MFM Minisode 454

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Goodbye.

Hello, and welcome to my favorite murder.

The mini-sowed.

We read you your stories.

Are you ready?

Begin.

Should I go first?

Sure.

This is called Rural Wisconsin Shenanigans, Alcoholism, and a Fire.

Perfect.

Pleasantries, Pleasantries.

I love MFM and listening to your banter.

Thank you for being a part of my life for the past eight years.

Let's dive in because it's long but worth it.

My family is very Wisconsin, like very Wisconsin, where beer runs in our veins, our favorite hobby is fishing, and our kids grow up next to hunting rifles.

I heard the story after a couple of heavily poured margaritas at a family gathering.

My grandfather, who I nicknamed Bapa when I was little, began the story by explaining the morning ritual, a shot of Jaegermeister.

Oh, wow.

What a start.

The harsh shots were taken at dawn in a forgotten cabin on a rough road before Bapa, his 13-year-old son, aka my uncle Gary.

My great uncle Bobby, Charlie, and my cousin Parker set off with loaded rifles into the forest.

What they were hunting has been lost to history.

Sorry.

They were doing Jaeger shots before they go hunting.

Uh-huh.

That's serious.

Ugh.

Yeah, I mean, what a start.

It's like swallowing your toothpaste spit and then going to kill animals.

Yeah.

Look, no judgments.

Little judgments.

A lot of people like it, but that's what we're here for.

It's not for me.

At this point, in telling a story, my papa needed a margarita refill.

So my now-adult Uncle Gary took over.

Uncle Gary explained that the day ended with the adults handing his 13 year old self a six pack of beer and telling him to entertain himself and his cousin on the porch.

A six pack to a 13 year old

with a new it's a good way to babysit kids.

Yeah, right.

Like go be

drunk on the porch.

With an incredulous laugh, my adult Uncle Gary continued to say that they finished the six pack, but the sun hadn't set yet.

So he stumbled into the wooden structure to ask what to do next.

Like an old 80s cliche, he was handed another six pack and told to return when he finished it.

Oh, shit.

It's unclear the amount of the next pack that he drank, but he remembers suddenly being inside the cabin and hearing a dreamy knock on the front door.

Neighbors, my uncle Gary boozily opened the door to find a middle-aged man sweating and frantically waving his hands.

The man at the door stated that his house was across the street and on fire.

With no thoughts in his brain, my uncle blinked and then closed the door on the poor, panicked man.

The shit-faced 13-year-old answers the door.

Take care of it yourself.

Can't.

The man continued to knock intensely on the door until one of the now-plastered adults finally noticed the disturbance.

Uncle Bobby and Charlie heard that the house across the street was on fire and filled by alcohol, ran into the burning building to check for animals and turn off the gas line.

I'm sorry, check for animals on the weekend where they go to kill animals?

Yeah, pets are different, don't you know?

Vicious.

Vicious.

True.

We don't want any animals today.

Wait, what have you been doing all day?

In real time, at the margarita bar, my uncle Gary turns to my bapa, who sheepishly returned to the conversation, refill, drink in hand.

My bapa sighs, but continues telling the increasingly ridiculous story.

My theater-inclined bapa grabbed the neighbor by the shoulders and began to sing the first song that popped into his head at the time.

This little light of mine, I'm gonna let it shine.

So show-faced.

I mean.

Imagine a strong tenor voice carrying across the street, staring at a burning house while praising the light.

A roaring siren interrupts the poorly chosen ballad as the fire truck appears down the road, but stops short.

That's when everyone realizes something is blocking the road.

My 13-year-old Uncle Gary was lying drunkenly passed out in front of the fire truck.

Jesus Christ.

He doesn't know how he got there or anything else about that night, but he was moved, the house was put out, and no one got tickets.

or killed.

Or CPS called on them.

Right.

Somehow, all family members involved turn out to be okay human beings and productive members of society.

I love them all to death and will never trade their recklessness for anything.

Wisconsin may be rough and tough, but the beauty of Wisconsin's nature is unparalleled.

Bring a gun into it.

I mean, stay sexy and don't give your 13-year-old a couple of six-packs.

See.

I mean, it is true that like if you're going away for a hunting weekend and that's what you're doing and you're in nature, There's a safety to it.

You're just kind of out and about, but intense.

Yeah.

