Solve This Murder

Murder mystery about an unsolved crime

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  • Part 16: Prequel to the main event

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    Jamz was a sociopath. He particularly hated women, but disliked everyone. He took a lot of recreational drugs to give him confidence and to provide a veneer of normality when he socialised. Nevertheless he was still awkward and disliked. He kept an eye on women whom he hated, or found attractive. Some of his victims were picked because he fancied them a bit.
    He was a careful planner. He would plan for weeks, months even before a “case”. 
    His victims were selected according to the universally used criteria. They had to have no family or good friends, no one who would interfere, ask questions, or demand answers afterwards.
    On the notes passed around it always said that the victims had to be people whom no one would miss. He personally chose socially awkward women. Misfits. He particularly hated non binary women, so he chose them as victims so that he could enjoy his job. 
    He had improved the equipment that they used. He was autistic and had a fixation on musical instruments so was able to fine tune the traditional equipment used. He had made it hurt more and do more damage. 
    The female whom he had picked was a perfect choice. The handlers whom he had sold her to often posed for photos with the victim, grinning ghoulishly. Dark eyes giving away their ill intent and hatred of the victim. Often their smiles were smug, like they were posing with a trophy.
    They bought a house with the proceeds with enough for holidays and a nice standard of living. The victim died slumped in a pool of her own bloody vomit from the internal head injuries. Anything that she had wanted to do with her life was unceremoniously dumped in the bin with all her belongings.
    A year after that murder, in a moment of drug fueled confidence Jamz threw another victim to a different gang member. He grew to regret that rash decision more than anything else in his small pointless life.

  • Part 15: Rules of the game

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    The equipment came with rules. The way that it worked was that the victim was either drugged or plied with enough alcohol to render them unconscious. The equipment was then put in their body. It was usually a combination of parts of a mobile phone in a surgical bag, parts from EarPods, parts from cochlear ear plants, and then various other small bits of tech and equipment to do the required job. It would be concealed within small cavities within the body so that it would be largely over looked on scans. Everything either went in through the mouth, nose or nether regions. 
    There are a few variants of the con. One is with an aim to sell an identity on the black market with a serious medical diagnosis attached. This is so that the Identity can be used in multiple locations to claim two fold benefits (carers benefit, and disability benefits for the victims ID). There are two main ways to carry out this con. One is to surreptitiously use the equipment so that the victim is unaware that their illness is unnaturally caused. These victims are usually murdered shortly after the diagnosis. Its cruel and annihilating. The crew assigned to the victim will often have to intervene and meddle in the victims life to keep their murder on track. Often a few crew members will insert themselves into the victims life, posing as friends. Smiling and duplicitously accompanying the victim on their illnesses journey. All the while carefully and coldly making sure that their payday is on track. They will sell the ID with the medical diagnosis for around 300 – 500 thousand pounds. 
    There is a variant of it where they keep the victim alive and in place within a property and assign a handler to the victim to manage their benefits and outside contact. They then can use the home for other criminal purposes. 
    They can also sell the property with the victims identity attached. The victim can be murdered in their home and gang members can be assigned roles within the property to pretend to be the victim and a carer for the victim.
    There is no consent given so every aspect of this crime is rape, assault, medical rape, torture, and murder.

    Another con using the equipment is extortion. The victim is made aware that they are being tortured by a gang. They never meet the gang or see who they are but they are approached by one gang member who sympathetically advises that if they pay a set amount of money every week then they will not be tortured or brain damaged. Family members can also be approached and extorted from. 

    There are also victims that they keep going, just surviving. They sell torture slots on the black market so that people can remotely torture the victim. It is mostly women that are in charge of these cases. The women really enjoy their work and are very sadistic. Most of these victims commit suicide to escape the pain and horror of the torture.  They say that its a “careful balance” to keep them alive long enough to get sufficient dividends but to keep them tortured enough to stop them from doing anything other than surviving. 

  • Part 14: A Tale of Two Dogs

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    A Puppy Named Snoopy

    1977

    I was 6 years old. My granddad had a dog named Sooty who was his pride and joy.
    Sooty ran off one day and returned home pregnant, and she later had three pups, Teddy, Sue and Snoopy. Teddy and Sue were homed as soon as they were old enough but Snoopy remained with Sooty. They were inseparable. 
    Snoopy was to be my first dog. He was a mixed breed Labrador/collie cross, and he was pure exuberance and joy, his mum loved him, as did I.  

