuff over some fairly decent heroin-ridden rippling muscles.

So, now what were I and Jailbait Ted there to do? He whaled away into me, I wrapped my legs, fairly muscular and almost able to strangle him dead to rights, around his neck. They relaxed. This huge form hovering over me was more angelical than human, and it orgasmed into me. Oh, how dare it do that to me! Wait a minute, I was very near my period. Safe out!!! Do you know how you forget things when you’re dealing with a giganthra real life serial murderer of you? The orgasm was the type that if I were fertile, I would have been wham slam thank you Ma’am.

Whew. “Well, now Ted, I am probably preggers with your baby.”

“It’s your baby now, Sweetheart.”

That sounded like the best idea coming from Real Life that I’ve ever heard. Yes, we split up, after breakfast or so, and I go on my merry way back to Seattle. And he disappears down a little hole, and I never hear from him ever again before he’s electrocuted. Back to his precious wife and child and other girlfriends and corpses he likes to fuck with. I bet his wife didn’t approve of any of that, and she did seem so aloof in public. I can only wish her well. But the wife and girlfriend aren’t what mattered to me. I’ll bet she’s in even more denial than I am of Ted’s unusual proclivities or thinks he’s innocent or something. I guess I don’t.

So anyway, he collapsed spent, laying on top of me in a vaguely non-suffocating manner. I stroked his hair, which was coming unglued and going rapidly back into being Jewish and so soft and mannalike, my large lion king, while he panted only slightly and seemed to be about to go to sleep. Suddenly, “Now I have to tell you something.”

“What, you need to go to the bathroom?”

“No, you need to roll over and get on top of me.”

So I did, he guided me gently into place as a giant should. To say the least, I was exhibiting a sense of childish wonder never seen before on any female visage. The murderer was somehow forgiving and wonderful to be with. He WAS making love to me, for the first time in my brief short existence. So this was why Tedders was so popular. He’s one of those “popular” types due to being buff and built, from prison yard and gym workouts. I was aghast, tumultuous, absurdist, and extremely happy to still be alive.

I have to admit it; the fact I might get killed was not really an extreme turn on. Yet it woke me up and made me act and feel extremely alive. I continued with my desire to go on living – but was more than willing to risk death. And Ted’s whole body looked so pure, healthy, and clean. What diseases? Neither one of us was coming down with any such “corpse germs.” He’d taken a shower too; he did first thing he got there…before he even entered my room. There was no reason for me to die at 21, but I certainly began experiencing the French “little death.”

He rubbed and fondled and kept my breasts happy. Suckled and mouthed and long deep kissing me repeatedly. Then he looked away, an incredibly vile but hugely knowing look crossing his handsome features. Reaching up swiftly, he tried to strangle me this time more swiftly. He looked like the happiest man alive for about ten seconds. Because I knew martial arts and just couldn’t let him.

I simply hooked my thumbs around his thumbs and gently but strongly struggled down his hairy hands. “No Ted, not today. Let’s go out for ice cream if you have to be that kind of childish. Ever serve in the Army, Ted the Bundy? My Dad was in the Navy,” I said, maturely bowing down to his whimsies.

Ted “Roller Coaster Ride” Bundy. We could do something for a little while. Yes, how to free him from the…now I’m aiding and abetting a wanted fugitive is probable. Well, they found him innocent and let him go. So he could make more people happen. You lose a few, you make some more. Trouble is he was only probably guilty. “I did do those crimes you mentioned, whore, hooker, what did you say your name was?”

“Ted Bundy. Maybe Karen Bundy. What crimes, the ones where you kill people?” Tedders were forgetful of the fact that my father, by serving on a gigantic aircraft carrier in WWII, had killed more people over time (two short years) than he’d ever met. Then I’d met if you don’t count television. Than he had ever sneezed upon. Ask Richard Ramirez, we are of the same opinion about something within those waters. He’s dead by now, so’s Ted, and I’m dying of old age currently, a bad heart, and whooping cough. So applaud. The cough comes and goes.

A deadly disease, from babies. Not from hooking, from my doctor husband who used to be a doula and delivered babies for his profession. He paid his taxes on schedule. Made friends with his clients and served three tours in Vietnam. As he was a medic, he didn’t carry a gun at all. But he brutalized a large belligerent Black man who thought he was God. He kicked him hard in the stomach and broke his arms and legs. Because that dude decided to attack my current husband in the chow line, by claiming he was going back for seconds.

Daddy would have picked up Ted and thrown him bodily against the wall. With towering, overwhelming anger, and a kind of ease. Dad served with a trick knee and was a bomber pilot. He had dropped Death on the Japanese, and the damage my father left made Ted look like he’d only lolled in the park on Saturdays as a happy camper. Dad was just defending his country against the Japs, but the extremely real injuries, wasted Japanese lives and property, and damage to the lands meant far more than a few bloody college co-ed beds. Even if Ted had 100 victims. Real or otherwise.

Ted was obviously happy that he wasn’t allowed to kill me.

My Dad was my “evil” but always there for us hero, the man who defended the world against his own father. Well, Grampa Carl was my real grandfather, Carl T. Crow. But check the last name, my father’s was Gerald Clyde Cole, Jr. So the reason for Crow is he simply married my grandmother. Hitler formally announced at a KKK party we were suddenly at when I was four that he was my blood grandfather on my father’s side. My Dad, Jerry, was a son of Adolf Hitler’s. But as you know, Mr. Hitler is well known for lying, or at least that’s his reputation.

As to the women that Ted killed:

Ouch. Misery incarnate, and he tortured them too. He’s not the only one. If you think you should do that kind of damage, you’re sadly mistaken. Dear Readers, the way is to go into the Armed Services and take risks. Yes, that is how you legally Kill People. Although nowadays you’re supposed to Win their Hearts and Minds. Why serial murderers can’t go defend the country is the eternal mystery of the decades. Distractions. Like the ones Malcolm X had, where something else seemed far more important. Dr. King and Malcolm X have been lumped in with the serial murderers…before. I saw this happen under a category on YouTube.

Ted let me know over and over that he did feel remorse. And he was able to have highly pleasurable sex and love with me, even an attempt at a serious commitment, without a dead me being involved. Ted turned out to be a very brave man who wanted to pay. For his crimes, and for us to eat out at some nice local restaurants. Mr. Murderer wanted a normal life, something awful must have happened back there somewhere. So to those who want to serial murder…fuck off.

THE REST OF OUR ACTION-ADVENTURE STORY ANYWAY

It is just whatever wins and that’s it. Losing is just a distraction, the thing to do is to make every loss into a win. Always remember that you are water and roll with the tides. Well, Ted gave up on trying to kill me and the next morning suddenly floated through the open window. He shut it while looking at me adoringly, while perfectly naked. “Hi, my fanciful US Marine who hates we,” I said to him while perched on one elbow. On my side, as I was also perfectly naked and felt like I was back in the Garden of Eden. For once.

He smiled. “Where do you want to take me for breakfast?”

Oh. “So now you’re a gigolo. I thought you were Theodore Bundy. How about Dutch treat?”

Evil Man of the beard reflected briefly. “Bitch, there are very few places in this town locally. And if we take a cab…I don’t like to go out in public.” I reflected. I had about $200-300 in traveler’s checks stowed away in my luggage in the center of the floor. In the middle of the night, I had a pleasant dream where I had danced into the middle of the room and Ted had followed me. I looked at him, and he roared something back. I said, annhh. He crowed like an overlarge shaggy headed Peter Pan and cried out, “You’re FEARLESS, aren’t you?” Not really, I thought to myself. What if I were fearless? That same heroine evil look took over my visage like it was the Face of Evil. “I’ll join you, let’s murder people.” To reduce overpopulation of course, like that experiment we did in Ohio to see who would climb into certain cars.

He instantly turned into the Germantown boy I had been in the experimental electric car within Columbus, Ohio. Said teenager then guided me back over to the bed. “You don’t really want to do that, do you?” No, I reflected, hanging my head down. Too tired to think straight. “It’s just not my me, Ted. I don’t orgasm while standing over dead bodies.”

The next morning I showered, and he entered the shower and made love to me. That is not all that resistible, if it is at all. This man was the first who’d taken some time and shown me something like actual masculinity on his part. He was dominating and I liked it, for once he was doing all of the lovemaking like a man should. He inserted, and I instantly wondered if I’d get pregnant for some reason. But I could feel my period coming on. Well, I was prepared with both condoms and tampons in my brown Indian fringe leather purse.

He’d made his wife pregnant in the days before conjugal visits, in the jail common rooms. I have a family member who due to this sort of thing managed to get his wife pregnant with my step-granddaughter. Conjugal visits are now allowed due to the efforts of these people, either the authorities, the prisoners, or whoever. The media? Far out. “Do you like coffee Ted?”

“I do so enjoy an excellent cappuccino. And my name’s not Ted Bundy.”

I looked at him. “Garbage, your hair’s just different when it’s wet. Could you hand me my glasses?” I smiled at him, while he toyed with destroying them. “How well can you see without them?” I can do without them, stuck out my hand, and he slapped it hard. But I let it drop, so it hurt about as much as a fly landing on some sticky flypaper. Ouch though. Maybe if I didn’t call him garbage, he’d let me live and we’d at least eat out together soon. There had to be a breakfast place lurking around town somewhere.

