MFM Minisode 434

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murder.

Hello, and welcome to my favorite murder, The Mini Sode, where we read you your stories.

You're gonna love it.

Watch and listen now as Georgia does it.

I'll go first.

Yes.

This is called I Set.

I'm not gonna read you this.

Nope.

It's about a sister.

Okay.

Hi.

Hi.

So I'm still feeling guilty about this, but my sister didn't die.

Phew.

However, someone did.

This is quite a start to an email.

Yeah.

Okay, so I'm at an airport in Tucson, Arizona, my hometown, but this isn't my hometown murder.

This older man approaches me while I'm waiting to board.

He asked me about my TSA pre-board status.

I don't know how he saw that, but I'm thinking, do you live under a rock?

So we converse.

I inform him that I have this elite boarding status because I haven't brought a bomb onto the airplane or murdered anyone.

I tell him he can get one for for just $80.

This will be funny later.

I ask him where he's traveling to, Santa Barbara.

Ooh, fancy, I respond.

I ask what he does for a living.

Mind you, I'm married and not interested, but my sister is single, a former sex worker with no prospects, and is looking for someone to take care of her.

So I'm trying to help.

Yes, get in there.

And he tells me he's a lawyer.

He proceeds to inform me that he went to school with King Charles and that Ralph Nader was his mentor.

I ask him how many cases he's won and he says, I've never lost a case.

I'm thinking this might be a good catch for my sister.

I get his number, text my sister for permission to share, and they eventually meet via text.

I love this.

This is so me.

I try to fucking set every person up, even though I'm not good at it.

Is anybody good at it?

No, it's not because it's not good.

Okay.

He tells her he was married, that he's a widower, has two children that he's so proud of, but he doesn't have much of a relationship, but doesn't elaborate on this.

They do the texting and talking for about a month until they finally agree to meet.

My sister lives in La Jolla.

He takes the train down from Santa Barbara and it's on.

She meets him at the station.

He wants a kiss and she reciprocates but feels a very negative vibe.

Yeah, immediate kiss is creepy.

Yeah.

They go on to have a meal together that he doesn't pay for.

And it says, really?

Yeah.

And they end the evening with him going to his hotel room and my sister going back to her apartment.

The next day, they enjoy La Jolla together and do La Jolla things.

It says sea lines and shopping, I'm assuming, and are starting to really enjoy the relationship they're forming.

But the evening ends with each in their own beds, much to his chagrin.

This happens to be his birthday weekend, and she had arranged cake and champagne and small gifts for the next day.

So they celebrate, but he has something he needs to tell her.

Apparently, he just got out of prison a year prior after serving 25 years for all caps, murdering his wife.

Oh, no.

They were going through a divorce and he was moving out of their house when he killed her.

He claimed she fell on the knives he was carrying out.

No, no, no, no, no.

They were all of the knives up position question mark.

And that it was also self-defense because she tried to kill him.

Um, question mark.

Their seven-year-old son heard his mother pleading for her life and his father responding, you should have thought about that before you decided to divorce me.

Oh, my God.

He, the son, testified to that, and that's what what got his father put away for 25 years to life.

He didn't get out until he served the entire 25 years, so he apparently was not a model inmate.

The fucked up part is that my sister was still willing to believe it was self-defense until I dug up this article and made her read it.

So she did and realized she had fallen for a murderous narcissist as desperate women sometimes do.

She eventually drove him back to the train station, pretending that all was well.

And when he boarded the train, she immediately blocked all his contact info.

I hope we can eventually laugh about this, but we're not there yet.

No.

SSDGM, cheers from the IE, Tanya.

She set her

the subject line is, I set my sister up with a murderer.

Yeah.

And also that, God, it's so hard.

I mean, I was going to say these days, but I think it just always is hard where it's like, you go through some shit in life, you finally meet somebody and you're like, oh, I think I'd kind of given up on this.

Now I'm meeting this person.

Wait, we're kind of clicking.

Wait, it's like the vibe is wrong, but wait, just give him another chance.

Like, yeah, it's like by the time she's like, hey, wait a sec.