    My Dad and my grandfather were both car mechanics and during the week I would spend my days at their workshop. They repaired customers cars and I played beside the workshop on the undeveloped abandoned land. The workshop was in an old world war 2 air raid shelter. There was a huge sand pit beside it and I would dig in it and find all sorts of lost 1940’s items. I found a silver cigarette case, elegant gloves, a tattered purse and spectacles. 
    I would spend hours exploring the area with the dogs. I would also read stories to the dogs and they would sit there watching attentively. Snoopy and I were beginning to bond, he would wag his tail enthusiastically when I spoke to him and would be genuinely excited when we went on adventures. Both him and his mum were my daily companions on my childhood explorations. 

    To the side of the undeveloped area was a screen of trees that skirted along side a housing estate, part of it ran beside an area of fields inhabited by gypsies. The dogs would often run in and out of the trees, playing.
    One day when I wasn’t there both dogs disappeared into the trees and didn’t come back. A day later Sooty came back in distress, with some minor injuries, but no Snoopy. I went out looking for him with my dad and granddad who was very visibly upset but trying his best to hold it together for me.
    After the first day they assumed that Snoopy was dead.
    On the third day my dad found Snoopy.
    He had been killed by gypsies. When they kill dogs they put a lead on them and pull them up onto their hind feet so that they slowly hang as they become exhausted. They did this to my beautiful little puppy, full of joy and life. I struggled to comprehend the level of depravity and wilful evil involved in that vile and cruel act. I wanted to understand why anyone would do that to a puppy dog. There were no good answers. 
    Gypsies it turned out were not just a network of organised criminal gangs they were also completely devoid of humanity. 

    A Dog Named ‘It‘

    2017 – A Cul de Sac in Torquay

    I was returning home from an appointment and a large pale brown Labrador dog walked up to me. She looked up with pleading eyes, she was in distress but had no visible injuries. She stared intensely like she was willing me to understand.
    I had recognised that she was being hurt, she understood that and pleaded silently for me to help. She perked up briefly, hope shone in her eyes. I thought that maybe she had puppies that were somewhere and I said out loud “what’s wrong girl?” and I gestured around hoping that she’d lead me to whatever was the cause of her upset. She then visibly slumped. her head drooped down, like she had given up on everything. Of ever being rescued from whatever it was that tormented her. She turned away with one last despairing pleading look and walked away.
     
    I saw two people further up the path. I knew their names as I had heard people refer to them. Shirley and Mary. I asked them if they knew whose dog that was. The one named Shirley exclaimed in a cackling voice “ignore that thing, that’s what we call it!” She then cackled like a Halloween witch with lung cancer. I looked at them suspiciously, narrowing my eyes in my best ‘if you’ve done anything to that dog ladies I will do worse to you’ expression. They looked away and shuffled off like ghouls. 
    I didn’t know at the time, but what they had done is the modern day equivalent to the slow torturous hanging. The female dog died horrifically, and was tortured in a way that is worse than anything that could be described adequately enough to get across how horrific a torture was inflicted upon that innocent animal.

    They coincidently were gypsies who had cuckooed houses in that cul de sac. The occupants were dead, and after eradicating all evidence of the previous occupants lives they had slowly tortured their pets.
    I wish I had of known what I know now. I would have beaten the truth out of those two vile, cretinous, and cowardly women. I could have saved myself and the dog. 

  • Part 13: The Perfect Crime

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    They both looked alike, Imogen and Sam, but because they hid their genetic connection they just looked like two people who happened to look similar. If you paid attention then it was more noticeable. He died his hair black, she remained ginger. Despite not looking traditionally gypsy, both were gypsy through and through. Both never washed, and he had that self defeating malice for anyone decent.
    They inserted themselves into the peripheral of the alternative scene in the city, where they could prey upon the lost and vulnerable. 
    Sam was inwardly much more deranged than he outwardly appeared. His entire family suffered from schizophrenia and none sought help, therapy or medication for it. He also had OCD which mixed with the schizophrenia caused his obsessions to be very unhinged and ritualistic. He had  a Jackal and Hyde personality, and he was brought up to be bratty, which led to nuclear tantrums that lasted hours. His father had bolstered his impenetrable ego by saying that he was special and above everyone else, that he was a “lord among flies”.

    His sister had her parents speaking in her ear constantly so was the sensible one. She wasn’t very bright at all but then she was never tasked to do much.

    They had been planning his dads murder and the robbery for years. There were a few mishaps but everything was in place: the new ‘girlfriend’, a separate ‘seducer’ for his dad, and the means. His dad had a hereditary illness so had limited mobility, which made things easier. And his dad had stored his money in zipped up bags, rather than using a bank, which made it the perfect crime. 