Well, this is a bit of a left turn because this is more serious.

The subject line of this email is sorority stalker.

It says, hi, Karen in Georgia and pets.

I spent my freshman and sophomore years of college at a state university in upstate New York.

I thought my whole life I was already living in upstate New York.

Apparently living two hours north of NYC does not count as upstate.

I would have thought it better.

But then I found myself an hour away from the Canadian border in a small college town that perpetually smelled of cow shit.

Oh, dear.

That's how I grew up.

Anyway, Greek life life was a huge part of the culture there, so practically everyone was either in a frat or a sorority or knew someone who was.

Being such a small school, word started to travel fast my sophomore year that there was an anonymous stalker on campus who was terrorizing one group of sorority girls in particular.

About a dozen girls in the Sigma Kappa sorority had been receiving ominous warnings and threatening text messages from an unknown number saying things like, It's not safe out there tonight, Kappas,

and I'm not the threat, but harm is coming.

At one point, he even texted one of the girls saying, I'm in the house.

Oh my God.

Yeah.

At the time, no one could figure out who this person was or how they had found the girls' numbers, but it was pretty apparent that the anonymous texter somehow knew the sorority's social calendar as well.

At one point, Signa Kappa had planned a wedding with their brother Frat, which as far as I can remember, was just a party where the girls wore all white and got fake married to a guy from the brother Frat.

Before the wedding, one of the girls got a message from the anonymous number saying, I'm excited for the wedding.

Hope you don't wear anything that can stain.

Please don't cancel again.

I want to have fun this time.

Creepy.

So creepy.

Later, he went on to say that he wanted to cause as much harm as possible, even if that resulted in death.

Oh, my God.

And that he was willing to die by the police.

Needless to say, everyone on campus was pretty freaked out by this point.

Parties were canceled.

Vague emails from the university administration were sent to to students to alert them to a possible threat, and the university police got involved.

They tried to trace the number but found it was actually registered to a fake number generator online.

Some students tried calling it and eventually one person got through but whoever picked up on the other line was using a voice changing app so they couldn't tell if the voice was someone they knew or not.

From what a news article says, the conversation was pretty bizarre.

with the anonymous creep saying that he knew he was unstable, his parents were divorced, and that he was also on Xanax.

I remember some of my roommates, sorority sisters, trying to add the number on Snapchat to see if the person had their snap location on.

I don't remember if that worked, but my guess was it didn't because the harassment stayed anonymous and it also got worse.

Jesus.

Pretty soon after the text started, some of the girls started receiving random phone calls from around five dozen men who were trying to solicit them for sex.

Oh no.

Turns out the anonymous texter had posted their phone numbers to a website advertising for sex workers.

After a while, the harassment started to narrow down to one sorority girl in particular.

She received an anonymous package in the mail containing a book entitled, I'm Watching You.

And she even started to receive drugs like cocaine and meth in the mail, which the anonymous stalker notified the school about in an email in an attempt to get her arrested.

Holy shit.

The crazy part is at that time I was working in the university mailroom and I didn't even know that.

I vaguely remember the other student workers around that time talking about the police coming in to confiscate someone's package because it had drugs in it, but I had just assumed some dumbass had mailed themselves weed or something like that.

Our boss, who was not a student, had a habit of smelling suspicious packages and then calling the police if it smelled even vaguely like weed.

She was lame as hell.

Long story short, the FBI got involved and tracked the creep to Long Island.

He ended up being one of the girls' controlling ex-boyfriends who just could not get over the breakup and obviously had some serious mental health issues.

When they arrested him, they also found an AR-15 semi-automatic rifle, which he owned legally, of course.

It actually was really terrifying to think about what this guy might have been capable of if he wasn't caught in time.

And all I can say is, I'm glad I transferred shortly after that, not only because that school was the target of a crazy stalker potential murderer, but as it turns out, it was also absolutely chock full of asbestos, too.

Holy shit.

Stay sexy and don't terrorize an entire group of people just because you can't handle rejection, Abby.

Oh my gosh.

And then Abby left a note.

The story got picked up by page six.

It was so bad.

That is, before it got like really kind of personal, I thought it was just going to be one of the girl, other girls in the sorority.

You know what I mean?

Just like sending threatening texts.

Just like being an asshole to somebody.

Yeah.

But that is fucking scary.