Her sister's like, hey, hold on.

This is a mistake.

She's like, no, I got to fight for the man I love.

It's like, no, dude.

Yeah, maybe.

This connection's hard to find.

Oh my God.

It's just.

You're also never allowed to set anyone up ever again if that happens.

What women have to consider.

Truly.

Truly.

A man ever considered that on a date before.

Okay.

Maybe we'll change it up a little bit with this email.

Please.

This subject line reads, and I quote, don't read the subject line.

It'll give it away.

And then in parentheses, it says trash kid story.

All right.

So it just starts.

The year 1994.

We open on the interior of the Merritt Square Mall on the eastern coast of Florida.

The smells from Barney's coffee, Sparrow, and China Walk mingle in the air.

Oh, my God.

The mall in 94.

Powerful.

Powerful.

Take me back in Florida of all places.

Yeah, where the smells are going to hang in that air because the air is dense and thick.

Through a sea of acid-washed denim wearing teenagers, we see a Puerto Rican man in his mid-60s leading an adorable and clearly precocious child through the crowd by the hand.

A normal scene by all accounts until the duo walks past a store selling bespoke wooden toys of all kinds.

The child tugs away from the man, trying to enter this clearly magical store and bathe in the majesty of overpriced rocking horses.

But the man begins walking faster and pulls the child along, entering Burdines.

Have you heard of that?

I think it's a department store.

Yeah, sounds like it.

Burdines?

B-U-R-D-I-N-E-S.

The child begins to cry and scream, begging for his mother and to go home, drawing the attention of two old biddies who clearly sit next to each other under hair dryers on a weekly basis.

And then in parentheses, it says, love them.

Yes.

They follow the man and the child, eventually catching up to them and demanding that the man allow them to take the child back inside and find his mother, or they will call the police.

Oh, no, no, no, no, no.

This is my grandson.

We're late to pick up my wife from her hair appointment, so I wouldn't let him go into the toy store.

That's all in quotes.

The man pulls out a brown wallet, and a cascade of family photos descends towards the ground.

Remember those?

Oh my God.

Like the accordion photo holder.

Yes.

One picture clearly shows the man with a beautiful older woman and a much younger woman holding the child, clearly his mother.

Okay.

The women apologize profusely and begin cooing over how cute the child is.

Just look at those eyes and those chubby cheeks.

He's exactly the kind of kid they snatch.

And then it says in parentheses, actual quote.

The women turn and leave, and the man gets the child safely secured in the back seat of the white Ford Taurus before driving away.

And that's the story of how I almost got my grandfather arrested.

Stay sexy and maybe just let the kid ride the rocking horse for two minutes so you don't almost end up in prison.

JK, he him.

Oh my God.

I want my mommy.

I want to go home.

I want to go home.

You're not my daddy.

And it's like, yeah, because I'm the grandpa.

Yes, you're not my daddy.

I mean, good for those biddies, right?

Like, that's a hard thing.

You don't mind your business in a situation like that.

In 1994,

murderinos.

Oh,

they were like, no, you will not be going anywhere with children.

What I like to think of is those women followed cases like Adam Walsh, where they're like,

no one's getting taken out of a mall today.

No crying child on our watch.

Oh, my God.

They're like little tiny superheroes with shampoo sets.

Oh, my God.

I love them.

That's someone's grandma who listens, I bet.

I know.

JK, you're a hero for sending that in.

Basically, you're the trash kid you just told us about.

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I have a trash kid story too.

Okay, it's called I Convinced My Little Brother That My Mom Was a Murderer.

Hello to two of my favorite people and everyone on your team who helps make MFM happen.

I was a trash kid.

Overall, I was pretty good, but I loved to lie.

I was also an only child until I was seven and the first grandchild.

And I spent all day, every day at my grandma's house while my mom was at work.

So I was spoiled and not thrilled when my mom eventually had my two little brothers.

I fucking bet.

You got to have them early or they're going to resent them, you know?

You're just messing with a child's sense of reality where it's like, oh, guess what?