“I have hundreds of dollars in American Express Traveler’s Checks.”

“Sign them all over to me.” God, does this and all creeps have to treat me like a kid my whole life? That’s the Jimmy Carter stereotype about my kind, we’re all “boy” and “girl.” Man, I said, that hurts so good. How about I pay our way into town, and we get something real to eat other than my pussy or my body parts?

Sign them over to me, he insisted. Can’t, they’re all in my parents’ names, I tried. He hadn’t really looked at them. So he left to see whose name they were under. Ooh, this guy gets no messages whatsoever from fools like me. One of them seems to, anyway. “Hey James,” I said after drying myself and getting into my clothes, “If I go with you, I can pay for our meal. Or meals. I can’t sign something over to you I don’t really own myself.”

“It’s easy to sign a traveler’s check over to me…”

“So glad you’re deaf,” I shouted to the rafters. I could Ki Yi at least. Might keep me from being strangled after all my traveling money was gone. “James, if you keep us here arguing we’ll never be able to eat ever again.” Made it obvious what screaming a lot was for. I levelled a kind of stonelike gaze at him. Then I whispered, I’m not leaving here without at least enough checks to get home, cousin. Lots of hate staring from him later, I grabbed his huge murderous hand and hauled him out of there in his towel. He’d showered earlier and was waiting around in the room, to get a blow or hand job from me before killing me. Even if they had found him innocent and let him go, he was about as “innocent” as Al Capone of the Mafia.

Once in the hallway, he jerked his hand out of mine. “But James, I mean Ted. What if you get dressed and work on some food at the nice place in town up the street on the other side of a brief cab ride into, lemmee see, downtown Aspen, Colorado?”

“They never showed up, Karen Cole.”

Hmmm. So you know MY name now, Tedders. “The US Navy to you, fellow spoiled brat. How about I treat you out to breakfast and then we break up permanently?” I had to figure a way out of aiding and abetting a fugitive from the law. Who was still into killing people, had a shiv on him and wasn’t being overly defensive with a lady? He was indeed trying to kill me. He now can’t defend himself, his family could. But he’s convicted and dead.

“How about living it up for a while, Ted Grant, with some food?”

“I’m…angry at you. Well, will you please call the cab?” Looked at him archly. With pleasure, but it required that I turned my back on him. As I called, hand come up from behind me, nobody was at the front desk, and I finally threw my head back and said, “That feels so good Ted Bundy, why don’t you realize I can respect you while we’re criminals?”

Stroking and vaguely pulling my hair. It’s a man, I thought, but he’s addicted to both heroine, which makes you feel like a false hero, and killing people. Even men and children. God only knows what to expect of this thing behind me. He feels warm and cuddly as he comes up from behind, and then he puts the shiv to my throat.

“If you are calling the cops again…”

Nervous am I very nervous. Also angry. But I call the cab company. “You’d better put that away, handsome, they are about to come out of the back any minute now. And there are three of them, and they have phones back there.” All of a sudden, the shiv got put away. Whew, I sighed to myself, but I was used to long distance running for extremely lengthy periods of time. So this was only a leg of this long but brief journey, and I had to keep the Ted occupied. It was indeed like trying to train a giant tiger or lion or dog to behave when I was around. At least at first, but I thought we might shortly start hitting it off far better than that.

Here’s the foreshadowing: somehow, I was impressive. Or pretty. Or female. Well he was male, and we weren’t very far apart in age. The music from Midnight Cowboy kept running through my mind. For no matter what happened, Ted Bundy was now Ratzo Rizzo. And I was now John Voight portraying Glenn Campbell in the same movie. I was taking Ted home, down to Florida where he was eventually brutally executed. Just like the Midnight Cowboy, I was now the Midnight Cowgirl, and I was helping Ted get ready to die.

I never dreamed except for several times that there would be another of Ratzo Rizzo. Years later, I had to help Ronald Gary Schwarz down the same path. He wasn’t a serial murderer; he wasn’t even a criminal. He was a man whose Filipino girlfriend had committed suicide. Because her earlier daughter died of leukemia, Angela blamed herself and shotgunned herself in the stomach. Because Ron’s baby was in there. Undoubtedly, I think. But Angela was a little superstitious, which Ted wasn’t. Ron was a legitimate Jew, cultural, didn’t go to Temple, his parents were Conservative Jews. I marry Jews only for some unknown reason, even though I’m Protestant and maybe Jerry Lewis (our old family friend, but we did have sex at a VERY wild party once with Dean Martin) said I was from the Diaspora. “Later!” he had crowed at the early naval retirement ceremony for my Dad, back there in Woodinville.

Did you ever wake up and notice that the whole human race is all-inclusive? Everybody except dead people. But some of us believe in ghosts. I believe in hallucinations really, but I just thought Tedders gently touch my shoulder, like he was trying to say something. I hear from Woody Allen this way sometimes. The other day, from the leader of Ted’s dead female victims. I can’t tell if I have an overactive imagination, or if I just communicate backwards.

I’ve only hurt one person badly, directly, in my entire life. But you know, you’re American, you go through life hurting people horribly with your tax dollars. Mine are all safely eating each other in miles and miles of little tax piles. We have to fund the military; we have no choice. Ted and I went out to breakfast, but I had to grab his business suited hand again and haul him out the door of the youth hostel. The cab was waiting there for us, it came almost immediately. Well, we waited a bit, it’s way out in the boonies. He was quiet and looked incredibly pissed off. He had shrunk back down again in his suit.

“Want me to get you a new suit? That one seems to have shrunk, Ted.”

“No…” he breathed harshly. “And if you think my name is Romeo, fuck you.”

Hmm, murderer. “Well, I shall then always remember the name Theodore Bundy.”

“Why, you little creep???”

I shrugged. We’d only made love, he’d been only vaguely violent, I had survived the attempts to gut me and strangle me. He was standing there looking at me oh so expectantly. I startled and wondered if I’d summoned him in some strange unknown way from somewhere. Then it dawned on me, he was a skier, and these were some of his old stomping grounds. I was quiet and tried to look inviting, to a man who had to survive being scrunched up inside an overwashed business suit.

“You won’t understand this Ted…why? Because you are now Ratzo Rizzo.”

“Keep that up. Just keep it up. I will be sure to dispatch you soon.”

True enough, I reasoned. Ratzo would never have done that, not Dustin Hoffman. But something crossed his face, like an ounce of understanding. A look of surprise, of certainty, for a man whose IQ ranged from 136 to off the charts. Two years is pretty quick for a degree. “You mean that Jewish bastard in that movie…”

“Who is set to die, Ted Bundy,” I intoned dryly at him. “I sincerely wish you were not.”

We spent some time looking at each other. We were still way out in the boonies; the cab was slowly tooling up to us. “I can kill you where you stand, whore. And I don’t care if I’m caught at it. I don’t like or love you anymore, at all.”

Brave man thinks he’ll get away with it forever. The cab was approaching. “Here it is, Ted, let’s climb on in. And if you kill me, I’m Christian. I’ll love you forever, anyway.” The cab came up, we both got in, and I remembered I had pledged to love him forevermore. If his wife is reading this, I hope you don’t sue me. I have next to no money whatsoever. What happened, Ma’am, is I ended up saving his life several times while we had various misadventures. Whether or not his wife or girlfriend (legitimate one I guess, due to being beautiful and all-white looking) had any such experiences with Ted…I have a feeling, not mine.

We got to a restaurant similar to the Little Cheerful in University District in Seattle. Downtown Aspen suddenly seemed pleasant with such astute company. “I’m glad you want me to remember your name, Ted Smith.” While looking at him archly. Smilingly. He was beginning to realize who had who by the short hairs. Each other, I mused promptly. He could just give up and kill me publicly and see if anyone gave a damn about it whatsoever. Anytime. Gulping, I had my doubts that anyone really would. Yet, you never know, there is an FBI. And of course, all of my luggage except some of my traveler’s checks in my purse were back at the hostel.

“You…got enough to pay your way around town?”

“Plenty,” I sighed. “Let me order from the menu, Karen. Understand?”

Hmm, male control freak. Sure, you’re so older than me Ted, you’re history. “Yes, I’m sure…” I thought to myself, the less I said in public about his kidnapping me, the better off we both were. I’d already tried everybody possible and one shot at it was sufficient. I didn’t know at that point in time that Colorado state law was always 100% in favor of the kidnapper. It is, still to this very day. Take your sister at knifepoint to Colorado, I guess.

They don’t listen, they don’t care, and they railroad you into jail. What to do with Ted Bundy the serial murderer I fell in love about in Ohio four years ago or so. “Thank God for you, Ted Bundy the lover at last.”

Say what? He seemed to mouth, shut up bitch. Gulp, okay.

I met a man, he screamed and shout

He drew a circle that shut me out

I did step forward; I took it on the chin

I drew a circle that took him in.

—Ancient Christian poetry war Native American chant.