It's also like

to do it to an entire sorority is so Ted Bundy coded, if I may use that language.

It's like if I'm against one woman, I'm against all women.

Yeah.

Kind of a thing.

Yeah.

It's fucked up.

So fucked up.

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Goodbye.

This one's called Trash Mom question Mark.

Hi all, can't think of anything witty, so I'll just jump in.

Back when I was seven or eight, so 94 or 95, I had been out all day with my mom, and on the way home, we stopped at the Safeway to grab me a lunchable and snacks.

I had a field trip the the next day and we had to bring our own bag lunch.

Fuck yeah, lunchables.

Lunchables were banned at my sister's school because there's not one ounce of protein or vitamins or anything in them.

They're like, it's literally like just eating something bad.

Yeah, I love it on a road trip.

We shopped and checked out, but on our return to the car, my mother realized that she had locked the keys inside in the ignition.

Oh.

Remember when you used to, I did that before for sure.

This was before cell phones were a big thing, so she summoned help from people in the parking lot.

Hey, everyone, gather around.

Gather around.

I really need you.

Help me.

They tried to jimmy the door, but were unsuccessful.

So what did my mom do?

Send me with the courtesy driver that was outside of the store asking people if they needed rides.

Was that a thing?

I mean, I think that sounds like a stranger.

offering people rides.

A weird stranger in a car who's like, I'll be a courtesy driver at the grocery store.

What is a courtesy driver?

Is that like a small town thing maybe?

It must be.

Like older people that might need

if they can't drive.

Yeah.

says that's right.

She sent me with a stranger to go home and get her spare keys from my grandmother, Peggy.

Thank you.

Peggy.

Luckily, I'm able to tell this story, so I didn't get kidnapped or murdered.

But how crazy is that?

I don't understand why we both didn't ride with him.

Yes.

Since I had to bring the key back, maybe she thought someone would break in and steal the car since the keys were in there.

But better your daughter than the car.

I mean, I don't know how you deal with that.

The thinking.

And this person's seven or eight years old, by the way.

This isn't a teenager.

It's such a trader.

Yeah.

Wow.

Who knows?

Stay sexy and don't send your daughter with a strange man.

Basic parenting.

101.

Jay, she, her.

There's so many layers.

It's so many layers of questions.

Yeah.

But most importantly, what the hell is a courtesy driver?

And do you have stories about that as well?

I think the older person thing sounds right.

Yeah.

Or like people who got drunk at the Safeway Safeway and need like a designated driver.

There's all these people who just go to the liquor aisle and just start cracking beers.

Also, you know, there's that like thought puzzle of there's a guy and he's got a fox and a chicken and a bag of grain and he has to get them all across the river on his raft.

And how do you do it so that the fox doesn't eat the chicken and the chicken doesn't eat the grain?

Combinations.

That's like that with this seven, a seven-year-old and a courtesy driver and a mom and some keys.

And a keys and the ignition.

Don't eat those keys.

The subject line of this email is, My Grandma Faked Her Death, Hometown.

What?

And then it starts, okay, so maybe she didn't create some elaborate scheme for insurance fraud, but she definitely faked her death, and it's my favorite story.

My Abulita Frances was born in 1929 and grew up in rural northern Colorado.

When she was about 12 years old, she used to get picked on by a group of older girls while walking home from school.

These girls would call her names, kick her shins, pull her hair, push her, tease her, etc.

They were always really mean to her.

One day, my Abulita decided she'd had enough.

After school one afternoon, she ran ahead of everyone and laid down in a ditch and waited.

She took her braids out and messed up her hair.

She even went as far as to pick the scabs on her shins

and smeared the blood all over her arms and legs.

Gross, but smart for a 12-year-old.

What?

She closed her eyes and lay in wait as she waited for the mean girls to walk past the shallow ditch, knowing that she would be within eyesight of the girls.

Sure enough, the group of girls walked by and saw her quote-unquote lifeless body.

They screamed and panicked until my Abelita sat up laughing at them hysterically.

Those girls never bothered her again.

Yeah, my God.

She's capable of anything.

My Abelita always said they probably thought she was crazy after that, but she didn't care because they stopped picking on her.

Yeah.

I have plenty of other grandma stories from her, but this one is my favorite.

She was my best friend and I miss her dearly.

She was never afraid to speak what was on her mind and she was definitely down for a prank or two.