You're now the older, I would assume, sister.

Yeah, less important now they're either great at it or terrible at it right and you're not like grandma doesn't only give you that look now she gives it to these two losers who just got here like what they just showed up late at the party why are they getting the fucking best piece of cake okay to preface this story all of us have names that start with a Both of my brothers were picky eaters and dinner was a battle every day.

One day my mom was particularly frustrated that they would not eat their dinner.

When she left the room, I looked at the older older of my brothers, the youngest was a toddler at the time, and told him, you might want to eat that.

Andrew used to be a picky eater too.

He looked at me and says, who's Andrew?

To which I reply, he was our brother until he wouldn't eat his dinner one day and mom snapped and killed him.

Oh no.

Of course he didn't believe me.

So there was some back and forth over the next few minutes about the details, how old he was, why are there no pictures of him?

Why do we never talk about him?

All of which I was able to explain away while looking back and forth and whispering, because obviously I wouldn't want my mom to hear me revealing her deepest, darkest secret.

God.

When my mom came back into the kitchen, my brother immediately asked her who Andrew was.

Keep in mind, she was already irritated with us and was not in the mood to be asked stupid questions like, did you have a son named Andrew who you murdered because he wouldn't eat his dinner?

She exasperatedly said, what the fuck are you talking about?

And I replied, it's time to come clean, mom.

I told him everything.

Cut Cut to me now arguing with my mom about whether she killed her made-up son or not.

This exchange eventually ended with her giving up and saying, yeah, I guess I did.

Now please just eat your dinner.

I considered it a win.

Now that we are adults and I have a son of my own, I understand why she was, quote, crazy.

And I fully expect karmic retribution.

To this day, my mom gets mad.

My brother and I look at each other with horrified expressions and say, Andrew, which only infuriates her more.

Stay sexy and eat your vegetables, Ashley.

I'm cracking over to get to hilarious because that's so something my fucking brother would have done.

Yes.

But both my siblings would have done to me for sure.

Well, first of all, I love that Ashley admits she loved lying, which I think is a very human thing, but not many people can admit it.

But it is like, there is a thing to that where it's just like, watch what I'm going to conjure up out of nowhere.

Absolutely.

Look at the chaos I can make just by thinking of something and saying it out loud.

Yes.

And then convincing a child of it.

Hilarious.

And then the mom playing it, mom being so exhausted, she's like, yes.

Okay.

If that gets you to eat your fucking dinner, yes.

Fine.

Just eat your chicken pot pie, you fool.

Good God.

Okay.

The subject line of this email is my mom's old-timey shootout story.

And then it just starts.

Okay, so this is a crazy one.

I don't know if you have asked for this.

Shootout stories?

Does it matter?

I mean, it does not at this this point.

But I know you need it in your knowledge base.

I couldn't make this hillbilly shit up if I tried.

This is my mom's story.

She lived in Gary, Indiana until she was 12 when her dad purchased a large farm about an hour south to bring his family of 13 kids.

And then it says, yes, 13 in all caps.

Flash forward a few years to 1973.

It went down at my Uncle Mike's wedding reception on the farm.

After the ceremony, when the bride and groom have already left, but the party kept going, these random relatives of the bride started causing trouble.

They were taking booze, beer, etc., basically trying to hijack the whole damn party.

My grandmother let them know that they were welcome to party at the farm, but they couldn't take the party home.

And they called her a bitch.

And then it dot dot dot.

Oh, no, no, no.

In lowercase.

Oh, no, no, no.

My uncles and grandfather basically told these assholes to fuck right off and kick them out.

You can do that sort of thing when you have seven sons as backup.

Yeah.

They left, but they weren't done.

Oh, no.

We're getting into it.

Later, someone called the house with a warning.

And then it says, quotes, there are people parking vans at the grain elevator down the road and they're all getting out with weapons headed for your house.

Oh, shit.

End quote.

These assholes had parked away from the house so they wouldn't be seen, then started walking up to the property.

They actually started all caps shooting at the house.

What the fuck?

My family called the cops while my uncles caught a few of them and kicked their asses.