All I could figure is this astute prison street dude was looking at me funny. As for “drew a circle that took him in,” what does that mean exactly? He’s set to be electrocuted in Florida was what kept coming back to mind, repeatedly, although I didn’t know why or how I knew that. Years later, I found out in 1989 by watching things on television. Well, I let him order from the menu, and we both got a delicious large breakfast that looked pretty good. I was wolfishly hungry, and I figured he was too. Oh but I forgot his major name means Free. Mine means, of all things for it to mean, Santa Claus. So there we were, free as a bird with Santa Claus.

What was it like to live with a name like Theodore the Chipmunk, in jail? The waitress smilingly delivered the breakfast. If he kills me, he has to kill her too and then sprint out the door. Witnesses, you know, and we were his primary targets. So I kept quiet. I drew a circle that took him in my wildest dreams. But why was I suddenly with Ted Bundy? He was a Seattle serial murderer; he was all through the country, but he’d been seen in Seattle at some point in time I thought I had heard on the news there. Something about an execution. Surely, they didn’t let him go just to see what he would do with it?

Somewhere would be a good place to get away. “How about Cancun, Handsome.”

“What?”

“We go…somewhere, over the border to Mexico, right?”

Pause. “Do you want coffee, Karen, or not?”

“Sure.” I had now breathed my last. Omigod, he’s going along with my Ratzo idea. Coffee is blazing in his veins like a knife. Sipping it, I thought it had always affected me horribly too. Not as bad ass as heroine, though. Well, they would extradite him from Mexico of course, the international police can do that. And he has to use his ID forever apparently, he’s never heard of phone IDs. Except he feels genuine remorse for the ladies and families he hurt back there. Yes, we now have each other in custody, and I didn’t know what to do except gaze out the window. I kept doing that and glancing at my watch occasionally.

I had me a worthless scumbag. Which I was. And I had me a male prostitute. Only thing was I didn’t do heroine, and sooner or later he was surely going to want some of that again. Or he’d be undergoing withdrawal soon. Sort of thing they didn’t mention in Midnight Cowboy. He could work a job somewhere until they got him and took him away.

Various dreams of his dying in my arms. And an insipid disgust. He really had badly hurt those ladies, he was trying to kill me…whatever shall we do, given this situation, with my odd Dear Brother Man so to speak?

People keep on talking at me (running through my mind the entire time)

I don’t hear a word they’re saying

Only the echoes of my mind

People keep on stop and staring

I don’t see a thing their faces

Only the shadows of their eyes.

I’m going where the sun keeps shining (Florida)

Through the pouring rain.

Going where the weather suits my clo—oh—othes.

Heading over the Northeast Ridge

Sailing on the southern seas

Skipping over the oceans like a stone.

The waitress came with our meals one at a time like they tend to. I was starting to work on mine and figuring that for the moment, all was well. I must have looked a bit placid, peaceful, and somehow happy down at the other end of the table. Like nothing bad was happening. Next thing, Frank Zappa struck.

BAMM!!! Two long pinstripe suited legs were slammed onto the table. Well, the dude is crazy, right? Two legs stretched forward, and I thought, holy God and Jesus. Look at that. He’s sitting in his eggs, ham, and toast, which he’d gone ahead and ordered for both of us. “A double order for me and my lady. Thank you,” all said politely. To the all-white looking waitress. But come to think of it, didn’t he kill those on a regular basis.

Before the leg attack, he’d kicked off both his unshined leather shoes. They must be under the table, I decided, and two sweaty filthy socks were suddenly not thrust into my food. Mine was clear, good, and okay, and Ted was sitting in his own breakfast. I grabbed the toes of his socks, which were not all that dirty, and began to massage his feet. But first I did a quick football goalpost with my fingers between his parallel feet. I smiled over them and continued to lightly rub and tickle and give him a decent foot massage. He kept frowning, and as I looked, I saw no fancy cocaine or heroine smile gimmick. Instead, the actual face of the murderer was being revealed at last. I thought, this bum is definitely religious if he can’t maintain a poker face after killing those people. He wants to go die in public like he’s Gary Gilmore or something.

That was the Ohio killer who murdered his girlfriend and chose the firing squad execution. He’d asked for the most painful method possible, as he had loved his girlfriend very much. A man tends to do that, they fall in love hard and various things have resulted from that. Anyway, I gulped over the tops of his socked toes and smiled at him. I was a girlfriend of The Fiend now; I’d have to be really in order to maintain homeostasis and keep breathing. I absently stroked his socks, which were only a bit smelly, less than I expected. As I started to launch in, the waitress came back and said, “Oh dear.”

Um. “Don’t call the police,” I couldn’t believe I said that. It was a useless act, and he might slit both of our throats. Doesn’t take much for a man to do that, and some women too. “It’s okay, he just gets angry at me sometimes. If you bring me another breakfast for him, I’ll pay for it.” She grunted, frowned, but he lifted his legs off the table, and she took away his plate. Pretty soon she came back with another one, and we both recommenced to eat.

Sat there for a minute and finally climbed under the table like a monkey. I did. Took a cloth napkin with me, fancy breakfast place. I was gonna make this man break down and at least like me. I wiped off the backs of his besmeared legs and ate a small piece of the eggs on them. Before or during the amazing “leg attack,” he had said, “Eat me!” So I ate some of the eggs he had ruined. It was easy to get him another breakfast, you know.

About Eat Me…he knew which one of us was horribly set up as a kind of Jesus Satan the Two Thieves etc. And he wanted to let me know with his face that he wasn’t exactly going to Heaven over it. “Whether or not there’s a Hell, Ted, I wouldn’t know. I’m an agnostic. If you really even needed to know or care what I am. Kind of a not scared…I don’t know. Temporary girlfriend at your service, not exactly the Joker.”

“Shut the fuck up. I’m not going to ask you again.”

The Suit was letting me know something. It was hard in those old shoes, so he took them off. He hadn’t any new ones in a while. The suit barely fit that six-foot three frame of his and he was all scrunched up. And the Miracle of the Feet had occurred. Totally three inches away from being in my breakfast, and he was left sitting in his own. Gary Gilmore had suddenly reincarnated. I had a whimsical feeling I was now hopelessly in love with a very dead man. To this day, I feel mixed feelings about everything to do with this.

I lost my wacko boyfriend Ted, the overly free spirit, and then promptly thereafter I lost my husband. We all lose people, famous and infamous, unknown and regular ol’ family. Meanwhile, he was still large and in charge of the “kidnapping” of me, considering his suit may have had three or four shivs and God only knows what else lining the pockets. Some cash. A toothbrush, some toothpaste, dunno.

“So Ted, uh.” Continued eating my breakfast. “May I ask for more coffee?”

Frowned, nodded. Less of an absolute murderous expression on his Catholic face. As much pain as he’s in, he’s polite now and wants something normal. He’d just spectacularly told me exactly who he was, and who I am. In spite of me being a total know it all about him. Men don’t like women like that, I think. Some do. I guess he had decided I was a female Peter. I get that sort of thing a lot, I decided, like “you want a woman” and that kind of garbage about white trash me.

But I kept thinking, if I can string Ted along long enough, I can make it back to my folks in Bremerton, visit and continue on to Seattle and go to school there and get a better job of some kind. This is a wakeup call for me, I thought, looking at my face reflected in the window. Beautiful day outside. I had ended up hooking briefly in Colorado due to wanting to go to Naropa Institute, as it was a cheap school, and I could get a psychology degree there. Gazing across the table, eating his breakfast, and looking up with a murderous glare sometimes was my fellow psychology student. Who had murdered 35 to 100 innocents, uh, me?

Running through my head now:

Step right up, see this red-haired clown

She’s writing about something new and profound

I can make money off of Ted Bundy

And find a way to fund my husband and baby.

Since he’ll never be my lawyer man and me his wife.

And now I’m stuck loving him for life.

He did seem to have that effect on a very few people. Or millions of us. There were two movies about Ted the talking bear, several other such documentaries about him too, a TV show called Marriage with Children starring Al Bundy the character and an obviously frozen and murdered green oozing fountain in the opening credits, and at least three solid songs on YouTube. Now this. I’ve been waiting years for the statute of limitations to run out on my “aiding and abetting” a wanted multiple homicide felon who kidnapped me at knifepoint by threatening the lives of other people at me. I seriously didn’t give that much of a whit about mine if you can believe it. He was disabled and the whole thing was a media sideshow. He was crazy. Or in other words, he had serious mental health issues.

This is not that story. And I don’t know about the statute of limitations. Okay, I never murdered anyone, and this kidnapping victim has had it. He was fantastic in bed and the best time I ever had in my life was the week I spent with Theodore Bundy. At least up and down and sideways it was the most exciting time. But I spent years worrying about him, about me, and of course there was the little matter of I was pregnant.

And this now is after several suicide attempts. I’m not sure why, but after Ted Bundy and Ron Schwarz both died on me, one in 1985 and one in 1989, something caught up with me. I like to think it’s pollution and medications due to my being mentally ill myself. I went on a mission that began in Ohio to find and fight a large forest fire prognosticated to occur in the Pacific Northwest by the US Forestry Services and the Parks and Recreation Services. Back in the 1970s. I knew somehow it would be an arson fire set by Black people. And that somehow a Mrs. Vera Cooper would be involved. Well, Ted bumping his head on the underside of that bunk had a lot to do with how I chose to defeat those two-house burglars who were going to rape and kill, in other words slice and dice, Mrs. Cooper, who was Black also.