She was feisty but kind.

My favorite person.

Thanks for the best podcast ever and for being wonderful humans.

Stay sexy and don't pick your scabs.

You might need them to fake your own death.

Rachel.

Oh my God.

I can like feel that for some reason.

Like the scab picky things.

Yes.

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unhinged team building questions

Hey, hello, and hi.

Like the good lesbian I am, I've spent most of my life playing and coaching softball.

Nice.

Yeah, getting a group of 18-year-old girls to work together on and off the field has always been a challenge, but post-COVID, rough.

It felt like they had completely forgotten how to connect with each other, even on a surface level.

So I started doing a question of the day during stretch circles in practice.

It began innocently enough.

What's your dream vacation spot?

If you could have any superpower, what would it be?

You're on a road trip and stop at a gas station.

What are you grabbing?

But after a month of this, my inner murderino slash unhinged self took the wheel and that's when things got fun.

Some favorites.

What's your personal version of hell?

Top answers included having to turn around and hide five people after bowling.

Like new fear unlock.

I get it.

Do you know that the first time I went bowling, I was very stoned?

I went to walk.

Did you bowl as a kid?

No.

The first time you went bowling, you were old enough to be stoned?

Yeah, I was in college.

I don't know why.

I'm like floored by that.

Yeah, we never did it.

And we had a wonderful bowling alley, but we just never did it.

There's a lot of activities I did a lot of as a kid because my parents were divorced.

So my dad had to find things to do with us on the DC.

Oh.

so bowling was one of them.

Bowling and miniature golf, I did a lot of.

Yeah.

Point being just that when I went to stand up to go bowl,

it looked like there was like a spotlight because you know how it's like all dark here and then there's light up there.

Oh my god.

And then, and I didn't know how to do it.

So I was like, I can't do it.

And my friends were like, shut up, Karen.

It's like, like center stage.

You clearly have no problem with showing off and being in the spotlight.

But it like all became too much pressure and like so crazy.

It was hilariously weird.

I can't.

I just, I'm, that's

delayed bowling experience.

And then, and being stuck on a never-ending Zoom call where no one hangs up and you're forced to small talk until the end of time.

Yeah, that is absolutely chilling.

So true.

But my all-time favorite was this question.

Hypothetically, if you became a serial killer and ended up with a documentary about your life, what's the one thing you did as a kid that your family would say was the first sign?

My answer, when I was five years old, I stripped my cat's tail with wire strippers.

What the actual fuck?

My dad worked for Kenwood at the time and these were very common around the house.

I swear I'm okay and so was the cat.

Yeah.

One of my players said she used to collect roly-polies, build them little families and keep them as friends.

She would bring them to bed, name them, feed them the whole nine yards.

So gross.

The first sign that something's not right.

These daily questions became something we all looked forward to, and it helped those girls bond in the weirdest, most beautiful way.

Some of them are still close friends to this day.

My wife and I are beyond excited to see you in seattle for both shows yay thank you thank you that's nice that is nice they're going to be different stories i swear if you hadn't had one already you have to try a seattle dog while you visit a delicious blend of cream cheese onions and hot dog

don't knock it until you try it blend so are they saying it's the hot dog itself is blended up no it can't be no no like chopped chopped chopped chopp chopped hot dogs

like creamed with cream cheese so it's like salad cream cheese it's like a hot dog salad like a ham salad i need a picture of this s s d g manda amanda amazing job and also i think when you're little sometimes you like i remember i got a kitten and i washed it because i like gave it a bath yeah washed it and it freaked out, hated it.

And then the next day it ran away and it was really little.

And I felt guilty about it for years and years.

And then it was just like, yeah, you were just trying to get, it had fleas on it.

Like you were just trying to,

but

that's how you learn to treat animals nicely is you see the results of what you do.

Whiskers, I covered whiskers in berettes once.

My childhood cat.

My mom says, she remembers standing in the kitchen and seeing whiskers run by covered in berettes.

This is how we know.

Okay.

My last email is, I married an urban legend.

Okay.

So it says, hello, my favorite ladies.

I was a kid growing up in the 80s in Connecticut.

My three siblings and I had the kind of childhood that was of 80s legend, riding bikes until dark, roller skating around the cul-de-sac, catching snapping turtles in the local pond,

and running around past sunset with no supervision.