The police finally arrived and took them all away.

But of course, in the small town world of good old boys, the cops just took them into town and told them to go home.

So of course, all caps, they came back.

Oh my God.

Later that same day, they returned with more guns and started driving through the yard, shooting at the house and tossing Molotov cocktails.

What the fuck?

These are your in-laws.

This is your new family.

There's like people in there, children.

It's a wedding.

What are you?

It's a wedding celebration.

What level of alcoholism is this?

Moonshine.

You know it's moonshine.

It's moonshine.

It's fucking hooting, Annie.

One dumbass even accidentally shot his own truck in the process.

The state police finally showed up the next day.

My grandpa was so furious, he told them, if those motherfuckers show up again, I'm getting my backhoe and they'll all disappear.

disappear

so it's a more yeah yeah the cop was like sir you can't do that but grandpa was a badass steel worker who had zero fucks left to give

then people started calling to warn my family that those psychos were planning to come back and burn the house down while everyone was sleeping so about 32 hours this is epic yeah about 32 hours after the initial incident my mom and family had eight people at the house all armed and waiting.

This reminds me of the second season of Fargo.

Totally.

Totally.

Jean Smart is running that mafia family.

Yes.

My mom gathered all the little kids and hid them in the staircase, the most internal place in the house.

I guess like under the staircase.

Cellar, maybe, yeah.

She figured someone would have to shoot through multiple walls to get to them there.

Yep, my sweet mom in an actual fucking shootout.

And then parentheses, it says, side note, could nobody get rid of the kids in 32 hours?

I mean, I know childcare is rough, but damn.

And then it says, thankfully the attackers never showed up again.

Stay sexy and just skip the 1970s farmhouse wedding reception.

Love you, ladies, and the whole MFM crew.

JCB.

Couldn't the bride like just put a word out to her family?

Like, yo.

Hi, can I talk to my mother-in-law for a second?

Can calm our heads prevail here?

This seems a little wild.

Oh my God.

Isn't that nuts?

That's fucking nuts.

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Hey, Oakland, California.

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Good.

Bye-bye.

Okay, my last one is a hero trash cat.

Nice.

Maybe I only picked it because the cat's name is Moses, which is my cat's name.

Oh, yeah.

My Moe, but no, it's a good one.

Hi, love.

I would like to tell you about my wonderful trash cat who became our family's hero, Moses.

I grew up with Moses the cat as my little brother.

And when I say he was my brother, he really did cause mayhem like he was a younger sibling.

And that's my mo.

And then he does this.

He started out as an indoor cat, but Moses had other plans.

Mo does this all the time.

He would regularly run full speed at the fly screen door and launch onto them, clinging with every last fiber of his being, and then proceed to scream.

Yeah, he fucking does that.

Because he wants out so bad.

Yeah.

So my mom gave in and let him become free.

Once he gained his freedom, he was prone to stealing the neighbors' underwear from their washing lines, making his way up the most fragile trees, which he could not get down from, and screaming for us to help him and bringing live whip snakes to our front door.

Oh,

FYI whipsnakes are known to be extremely dangerous to children and our family had three of those.

He really was a menace.

But one night he gained hero title.

This is a story from my mom's perspective.

As she slept soundly, she suddenly woke up to Moses absolutely howling at 3 a.m.

She went out to see what the issue was and noticed a bright red glow coming from the lounge room.

As she looked out the window, she saw that the fence just a foot away from our house was completely on fire.

Moses was sitting inside, looking out through the window and loudly crying.

She called the fire brigade and the fence was put out, but the firefighters said that if they had waited 10 more minutes, both our house and the neighbor's house would have been set ablaze.

Even worse, we had just taken out our batteries from our smoke detectors due to how often we burnt food.

No, no, no.

Don't fucking do that.

Don't just deal with the fucking, get a fan.

Get a fan.