    There were three things that he had to do: hide his dads heart pills, tick, administer the poison via his food, tick, and crank up the earphones to full (which would destroy his dads brain making survival impossible), tick. He sat back and casually played computer games whilst his dad died horrifically. His new girlfriend helpfully went the toilet and heard his dad asking for his help, so came back and told him so. He said that he always does that in his sleep. She was so annoying. 
    In the morning he went straight in, checked that his dad was dead and called his sister. She came straight away and collected the money, and some bags of tramadol that his dad had hoarded. He then cleaned up everything and coldly notified everyone that his dad had just died. His ever so helpful girlfriend called the police who attended scene and notified the coroner.
    The police also took his dads keys and credit cards, and they also found a couple of bags of drugs and confiscated them. 
    Despite these slight setbacks, Sam considered the operation a success. He quickly disposed of everything in his dads room. His dads whole life was put in bin bags and dumped into the bin, like he had never existed in the first place. His sister joined him and bitterly ripped up precious things, her face twisted with spite. These people had no concept of Karma, doing ill of the dead, or bad juju. And gleefully cursed themselves in many ways.

    Sam had expected to just keep the house but a solicitor soon arrived and explained how everything would go and what needed to be done. Sam was predictably outraged but the money was safe with one of his sisters and that would do. His other sister, a tall blonde, and her son were given a cut for taking care of the cremation. It had been the perfect crime. 

  • Part 12: Haunted Houses

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    The victims often died unintentionally whilst the gang factions and individuals fought over ownership of that individuals body, mind, and their home. The victim would be sobbing and begging for their lives or that of their pets. The women who did the speaking would just mock them viciously and cowardly.

    The aim was to use them for income and use their home for criminal purposes, yet the majority died ‘by accident’. There were no dividends or buildings gained from the accidents. They just died, horrifically. The women would always break into cheers as the person died. The last thing that they heard were childish taunts.

    If the gang had access to the victims home then they removed the contents of the home. They took everything in a removal van and unceremoniously dumped all of it at communal bins on housing estates. The victim was placed in bin bags and dumped in the bins underneath their belongings. Entire families histories were stolen and erased in seconds. Photos, diaries, art, mementoes, everything from a persons life was thrown in the bins. When the victims family turned up to check on their kin there would be no trace of them, but there was always a lot of suspicious activity. 
    During the whole process family pets would be murdered, often in front of their owners. If any were left over they were just dumped, or left in place but not fed so they would wander off to find food and somewhere safer. I often wondered if the buildings are haunted by the occupants pets and their owners.
    The place where it all began is eerie, and has a dark feel to it. So many people died there that it pushed the mortality rate statistics up by 30% in that one street. That was just the ones whose bodies were found, staged as suicides or heart attacks. Maybe one day they will bulldoze the street and turn it into a memorial gardens.
    Maybe all the hijacked homes will become memorials.

  • Part 11: A bombardment of Hate

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    It was a bombardment of hatred. Sonic hate. They despised everything good about society. Science, art, compassion, talent, innocence, literature, animals, the environment, trust, and decency. I couldn’t let them win. 
    Despite all my best efforts I could not find out who they were, where they were, or who they used to do the legwork. I had worked out that they needed proximity to get things done, so they always used local “muscle”, which would always be someone that they believed would draw the least attention. People who everybody would not suspect or who they wouldn’t notice. 
    Everybody that they used was a coward, they had to be to do the ‘job’ that they were doing. 
    I had no means to defend myself so instead I tried to thwart their efforts in every way that I could. 
    I put an ear plug in one ear to sleep to cause pressure so that the damage caused by alternate beating was reduced. It was also the fact that my teeth did not meet in alignment that made a huge difference. If I clenched my teeth together I could feel the vibration, sound vibration. I awoke everyday with my teeth humming, five teeth were loose.
    They had made this so that if victims tried to tell anyone that no one would believe them. They had used cliché elements on purpose so that victims were trapped and enslaved in plain sight.
    Each day I wished that I could find the cowards that did this. The one that I knew was 350 miles away and the police were supposed to be dealing with him. They were not on the case fast enough. Would hatred and cowardly violence be the way of the world, or justice and civilisation? I had to be brave, just to continue to thwart them in every way that I could until the police caught up. 