And I’m black. And Ted was black, but a white Nazi. And I’m “Jimmy Olsen” except that will never work. Okay, I’m heavily freckled, which I’m not. I’m a ginger snap and it will never matter, except it does. I couldn’t begin to make it matter to save my own life.

I had asked God to help me find exactly what it was that Hitler was saying I should do. To be a good person, not an evil person, and to fulfill the one premise I found in Mein Kampf that made any sense: Holocaust means forest or wildfires. The Shoah is long over with, people still tell its true stories of anti-Semitic and other persecutions. Well, Ted was a stuck-up white bigot, but then again, all through my junior and high school days the other kids told me I was stuck up either. So what if Ted thinks he’s some new Nazi?

I finally blurted out, “Ted, I’m probably one of Hitler’s grandchildren.” Which was the first time in my life I’d ever mentioned that to absolutely anybody whatsoever. I was afraid of people who “knew I was crazy” and that “Hitler never had any children, he was gay.” He actually traveled around a lot, was physical and on his feet a lot. Picasso fathered a kid in his nineties. So Hitler certainly had the capacity to travel around after WWII and to become my grandfather prior to it, in a basement in Bremerton after a party at a high school.

He fucked with my grandmother when she was seventeen and underage is probable.

“That’s impossible,” Ted mouthed around a bite of ham or eggs. Hard to tell which. “He didn’t have any grandchildren; he took too long to get married.”

And then he’s supposed to have suicided. I didn’t tell Ted that the CIA had smuggled Hitler into South America, which was eventually revealed online in the 1990s or so. That’s how I met him when he flew up to my Dad’s naval retirement party in 1964. And I met Hitler again in his secret identity as Albion in 2019, the first year of Covid, on a hospital ward.

So there we were, a man taking a Teutonic vengeance driving a Volkswagen around perfectly designed in its interior to keep passenger side victims from diving out the door and getting away. With lots of horrible implements of destruction in the back trunk to Inquisitional torment any such women he lured into his car. And a woman studying journalism back there somewhere. Who planned to open up a ghostwriting services agency someday and start up Rainbow Writing, Inc. and make money off of ghost services? Sexist Ted wouldn’t think it…or would he? Why had I run into this intriguing soul?

Did God have a plan for me to assemble some book material, and then I could create something decent to sell to readers? I could explain something about the exciting, fun loving and incredibly cruel Mr. Bundy to people. Like lay it out in a book. But we’d have to spend some time together for me to do this. And I really didn’t want to ask about any such gory murders or even what it was like to kill people. Why bring it up? Ideas always come from other ideas, so if I didn’t bring up all those deaths, I could hold the Ted at bay. For a little while, and finally escape his fatal embraces and go home.

“Ted…how would you feel about spending some time with me here in Colorado?”

Serious look over to one side. Like he was checking for the waitress. “Do you want more coffee, Ted?” He shied me with one hand, shades of Bruce Lee. Then he asked me to let him take care of that. He whistled the waitress over and asked her to get us more coffee. Ahh, he wants to be a man and take some kind of control. And pay for his…it began to dawn on me that he’d actually taken some cash from his suit from an envelope, and paid for his first breakfast, and then I’d paid for his second one. With a traveler’s check.

Gulping a lot, I suddenly realized I had a manipulated puppet called Ted. I said Dutch Treat, and he made it Dutch Treat. This is, Karen, I said to myself, an actual date with a murderer. I hadn’t gone on many, if any, actual dates in my life before. I had one eventually with Clark Moran, a man who reminded me seriously of Clark Kent from Superman. Sitting there, I thought I’m now with the Joker and the Batman rolled into one. Someone from Oliver the Musical, one of the finest musicals ever with some of the most stunning visuals and songs in human history. And it’s just a scruffy old street rat…murderer. Remember, readers if you do, how Alan Arkin played the guy who was hanged at the end of Oliver the movie?

There was a prostitute in it who was brutally killed by him too. Before he was accidentally hanged through circumstances beyond all of his control. By God, more or less, not by the authorities so much. That resounding “eat me” back there meant what it meant, not necessarily to blow job him. Which I was to find out was the case. He never forced my head down there or anything like that when he certainly could have. We ended up in several motel rooms, three other ones, due to running around in the rain and looking for a place to go. To hide, to keep away from the cops being summoned to arrest and kill him, I guess. My heart was beating a little faster in that restaurant. Do I get rid of him, or be his friend?

A place for us

Someday there’ll be a place for us

Peace and quiet and open air

Wait for us somewhere…

A time for us

Someday there’ll be a time for us

Time to study and time to share

Time to learn, time to care

Somehow, somewhere

We’ll find a new way of living

Find us a way of forgiving

Somewhere.

–Barbra Streisand’s national anthem of the State of Israel

So anyway, what to do with Reggie Mantle and Archette Andrews. Alias Smith and Jones. How do I hide this man and get away with it without aiding and abetting a fugitive? Maybe if I keep trying to call the cops on him. Intermittently. Every other time. Maybe if I let him the heck alone and see what he does. What if he finally just turns himself in? Hey, I have an idea. “Ted, I know what we could do, maybe!!!”

“What,” he said. This poor man has a very bad habit to do with sex…crash, the sudden crashing of dishes in the restaurant. “Wow, they sure are having problems back there. Maybe we should just give her a tip and leave.” Ted left a five-dollar tip. I was starting to feel oddly wholesome and sorrowful mixed at the same time. He needed to go home to his wife. He had a kid to raise in what little time the authorities would be giving him left. A sex problem, which I could relate to because I have a serious masturbation problem myself. I’m barely on top of it, and I heard Ted had a horrifying addictive urge to continue killing people. That might mean me, but after years of hanging out on cliff edges climbing mountains, so fucking what?

A DOM (dirty old man, all of forty at most) and a SWT (sweet young thing). Such a 21rst birthday gift for me, like this year that they finally released blind, glaucoma ridden my hero villain Bill Cosby from eternal prison for doing next to nothing next to what Ted did. In 2021, after Bill lost his only son to a horrible roadside shooting incident that couldn’t seem to stop happening to Black people everywhere, which is all he cares about really.

So this Ted character might be good for something. Other than bed, but I didn’t want to, well. “Okay Ted, do you need to um. Shoot up heroine or something, or can you go cold turkey…” Next thing I knew, extreme crashing of dishes in the kitchen again. “Let’s go somewhere else, anywhere else than this obscene joint. Come, Karen.” After I scooted out from the table, suddenly ever the gentleman he took my hand and helped me to my feet.

That was nice, thank you very much Mr. Bundy. But would that last?

Theodore Robert Bundy. A man with a desperate plan to attract our attention by murdering girls and women across something like a dozen states of the union. We skulked together through the streets, and I had a feeling I’d reminded him of exactly what he was looking for. “Let’s go to a bar,” I suddenly proposed. “It’s the middle of the day, Karen. Why a bar?” Um, to keep you from buying heroine and shooting up with it because you look so frail you might die, Ted. Street junk is horrifying, I had heard, and it was the worst possible thing we could do.

I was thinking of Ratzo Rizzo. What had actually killed him, that they didn’t necessarily show in that movie? Well, he was said to have an infection of some kind, and eventually on the way to Miami Beach in Florida he suddenly died on a bus from pneumonia in all probability. There is a long scene where “Glenn Campbell” is holding him in his arms as he dies. I thought, that might be not such a bad idea, dear God, if that’s what you’re sending me with this. What if the thing to do is to find him something like what’s it called, black tar heroine and get him to shoot him up and instead of holding him in my arms, leaving him there to die?

That music from Midnight Cowboy in my mind picked up. People keep on coming at me, I can’t see a thing their faces, only the shadows of their eyes. I’m gonna leave that world behind. I won’t let you leave my world behind. I won’t let you leave…goodbye Stranger.

Was an early morning yesterday

I was up before the dawn

Well I really have enjoyed the stay (dear Ted of the knife)

But I must be moving on.

Like a king without a castle,

Like a queen without a throne,

I’m an early morning lover

But I must be moving on.

(From Breakfast in America by a certain rock band that tee hee escapes me.)

Now I believe in what you say

Is the undisputed truth (yes, you did murder people to get caught, Ted?)

But I have to have things my own way

To keep me in my youth (I needed away from this dangerous man. Whom I now loved.)

Or at least liked. Whether or not I get pregnant, which isn’t likely, I have to break up with him soon. And he’s addictive due to pheromones and other sexual chemicals that are now making both of us protective of each other and love each other. Oops. Yes, I was going to have to get away from him and put him permanently behind me. But how?

Well we went to the bar. Ted bought me a drink. It seemed like an okay thing to do in the middle of the day. But he wasn’t picking me up there, we were siting side by side at the bar. The bartender kept looking at me too significantly, like he “knew what I was.” I was getting really sick of this comedy routine. I’d done plenty of other work besides tricks in a bookstore, which wasn’t even most of my work at said bookstore. I’d been to college at Ohio University and held many other jobs in my life. People, I am mystified I’d done all my life about the insistence that personally me “must be one of those.” Only living one can make on the street. Well, I was glad somebody wasn’t handing me tons of drugs and insisting that I sell them.