It is the great solution though where it's like i'm burning food all the time but let's just not deal with that you know what the solution is not to learn how to cook and not to get a fan no so like if he hadn't been their fire alarm they wouldn't have had one yes period yeah

we'll never know how many lives moses saved that night but after that we let him do whatever he wanted yes whip snakes for everyone that's right moses sadly passed away last year but it hasn't really sunk in that he's gone because he was outside so often So I like to think that he's still wandering around, catching snakes and stealing bras.

He is.

He is.

It's in our hearts.

Yes.

Oh my God.

Thank you for being incredible people.

16-year-old me, thanks you for getting me through difficult school years.

Oh my gosh.

Love your work, Sophie from Australia.

Oh,

Australia.

Australia.

Thank you.

And thanks, Moses.

Good boy.

Very good boy.

Oh, my God.

Moses is a legend.

Yeah.

Globally.

Global legend.

A global legend, not a local hero.

Okay, well, this perfect setup because I have a dog story, a trash dog story, I believe.

Great.

The subject line is always trust your dog's intuition.

It says, hello, friends.

Let's do this email thing.

When I was about 21, I was visiting my parents and brought my dog along with me.

Peanut.

I don't know why, but the name Peanut for a dog makes me laugh so hard every time.

It's cute.

Peanut was a crusty white dog who loved to eat trash and pee in the house, but she loved me more than anything, and I couldn't have asked for a better friend.

As I was leaving, my dad and a neighbor were hanging out in the garage.

Peanut was on her leash, walking out with me, but immediately started growling at the neighbor.

Let's call him Kay.

Kay was in his 40s and one of those guys who still acted like some sort of D-bag college dude.

Kay started taunting Peanut.

He pretended to charge after me and grabbed my arm and started to shake me.

He was laughing and thought it was funny that Peanut was growling and barking at him until Peanut attacked his leg to protect me.

Hell yeah.

Peanut got a couple good bites in before I pulled her away.

She had never bitten anyone before, so I was shocked.

But let's be real, this was Kay's fault for taunting a growling dog.

So I fucked politeness and didn't apologize.

Good.

I continued on my way, picked up Peanut, and left.

My mom called me after I left, saying that I should come back and apologize to Kay.

Kay's leg is covered in tattoos, and peanuts bite, cut through his skin, and he is very upset about it because, once healed, his quote, tattoos would be ruined.

Okay, don't ask.

Nobody gives a shit.

Please.

It says, blah, blah, blah.

I did not go back to apologize, and I told my mom maybe he should learn how to behave around animals.

And then it just says, well, well, well.

Fast forward a few months.

And Kay had been arrested for child molestation.

I don't know the whole story, but multiple 12- and 13-year-old girls had come forward saying that Kay had been sexually abusing them.

I don't know who these girls are or how he knew them, but he ended up going to jail.

Holy shit, Peanut.

When I found out, I made sure to give Peanut extra treats and belly rubs, and I probably let her get into the trash for an extra three seconds before taking it away.

I lost Peanut last year.

She was 16 years old.

She was my absolute best friend from the moment she came into my life as a puppy when I was 13, and she never left my side.

Stay sexy and let your dog bite the pedophile's leg tattoo.

Danielle.

That's right.

Oh my God.

That's amazing.

The dogs have better instinct than we do.

Like, yes, they do.

We just need to trust that and not apologize for that.

Right.

Well, and also any normal person,

like the idea that a dog's growling at you.

So you're going to just bait the dog.

Totally.

There's only one way that goes.

Yeah.

And there's only one kind of person who does that.

Yeah.

And they deserve to get bit.

Yeah.

On tattoo.

Yeah, wow, that was a great one, a great batch.

Thank you guys for sending those in.

Please send more in.

Any kind you want, any kind of trash story of any kind we want to hear.

Of course, hero dog stories, of course, hero cat stories.

Yeah, hero cockatoo, whatever you want, hero grandma, hero grandpa.

We love it all.

Yeah, stay sexy and don't get murdered.

Goodbye,

Elvis.

Do you want a cookie?

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Our senior producers are Alejandra Keck and Molly Smith.

Our editor is Aristotle Aceveda.

This episode was mixed by Liana Spolachi.

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Goodbye.

Bye-bye.

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