You know, classic 80s chaos.

As a kid, I always remembered my mom telling us a story of her high school friend's son, who was my age.

One day, he was jumping from bed to bed, and he fell and landed on a pair of scissors, which punctured his lung and nicked his heart.

This accident nearly killed him, but thankfully he recovered after months in the hospital.

My mom used this tale as a constant warning.

Don't jump on the bed, don't leave scissors out.

Even our babysitter told the same story to other kids.

It was practically a local folktale.

Cut to 15 years later.

I had moved from Connecticut to Oregon and I was working as a barista while attending community college and generally trying to figure my life out.

That's literally what figuring your life out in the 20s looks like.

Yeah, I've seen it.

I started working with an amazing woman and we instantly connected.

We became fast friends and she introduced me to her family who made me feel like I was back home.

They were warm and loud and wonderful.

We quickly found out why we were so connected.

My mom and her mom grew up together in Connecticut.

Holy shit.

They even double dated at senior prom when my mom was dating my dad.

Wow.

Crazy.

Yeah.

After high school, her mom moved to California and eventually Oregon, which brings us to when I met them.

After about a year of meeting her and her family, I met her brother.

He had recently moved home after serving as a Marine.

At first, we were both dating other people, but there was something between us.

Our paths kept crossing, and eventually we started seeing each other.

There was something about this guy.

He was kind, generous, and funny as hell.

One day, we were lying around swapping childhood stories, and he started telling me about this accident he had when he was a kid.

He and his sisters were playing carnival and were cutting up tickets.

They had left a pair of those huge steel scissors on his bed.

Later, he was jumping from bed to bed and he fell.

And then this is written as him talking.

They punctured my lung and nicked my heart, he said casually.

Wait, what?

He lifted his shirt and showed me the two scars.

After the accident, he somehow managed to walk into the kitchen, looked at his mom, and said, Hey, mom, before collapsing.

His mom threw him and his sisters into the station wagon and hauled ass to the hospital.

He arrived near death and spent six months in the ICU.

Oh my God.

We were were dating for a little over a year before I brought him back home to Connecticut to meet my family.

I told my siblings the story of the scissors and my brother exclaimed, you're dating an urban legend.

We've been together 25 years.

Oh my God.

Have two amazing daughters and we're celebrating our 20th wedding anniversary this month.

Says, I love you, Billy Brown.

Oh my god.

That's why she wrote it in.

It's their 20th anniversary.

I love you, Billy Brown, and I'm so glad you survived your injuries 40 something years ago.

Stay sexy and don't let your kids play with scissors.

LB.

And it says, P.S.

I grew up going to Action Park every summer and definitely have a few more near-death experiences to share.

Stay tuned.

Oh my God.

Yes, LB.

So cute.

Oh, I love you, Billy Brown.

I love you, Billy Brown.

That's the cutest thing of all time.

Tell us your urban legend town stories, but also I think it's really important.

My favorite murderer at Gmail, tell us the one thing that you did as a kid that they would say is the first sign something is wrong with you yes and also it should probably be something you still feel bad about to this day which is the proof that you're not a serial killer feel bad about or embarrassed about i like embarrassed we're like wow who was that or hey tell us the story about your kid and what they do too yeah my favorite murder at gmail narco and your children here on this podcast it could be anonymous it's fine that's true was that it that's it i think that was fast yeah well you know we've got all kinds of categories for you to write write in and tell us your personal stories.

Yes, please do.

We appreciate it so much.

And, you know, if you just love Billy Brown and you want to write in about it, we'd love to hear about that too.

Sure, why not?

Stay sexy.

And don't get murdered.

Goodbye.

Elvis, do you want a cookie?

This has been an exactly right production.

Our senior producers are Alejandra Keck and Molly Smith.

Our editor is Aristotle Aceveda.

This episode was mixed by Liana Spolachi.

Email your hometowns to myfavoritemurder at gmail.com.

And follow the show on Instagram at MyFavoriteMurder.

Listen to MyFavorite Murder on the iHeartRadio app, Apple Podcasts, or wherever you get your podcasts.

And now you can watch us on Exactly Right's YouTube page.

And while you're there, please like and subscribe.

Goodbye.

Bye-bye.

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Compalo en shock pundo callgate pundo com yagonal todo and be dentist ready.