“Is there such a thing as sweeping the back of this bar and restaurant, or being a waitress here?”

“No. And we don’t want your kind in this place. Please leave or I’ll call the cops.” The expression on my face was a bit beyond dismay. “Sorry Ted, I am a college student. And I have got to get going, we’re not welcome here. Well, please do leave or stay then.” I left, thinking I have worked a phone canvassing and two different doors to doors canvassing jobs since I lived in Boulder, Colorado. And also an Encyclopedia Britannica sales job selling those books door to door and over the phone. And a brief stint at dishwashing I believe. What is with people thinking I was only good for prostitution? I worked it for four whole days. What are these assholes, mind readers?

“Hello Karen. Where to now, then?” said Theodore Robert Bundy outside the bar. He’d sprinted out to join me. And now, I thought, I have a stalker who cares about me, and any minute now might give in to his preternatural urge to kill me. Well, my tiger, I thought taking his hand, “Anywhere else is good with me now.”

We ended up with Ted touring me through downtown Aspen, which section he took me too was seediness incarnate. Thought to myself, it’s a guy with a psychology degree who could at least get some kind of a job. Why this? He showed me all around how everything was hopelessly dark despair, bars here, seedy porn there, etc. “Ted, why this section of town?” He looked at me. “Because I care about all of this, it’s nothing to me though.” Then he grabbed my hand and took me over to a certain place. Oh shoot it up, I knew what was going to happen next, as we went downstairs to a closed-door establishment. Probably a heroine den of some kind. The last thing, no, not even that, was me letting this dude fill me up with heroine!

I was feeling pretty used and degraded by the time we ended up at another bar downstairs. Ted immediately went over to the bar and asked for some junk. The bartender frowned. “You don’t have the money, street bums.” Yes, he did, he fished around for another envelope and produced a $100 bill and handed it to him. To this day I remember his standing there, looking deeply ashamed of himself and like he’d like to be doing much better for me than buying heroine. He could tell I’d never shot up before and that I was just some kid. The ruthless man who’d done it badly to a 12-year-old as a kid himself back there somewhere.

Trouble in River City. He’s planning on introducing me to “the life.” I’ll bet he’s got plans to pimp me out too. No thank you, I’m going to get away. Lots of ribald laughter as we’d gone down the steps, horrible nauseating male lost laughter. A sea of the denizens of Hell again, all looking like something subhuman, except for all people, Ted. And me. We sat down together, and he proceeded to teach me exactly how to shoot up junk.

Except that he had huge veins, much like my mother did.

My Dad and I have small veins, so I had no interest whatsoever in doing any of this. “Say Ted, what did the elephant say to the donkey when you went out the door, cuz?” Touched him on one arm.

“What?” Bye. I was leaping out of that awful room and heading upstairs like a bat out of hell. I reached the top, and the guy guarding the door against the cops confronted me. He was at least kind enough to open the door. “College girl, eh?” he stated. I rammed my arm into the slightly open door so he couldn’t close it, as he was threatening to do so and leave me stranded in there among those thieves and perverts to do with me what they would. It sounded pretty obscene, to the point where even Ted was indicating them and asking me what they were doing. I told him I didn’t know, those knowing leers looked like something beyond obscene, beyond what Ted had done…I shoved my way past the doorkeeper and split.

I was out and in a very strange part of town in broad daylight. I could find a way back. My little plan had worked, Ted was back there shooting up. Alone. I felt more than slightly broken hearted, but there was no way in Hell I was ever turning back. Sadly, I began my search for an available cab going down the street. I could duck into a restaurant and call one. I found a place, again with an “overly knowing” creep running it and managed to use his phone. He was kind enough to let me use their pay phone, because I asked him if there was any work available around there OTHER than prostitution. Man, was I going home to my parents and then over to Seattle to get work once I got out of the shithole called Aspen, Colorado! Nice skiing if you can get it, but boy, I don’t recommend their downtown for workers AT ALL. Not male ones or female ones. Of course, this was back in 1981.

Finally got a cab to come pick me up. “The Aspen American Youth Hostel.” I need an address, the cabbie replied. I ran back into the restaurant, thinking I had narrowly escaped with my life, or hadn’t managed to do so yet. I valued my life. Very serious red flags and a wake-up call indeed. I didn’t like what Ted had showed me in the smoke-filled room downstairs. What was he doing, flouting a next life Hellish existence? He shouldn’t even be able to run around with that kind of poison in his veins, what was he doing looking so healthy and normal?

I got the cabbie the address from the phone book. I still had my brown round Indian fringe leather purse and everything with me and was planning on guarding it with my life from deliberately cruel purse snatchers who needed me to be a victim. I was part of the Trail of Tears tribes of the Cherokee but didn’t look a thing like an obvious Native American. Man, woman, this was some scary shit. Obvious Hell referencing don’t want to believe in a next life at all, I’m a Buddhist and all the hell is, er, supposed to be in this life…then the next one is tempting. Because it’s a nice safe graveyard and there is nothing conscious there.

Page 33 of this diatribe. I don’t need Johnny Law to come after me on behalf of a dead man named Bundy either. A book would be great about him and all, make me some journalistically creative or nonfiction writing money. But not today. The cab took me back to the American Youth Hostel. Well, I should be all right then, I figured. And Ted was shooting up horrifying street junk. Surely, he wouldn’t be back to haunt me. I couldn’t afford any fancy hotels to hide in from him or them. I’ll just stay here one more night, I reasoned, and leave the next morning. I still had plenty of traveler’s checks. Breathing a deep sigh of relief, I went out to a nearby restaurant, not the same one I’d been to with Ted.

There was within walking distance a nice dinner place. I was walking towards it when I heard the sound of running feet behind me. I thought, someone trying to snatch my purse. “You, I’m going to hit you so hard you’ll see stars if you…” It was Ted. “So…you’re still alive then. You didn’t complete your hit or whatever?”

“Oh, I did. What are you doing now, girl, eating in there or something?” Resignedly, I motioned for Ted to follow me into the dinner place. We could sit at a booth and eat together at least. Might as well. Seemed I had acquired me a stray murderer at that. We ordered something nice, I told Ted not to worry about the pricing but to try to order something inexpensive. He harumphed and ordered some beef dish.

“I assume you mean midrange pricing. This place is pretty expensive, want to go somewhere else?” I immediately thought of two things. One being he might drag me to another hellish place and steal all of my traveler’s checks just by going back to my hostel room. And slit my throat. Two being that he could pay for this dinner. Then he’d be down on his luck some more. How to handle this, should I make him pay? At least this wasn’t so much, really. “Well, Ted, why don’t we each pay for our meal apiece this time?”

“Are you some kind of women’s libber?” This from the worst murderer in the region, or one of them anyway. But what else could he find to say, if you thought about it? He tortures women to death anyway or used to. Used to, I prayed to God, used to. The VW was nowhere in the vicinity. Even if he dragged me to it with the knife to my throat, I had ways to pin him, twist out of his grip, and run away. I had something of an upper or at least even hand here. “No, Ted (said patiently), I’m not much of a feminist altogether. (Thought to self, and not much but something of a martial artist either). But I am planning on running my own business someday.”

The Martial Arts gives a chick some major self-confidence.

“What kind of business.” Never had discussed this with anyone before. “Not a madam brothel,” I whispered. “A ghostwriting services agency. Gonna call it something rainbow. And hire whoever to write, edit, whatever, professional writers. Send out work to people.”

“You’re…going to actually do that,” Ted replied, astonished. “Yes, Ted, and I’m expecting to be successful at it someday. Thank you very much for asking, sir.” Why disrespect anyone, including a murderer, it’s going to be a rainbow agency that hires all types of people and has all types of people as clients. The look on Ted’s face seemed to be a lost admiration. Funny, I didn’t see a trace of jealousy, spite, or hatred. The bit about being Hitler’s granddaughter, perhaps? I seemed to think, I don’t know, but that’s not exactly it. I’m sitting here as the most racially impure thing on the planet.

I actually sat there feeling inferior to Mr. Bundy. But he’s a man, he’s an escape artist and incredibly fast on his feet. He kills people, so does the Mafia. I astonished myself by asking, “Ted, if I ever get Rainbow Writing, Inc. started up, would you work for us?”

“I’d think about it. I’ve never done ghostwriting work before.” I told him it’s a lot like editing, you just basically rewrite the stuff the original author sends you. I had gotten the info originally from Mein Kampf being an entirely ghostwritten work and also from Philip Roth penning a book called The Ghostwriter. Mr. Roth had filled me in on everything. I didn’t tell Ted about that; he didn’t seem to like Jewish people very much. He was a self-hating Jew of some kind. Meanwhile, I was sitting there discussing business with Ted Bundy.

There might be something to Christian forgiveness. I asked him for his phone number. He wanted mine, and it dawned on me. “It’s on my traveler’s checks Ted. Here, I’ll just write it down and you can keep it for now. It’s my parents’ phone number. I handed it to him, and he smiled. I thought, dear God and Holy Frijoles Batman, I’m handing Ted my parents. Well, come to think I might…no, that’s not a doable, that would get them in more trouble than I was already in. I should be handing him a phony number of some kind. I forget if I actually gave him the real one, but I did. I never did hear of his calling my parents. To this day I get chills thinking about how I handed that very scary man my parents’ number. They are long dead.

We finished up our meal. “What’s ghostwriting like, is the money good?” Yes, Ted, it’s a perfectly honorable profession that a lot of people doubt. “You could end up writing a book through our firm. I heard some people have been writing books about you.”

“Yes, I don’t want to talk about that right now. Let’s go to a hotel. I know a nice one down a few blocks from here.” Smart man, he knows the territory. What say, I handed him my Mom and Dad, dear God; I’m thinking of taking a chance here. Let’s hear it for let’s go! On the way, though, I ruminated about his nasty tendency to torture people to death. It’s the worst thing you can do to another person, and it’s done too frequently to female people worldwide. In horrible illogical manner, for no known reason except that it’s abnormal sexuality.

The Kinsey Report has said that all sexuality is somehow normal. It varies pretty wildly. Next thing I knew, we were in a YMCA steam bath establishment of some kind. I accepted the fact they took my purse and I had to pay, no Ted did, to put it behind a counter. He went his way, and I went mine, and I sat wrapped in a towel in a steam room. It’s very strange being alone and naked like that, Aspen was indeed spartanly populated. I had offered Ted a job. I would take him if we could communicate once I got back to the Seattle area.

If I ever got around to starting up RWI, why not? Still, I had my doubts, as I had no startup capital yet to even begin to do business. I’d take a job as something like a nurse aide or along those lines. Or sales, I was pretty good at sales overall. And keep dreaming my crazy dream of preventing an arson fire in the Pacific NW somewhere. I ended up in the YACC and prevented one and moved on from there to finally prevent it in 1986. A big one.

I unwrapped the towel after my half hour ding sounded and got dressed. I waited for Ted, wondering if he was having sex with someone else, a man or two, at this bathhouse, as they were not doing anything but keeping the sexes separate. I slipped through the door to the men’s section without being seen. I found Ted sitting in a towel talking to some men. He appeared to be only hanging out. He was very startled when he saw me.

“Um, I’ll go back and let you fellows talk…”

We left in a little bit. “Do you want to get some decent clothes, Ted?”

“The mall isn’t open right now, I think. We could go there; I can enter it.”

As in break and enter? We got there, and sure enough it was closed. So he pried his way in. I couldn’t object or do anything about it, so I went along with it, thinking oops again. Well, we’re not going to steal any clothing. He found a sweater, and a nice pair of Levi’s. And a package of men’s underwear. I paid for them with a traveler’s check or three and managed to leave slightly over the amount due. Ten bucks or so. Ted opened up the cash register so I could put the traveler’s checks in there. Then he proceeded to take all the cash out of the drawer. “Ted,” I exclaimed. “Let’s leave the cash here.”

“You’re joking,” he said. “No, I’m already an uh, accessory. Please don’t, we will find a way somehow else.” So he took only one five-dollar bill and left the rest. Wow, I guess he’s not much the goniff. I didn’t want them to know we’d been in there. But I realized he had broken in, at least it happened over 40 years ago now in 2021. What my legal rights were at this point, I didn’t know. Should I be spending time together with this wanted fugitive? He had broken and entered, what did that mean for someone like me? Whoops. And I’m thinking that too often…suddenly he broke and ran out of the shop door and down the hallway of the mall. This joyride is getting monotonous, but I followed him down the way and out the exit door of the mall. Again he had to pick the lock to get us out of there. I was getting very worried.

_________________________________

Okay, their names were Frank and Pasquale. There were at least four other men, but those two were memorable. They didn’t gang rape me or do much, and one of them jumped off a moving train “for me.” These memoires of mine are blurry, 40 years later and after more than a dozen different psych meds. For every mental illness in the book. I don’t know why I’ve been misdiagnosed so many times. But I’ve been practically poisoned to death.

Frank was the guy sitting next me, and Pasquale was the only Mexicano. It was a train moving at about 40, 60, 80 picking up speed one hundred miles per hour. I may have to do the rest of this book about Ted Bundy as vignettes, because it’s hard to hang it all together.

The trouble is, after what Ted did for me, I’d have hanged for him.

And I was willing to take the knives and bullets for him too. Not really, I had he’d gotten the punishment he thought he deserved. The reason for that Face of Evil was his own good. Quite the opposite, he wanted the world to know he’d been wrong, remorseful for what he’d done to those beautiful, young, and talented students. This would include me, so in a way he did finally die for me too. As he had desired. But he spent years pleading his innocence in court, so he left things in a morally ambivalent state.

I’m figuring reverse psychology: Make himself look like the evilest moron trying to get himself off as humanly possible. Then they’d be sure to impose the harshest penalty once the dental records from biting one of his victims came into play. He did it on purpose. Leaving teeth marks on purpose and making himself look stupid. He wasn’t stupid.

About the moving train. At one point in our misadventures of spending time together before he relocated once more to Seattle, we hopped a freight train with boxcars. There must’ve been a freight route between Aspen and Vail, Colorado. We ended up in a railroad yard somewhere near Aspen. Climbed aboard an unmoving train, piling into the boxcar. I was now a beau, or a hobo as they called them back in the day. But not really, nor was Ted. Hobos don’t wear faded business suits. He took the left side of the car near the door, and I took the right side. Sitting up against Frank, who had a bottle of alcohol he was nursing. This was a boxcar practically “owned” by them, a group of some six hulking and well-built older men.

The instant I was onboard, I was bad luck for Ted. The guys began grunting, oh, see the pretty cunt that was suddenly there. “Hey missy, where did you get that red hair from?” Ha ha’s all around, total lack of respect for either Ted or me. Both of us growing worried. But rather than that smoke-filled heroin den we’d escaped back in town, where Ted must have ceased his injection to follow me to the restaurant, this bunch was human and normal. Real people at least. I breathed a vast sigh of relief, gazing out at the speed picking up and the soon swiftly moving greenly verdant trees and scenery outside the open boxcar door.

“Can we have your lady, fool? Shouldn’t have brought one in. We got her now.” Dear God, I was about to be passed around like a bottle of wine, surely while the merciless Ted, laughing, clapped his hands in joy. But I looked across to see his reaction. Would he take money from them for this, would he take his turn along with them, what did this mean?

Ted looked a little pale, even for him. Frank, who was nearest me, got friendly. “What’s your name, little lady, tell me.” Swallowing my spit, Karen, I said, Karen S. Cole. Ted winced, like it was important not to tell them my full legal name. The railroad bulls, of course. The local security guards in other words. They could report us and write down our names. But Ted always did give them his. This made me very suspicious that this lawyer material man was yearning to not breathe free and to get caught at what he was doing. Why no phony IDs, all the damn time? Why did he always straightforwardly give the authorities his legal name?

I had given this “stranger” my parents’ phone number and address on the checks. Oh, the humanity, I had chuckled. I wasn’t too afraid for them. They’d subdue Ted and call the police. Or not be home. But Frank was inching closer as the train picked up speed. He was cozying up and offering me his bottle. Just as I thought the right thing to do might be to make a new friend and take a swig, which I was perfectly willing to do, Ted leapt in one great bound all the way across the boxcar, which was shaking, unstable and swaying dangerously. That’s why I remained sitting through most of this when I witnessed Ted’s ridiculous courage.

You’d think a man caught doing terrible things to harmless, easy targets would be an utmost coward. Expect the Unexpected, I’d been taught in martial arts. Life is full of surprises, including unimaginable love from unanticipated places. Once Ted landed in less than a second, on the way flicking open his large switchblade, he pressed it hard against Frank’s bare throat. “Leave my lady alone, or you’re dead,” he snarled, a low intonation I can still hear now to the swaying and rattling of that boxcar. Frank had a knife, a large Bowie. If you’re not acquainted with those, they are not switchblades. It’s a type of hunting knife that can gut a human in less than two seconds with a strong person wielding it. Or be plunged into a yielding heart or abdomen, which isn’t quite enough for full immobilization.

Ted and Frank were now in a position where they could kill each other in seconds.

I still see that protective form hovering inches away from me, a dark angel. This boxcar was full of a lot of strong, dangerous hobos. They rode from place to place seeking manual labor, obtusely capable for a bunch of drunks. Frank was trying to cuddle but had drawn a Bowie, and was actually menacing me, Ted’s new girl, and the scene was in seconds like something from a movie. Frank’s naked Bowie knife was inches away from Ted’s exposed guts. He held the knife steadily until Frank laid the Bowie down.

“Hand it to my wife, you stupid bastard. Now!”

Well, Frank gave up his knife to me. I suddenly had my very own Bowie. “I didn’t know the bitch was yours,” Frank smiled, without any fear in his voice whatsoever. “I just wanted to make right friendly with her.” Well, he gave me something to defend myself. I jammed the tip into the floorboards between my bowed legs, as I was sitting in a nice safe lotus position. “Thanks Frank, I deeply appreciate it,” said in a spritely, friendly manner. This was nice, Ted had arranged me a lovely weapon. I inspected the Bowie; it was nothing special but huge. “Better watch yourself sweetie, it’s razor sharp,” burped Frank. He smelled of a great quantity of beer. In a few moments, Ted finally withdrew his razor-sharp weapon from Frank’s outstretched throat. And he went back slowly backwards to his seat directly across from me, taking the same lotus position. Harsh guttural laughter slowly filled the boxcar again.

Everyone else was a legit hobo, drunk on beer, seated, and leaning against the wooden walls of the boxcar. I looked around, I thought I counted six men. Ted across from me, whitely gulping down his fear also. He was a university student and not completely used to this “lifestyle preference” as he might have seemed. But he remained alert and arch, watching all six of those men like some utmost hawk, ready to spring forward toward any or all of them. I suddenly had the protective Overlord everyone had been complaining about earlier, he of the manipulative mentality. I felt precious, loved, mischievous, like a princess of the boxcar. But it was still intimidating.

“My lady, what would you have me do, then?” Spent time contemplating.

There was this resounding silence. “Hey little Jimmy John, why don’t you cut off your teenie weenie with it?” Much guffawing. Considering what Theodore Bundy had done to us ladies as a murderer, it seemed apt. Ted was embarrassed, what could he do? Well, he stood erect swiftly, drawing fully to six feet three inches tall, pulling out his own Bowie from a left side suit pocket. A cue for me! I thought, why not two of them, feeling kind of supremely mischievous. I really wasn’t sure what to do, sliding “my” Bowie knife over to Ted’s right shoe.

So there he was, and he took up a knife in each hand. Then he reached over and slowly pulled open his shirt buttons to bare his chest. I was shocked. This was the man driving around in a VW kidnapping and torturing women…waitaminute, I guess so. Subject to the authorities every time. Pausing on some tight buttons, he then used the knife in his right hand to slash open his shirt, the only one he had as he’d left behind the ill-fitting clothes I’d bought earlier.

He’d tried them on in a restroom and they just didn’t fit his enormous frame. So now his only shirt was in tatters, but he yanked it open. Then we rattled forward, the cage of the railroad car violently pitching. While he almost fell down. He roared like a loud bull, and yet softly, in that undertone of his. “Any of you make one move towards my wife, I will die killing you all!” But he stood there with his head hanging down. It was obvious they all had knives, there was a Mexican, it finally crossed my mind potentially handguns, and there were too many of them for him to be able to stop them from doing God knows what with me.

Unbelievably, he only cared about what happened to me, not him.

Fortunately, it was obvious they were all drunk except Ted. And me. He could’ve dispatched all of them by slicing their throats with both Bowies. Moving in a sweeping circle around the inner walls of the boxcar. It would be over in about three seconds. All six of them, including Frank, and I was a member of the Civil Rights Movement. What of me?

I was more fascinated and downright awed than afraid. I thought of a song called The Coward of the County. Where a man not used to fighting other men had to stand down four of them over his gang-raped girlfriend. This was a side of Ted Bundy the world never got to see before this book, if anyone actually ever gets to read any of this. You may not believe me, you may think this is a work of fiction, but I remember all of this with a kind of crystal clarity. In the dark, our Utmost Villain had very much become my Valliant Hero. I now didn’t particularly care what these other men would do to me, I was too impressed with Ted! I guess a man facing his own painful execution would be rather brave at this point in time. But he hung his head down in sorrow, he knew “little Teddy” even at six feet was no match for six men.

He’d die fighting them for me. I’d then either hook up with Frank, or something horrible. I finally went over to Ted. I put both hands on his open chest. Tried buttoning his shirt, putting his torn clothing back together. He wrenched my hands away and pulled his shirt completely open, revealing all that gleaming black fur-coated muscle. I traveled with my hand down to his pants button and opened it. Was tempted to unzip him and didn’t.

Laid my hand across his guts, looking at him significantly. I was between him and the guns and knives. He shuddered and looked so angry at me I thought he’d kill me. I stared straight into his dark eyes. Then he grabbed silly me and three me bodily to the left. I slid along the floor and landed in my old position next to Frank against the wall. I was feeling acrobatic throughout this scene.

The Mexican guy was stirring. I leapt to my feet with the knife and assumed a position to Ted’s immediate right. We stood there side by side, looking for all the world like a thoroughly married fighting couple. “Who are you two weirdos?” one of the men called out inquiringly.

“THEODORE ROBERT BUNDY!!!” Audible in China. I recalled he’d studied Chinese. I thought, a man with the name Chipmunk had to fight every second of his existence. Meanwhile, George Floyd is deader than he is, but there might be a national holiday. Or so. I guess it will have to represent Mr. Bundy as well. No more character referencing, please.

Slight pause. “KAREN…SCHWARZ COLE!” Ted jerked, now that he knew I was Jewish. Some mind reading was involved. That might not stand well with a Neo Nazi, the only one of his kind in 1981. There were other ones in the prison he’d left behind…for me?

To make a bee line straight to me.

“I love this man, and I will fight you to my last breath. And I have a Black Belt in Karate.”

Bullshit on my part. They were all drunk, and we two were sober. A good thing.

“Ah, what a Punta eh, she’s not worth it,” said one of the men. Obvious Mexicano, so I yelled out, hey, what’s your name, Mexican man?

“I am Pasquale…” He might as well have said, I am not Mark Henry Campos. Taking a long breath. “See, she is a Punta, no good, she snuggles up to that Anglo, you German whore, she is willing to come with me.” He had called Ted the German whore, not me. Did he know Ted or me? No I’m not, or I am a German whore, but I was in such shock I simply didn’t say anything. A Mexican who knew Bundy was a German name. I just wanted to de-escalate the situation and do some damage control. Ted swiftly slipped my knife back to me, hoping I could use it somehow. I’d told him I was a black belt; I stood half a chance.

The car rattled on at about 100 mph, I figured. I didn’t know when it would stop and we’d need to get off it finally, it was a long-drawn-out moment. Ted had been dramatic and that was a mistake. “Ted, let’s try to make friends with these men…” I was cut off by some very loud laughter. “I am Pasquale, come here bitch and make me happy. You’re mine now.”

“No, I’m with him,” I cried, pointing my blade’s tip at Ted. I thought, I don’t know how he’s going to feel about this, but we’re fighting them to the death. If his wife or daughter is reading this, I don’t know how you’re going to feel about it, either. Anyway, I faced down Pasquale, as Ted muttered “stupid spic” under his breath. “I’m fine, fine as a fox, and you can’t have me, Pasquale. Over my dead body.” Such a spoiled brat thing to say. “Ha,” Pasquale spat, that can be arranged. So I stepped forward, knife thrust in front of me. “You stay away from my man, I know how to use this thing if needed…” Unexpectedly, this completely deranged Pasquale and he was incredibly insulted at my challenge!

Welcome to the Wild, Wild West. In the Year of our Lord 1981.

“A PUNTA??? What do you mean, cunt you talkin’ to me? You’re (something in Spanish I couldn’t make out) and I will gut you!!!” Fine, I made clear with my frowning set face. Then Pasquale in an uproar launched his Bowie knife straight at my head. Fortunately, I saw it by watching his knife throwing arm. I was faster in those days. Luckily, the train didn’t lurch all that much, and Frank hadn’t gotten me drunk yet. I ducked to the right and the knife barely missed my ear. It lodged deeply into the wooden wall behind me. I reached backwards and pulled it out, now I had two big Bowie knives that looked remarkably similar.

“You all buy your knives in the same place?” I crooned like I was Peter Pan. “Wonderful!” Ted stared at me, like I had taken his nonexistent victory away from just him. Or it was a harsh glare for a reason. Pasquale cursed us all out some more, then knifeless he swiftly turned, lurched toward the open boxcar door across from us and leapt immediately off the train. My God, did he kill himself? No, he’d said something about it being “my stop.”

So I sat back down. As I did, the train lurched, and Ted was forced down. I thought, for a man who takes heroin on a regular basis, as it’s a highly addictive drug, he is doing pretty well at balancing on this damn train. He fell over and slid back into his corner. He frowned, then pulled himself erect. “Wow Ted, I got two knives now in my lap.” Frank reached over and I growled at him with my best mien. “Stay away Mr. Frank. I got knives.”

“Here,” said Frank. He handed me his bottle. “NO, Karen don’t!” I covered both knives with my left arm, which was pretty muscular and adept at the time, and reached with my right for the bottle. “Sure, I’ll take a drink with you, Frank.” I was afraid of offending him, and also of offending my Ted, who had now called me his wife twice. And his lady several times. And at long last, by my name! I wasn’t married yet, and I needed to assert some kind of authority. Gently reminding Ted that he was already married, and that bigamy is not an allowable crime in the United States for a man with only one identity.

But I looked over at him with a lost and tired love. “Thank you,” I mouthed at him, but I didn’t call him my husband. With a kind of deeply abiding regret in my heart, which I’m feeling right now. There might have been such a thing as Mr. Lawyer filing divorce papers. And getting out of the murder charges. He was innocent. However, I didn’t want to do that to his loyal wife or to hurt his daughter Rose that I knew about.

The same thing had happened between famous comedian Jerry Lewis and me once, and I didn’t care to repeat that experience. Ted had kidnapped me, but once I passed the beer back to Frank, I laid a hand on my heart while gazing steadily at Ted. He saw the clear look of sad regret I was beaming straight at him, one which stated firmly that although I was temporarily his…Oh God. That infamous look of his finally crossed his face again, straight at me.

Ted was damn good at taking pain. Darn him, that twisted grin was from Heroin usage. Well, he used heroine after heroine like we were puppets.

Well, I looked down and out the boxcar. Suddenly Ted lurched to his feet. So did I, and it crossed my mind that Pasquale had successfully leapt out the moving boxcar, not necessarily to his deeply dishonored death. Although that may well have been it for all I knew. The train was moving rapidly, they go up to one hundred miles per hour I believe. 80? Ted motioned me over, and I was relieved to see he wasn’t angry at me at all.

“Let’s jump, bitch, then.”

“Hey, Lady to you, big fella. Sure, let’s. You are first.” He reached a swift conclusion that crossed his Romeo features. His Juliet would surely stay safe with Frank in the boxcar. I had left both Bowie knives behind, and Frank was making no moves towards either of them.

“So you and Frank are an item now. Fine. Goodbye for good.” He leapt out, and I had to think it. Had I watched the famous murderer leap to his…no I’m gonna join him. I hesitated for a second, leaned forward, thought of William Shatner and how he rolled with the punches, and thrust myself out very far out into the air before I could stop myself. When you really love someone, you don’t think that much about what you’re doing. But that boxcar wasn’t any safer than leaping to my death. Now I’d proved something morally wrong, or ethically or legally wrong, but I was flying forward and about to tuck and roll as fast as womanly possible.

Wow! Such an experience. Hollywood stunt women had nothing on me. I landed in the grass of the slope near the train, rolling and rolling to the right. Probably should have been to the left, but I’m dyslexic. After about a century of praising Captain James T. Kirk of the Starship Enterprise to the skies, I stopped rolling. And landed on my back, with only a bent little finger to realize I had to grab it and pull it back into place. My God, was that all? Hey, Ted and Pasquale lived though it, and the Mexican is way back there on the other side across the train! I slowly got to my feet, feeling sore but highly uninjured. I had just leapt off a fast-moving train!

Life is a grand and glorious adventure, I crowed like a rooster!

Oh, shut up Karen and go along the left side of the railroad tracks and find him. He’s lying around waiting for you over there, unless he’s injured, dead or taken off somewhere. He knows to tuck and roll too, I’ll bet. But yep, I might have to prepare for the worst. He’s a way up ahead, and I had to hike along a slope for about a quarter mile or more before I found him with his arms behind his head, waiting for me to arrive.

No surprise was written on his handsome features. “Good, bitch. You’re with me now.” I said, panting from the exertion of going that far rapidly as possible in case he was injured, “Lady Bitch to you, Handsome Man.” I’d have called him a gentleman but didn’t care to. “Help me up,” he said, and I did, although that slope was steep. He was fine, so was I. Well we needed to climb up the slope, and then there was a mess of trains. We were still in the railroad park, there were plenty of trains to choose from off in the distance, and we wended our weary way in their general direction until we hit another one. Whoops that one is moving.

“Don’t be afraid. Just leap onto it soon. Or I will be leaving you behind forever.”

He climbed up it and I had to jump on while it was moving. They say leaping onto a moving train while it’s picking up speed, the wrong way like were doing, is the most dangerous thing a person can do on this planet. You’re 90% likely to fall and slip under the wheels of the train and get your legs and/or arms cut off and bleed to death or be limbless for life. I somehow grabbed the edge of the platform and pulled myself upwards onto it, even though when I trained for the Armed Services, I was only able to do one chin up. One and a half, really.

Thank God for Groucho Marx and the Joker from Batman. Well, I did it myself.

I’d been up the gym rope, the netting, and the peg board all the way 100+ feet to the ceiling. Somehow weightlifting must have helped. I pulled myself onto the floor of this new boxcar. To our mutual joy, there was nobody but us in it, for now at least. We’d meet the monsters again later. But Pasquale had practically jumped off for us, and Frank had given me two swigs of his precious beer. I felt like I was Wonder Woman now. We slid forward and assumed our former positions near the open boxcar door, this time in reverse of each other. I sat on the left and he sat on the right.

“Sorry but…you’re not my husband. Not yet.” Long dramatic pause, and a laugh from him.

“And so what do I have to do to attain such a strange honor?”

“No, don’t get a divorce.”

“Wasn’t planning on it, Honey.”

“Stay with your wife, she’s yours in the eyes of God.”

“In the eyes of God, you’re mine forever from now on.”

“Remember what you said before, about if I got pregnant? You said for me to find a new man, one who would take care of your baby. Didn’t you?”

Lots of leaning over backwards and looking like he was in deep pain. While smiling. I’ve checked photos and that’s our Ted. He tended to hide whatever pain he was experiencing, up until he died. Then he reached out and was scared witless.

“How pregnant do you think you are?”

“Not at all. I feel my period coming.” And through another miracle of sorts, I’d managed to hang onto my Indian fringe leather purse all through this. When I landed, it had plunked down a short distance away, and I was able to pick up and replace its spilled contents. “This is like during the Holocaust and the many misadventures those victims had during the course of the war.” Such as Lupka, a Jewish Polack who looked exactly like Mr. Bundy in the torso area. Huge, built, beautiful, dark, and lovely like the night, but he’s dead through yellow cross gas in the back of a giant van built specifically to wipe out millions of people. In 1942.

“Don’t let anyone tell you there was such a thing. It’s all a pack of lies.”

He just wanted me to feel good and reassured.

Ted Bundy, a noted liar. A more noteworthy truth teller too. Was his masculinity also untrue? He said this to me, and I’m an amateur Holocaust scholar of the Shoah. They make it look like only Jews were in it. They are indeed despicable. So am I, I’m Daffy Duck, for life now? And hopefully one death soon. But I hate how time passes so swiftly, or too slowly. How it’s always too cold, or too hot, in a way I wish I’d done something to deserve my one true fate.

Pulling that girl’s chair out and breaking her back will have to serve. If I have to go to Hell for some reason, I’ll call it Miami Beach under my breath. And I’ll be shaking hands with some friends there, people.

In short if all of this is just untrue

You know as I’m unsure that I will fly away with you.

So take these broken dreams and fly away…

They were all just look the other way and let him kill. Not me. I stopped that boxcar willy event, but to this day I wish I’d let it see it happen. We would have been throwing their dead men’s bodies off the train, one by one, including the man who saved them: Frank, who gave me two swigs I took of his beer. Ted could not accept it, so he was a control freak.

I loved that in him, he wanted me as solely his. I can picture us two swingers giving Frank the old “heave ho” in that wild west Colorado. With me heavily sighing at being an accessory to murder, at last. For I would never have been one before, at all. A new life experience, and then the bulls would surely have found a way to contact the FBI.

Center Park got it right: I was only afraid to get caught. Or, I had some human compassion for both dead girls and live men. A bunch of disabled “crap” doesn’t have sex, you know? And you’d better not, either, apparently. I’m not big on what I call Puritanism. It gets reacted to and against.

Thus the weirdos of the smoke-filled room and the boxcar.

Find someone, whoever you are

Find someone tonight

Love means, love in your dreams

Sleep proper ladies, tonight.

Sleep proper ladies, tonight.

–Goodnight, young lovers, wherever you are, goodnight young lovers, goodnight. Be there, fast to your dreams, goodnight young ladies, goodnight. Goodnight young ladies, goodnight…

So now I recall the lives I saved were all Nazi ones. In other ones, subhuman, not really people, just like you, Dear Readers. Please do rebel against such a sicko premise and live a great life, okay? Even in these times of Covid, find a way to thrive. Find a way to survive.

Neo Nazis don’t believe in the Holocaust, I guess. They turned out to deny it under some kind of command from Hitler, but it may have been a joke. I’m one to have seen the photos, and it happened. But I thought, if it makes Ted uncomfortable, I will not bring it up anymore. I can still be his friend, I suppose, although I’m supposed to still be dreaming up ways to get away from him and make my way home at last. Unless I prefer the “other” real home.

Which I wasn’t that likely to attain once they got Ted Bundy.

I’ll certainly never have him back. And I’m dying.

Thanks, Ted, for trying to reassure me. You go to Hell in the next life, I’ll go to Hell in this one. Here come the wildfires that never arrive. Like they said in WWII the Holocaust, they will. Or I’ll die of old age waiting for them, which is in fact an already begun theme song of mine.

I’m also waiting for Night of the Long Knives.

–Mrs. Woody Allen, alias Soon Ye Previn, alias me the Pacifist

My weird space lover, my fellow parent, impatient and not for sale, and remembered with complete fondness by me, as a bored, loving and only yet another stupid genius. Heading for old age. He’s my fellow spoiled American brat, my memories of far more adventures with him stuffed into one week plus days, weeks, up until now, including a boxcar full of unknown men with knives and guns and we will have to do without the Human Target as of this. And a deep shame that remains about his “my girl” victims, all of whom are deeply at peace right now.

Bye! Whoopie twang.