  • Part 10: The Cowards Way

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    They were in a room together. Breathing the fetid air, eating and farting in front of all 23 of their compatriots. They trusted each other so little that they removed all the internal doors. It wasn’t their house, the bodies were long gone in the bin. The women would pretend that they were normal human beings by saying that the ‘hardest’ was the little boy. Where as in reality they were just masking their sick delight at the child’s demise. They hated purity, innocence, decency, ethics. They despised that, with a desperate hatred. because they despised themselves, but the only way that their sick minds could translate their own feelings was to destroy “the enemy!”. The enemy was anything that made them feel bad about themselves. A lot of the recent victims were innocents, little boys particularly, if it was a little girl it would be an intelligent one, or a non binary one (how they hated that), or just pretty. And the monsters in their team, hand picked by “Mummy” and “Daddy” were all similar in their disposition. 
    They would take turns on their victim. Some even gritted their teeth in pure hatred (mostly the women, the men just looked sad) as they annihilated the victims brains and bodies. All of this was done remotely via tablets and mobile phones. A laptop had the victim data on display – their location, heartbeat, ambient noise, and breathing rate. 
    Children were involved and they were used to take over from the lazy adults who just wanted to chat, conspiratively, in the corner. The kids were groomed to hate the victims and treated it like it was a computer game. The victim was even called “it” to both dehumanise and to make any discussion by the kids in public look less criminal. The kids all had their own phones and tablets and often logged into “it” when they were not supposed to and added to the torture. 
    The victim did not know who was doing this to them, they were just given commands to follow that would supposedly save their brain or body from damage. Most did them but this victim did not. Not a single one, not even the “repeat after me”. 
    The victim could not protect or defend themselves, they could not save themselves or get to who ever was doing it. The people doing it ignored that unfair disadvantage. They pretended that they were in a fair fight. That was the cowards way. 

    The man closest to the victim, the only one that she knew sat watching her suffer. Watching the job being done in plain sight. He said and did nothing to intervene. That is the cowards way.

  • Part 9: In memoriam continued

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    Tasha was like her mum, a white bunny with dalmatian rex colouring, which is mostly white with some brown speckles, except smaller and much fluffier. She had a smear of brown on her mouth that looked like a moustache, hence the name Tasha. She was paired with Ginger and they loved each other. She also loved spending time with her mum. She was my daughter’s favourite after Alice. 
    Tasha was really curious and loved exploring and getting into places that she shouldn’t. There was a tall cage of rats in the hallway and she was fascinated by them, she used to sit between the wall and the cage watching them. 
    One day I came back and Tasha was really ill Sam Darrett had just been round and was just leaving. He stood with a vacant expression on his face whilst my daughter explained to me how Tasha was suddenly ill, he saw her distress. He just left saying nothing, on his way past the rat cage he bent down and did something out of view. I looked there when he had gone and there was nothing there but bits of rat food that had possibly fell out of the cage. I now know that he had poisoned Tasha, and that he had possibly placed the poison there beside the cage.

    My daughter rushed Tasha to the vets (to get her there quicker I arranged it all and phoned the taxi and she went with her). I was going to meet her there but they sent her home and kept Tasha in. The vets were shit, as they always are with rabbits and they should have let my daughter stay with her. Tasha had a panic attack then a heart attack shortly after my daughter arrived home. They phoned my daughter to tell her and her anguished cry echoed through the house. I knew that Tasha had died because Ginger suddenly slouched and looked sadder than Id ever seen him. He was like a happy puppy until that moment. Then he never seemed happy ever again.  Tasha was only two when she was murdered. 

    Ginger was fluffy and orange. When he was born he had a soft down of caramel coloured fur. We called him caramel bunny until his fur changed to orange at 6 weeks. He was the largest of them all but still smaller than the average bunny. He was like an exuberant puppy until Tasha died. Then he became quiet and watchful. He didn’t get on with Biscuit for some reason and they would always have mad scuffles when ever they ever came upon each other. They had to be kept in separate areas of the house. 
    Once a friend was visiting and we got all the bunnies out to show him. The herd ran over to see him, then after that they all ran over to see me. I was sitting with my legs crossed wearing the old style black bolt trousers with the wider bottoms. As Ginger ran over he suddenly vanished. There was a silence and my daughter said “where did he go?” My friend said “he’s in your trouser leg!” And there he was in my trouser leg. He’d run up there and obviously struggled to understand what had happened and why the world had suddenly gone black. He just paused there trying to work out what had happened bless him. I treasure those moments. He was one of my favourites and I really loved him.
    He was murdered aged 8, and he was both poisoned and had a heart attack when an intruder broke in. It was 2017. A man named Adam broke into my house to scope it out for the other people in his gang (he was in the 20-25 year olds faction of the organised crime gang). I was up playing Farmville and I heard a noise outside, then a man was opening the front door, I couldn’t see who it was at first and thought that it might have been my daughter. Adam, a tall broad guy walked straight into the front room and looked around at the room. The kitchen door was open and Ginger was sitting on a rug in the doorway watching. Adam stepped toward the kitchen and I immediately grabbed him and swung him round. I then threw him down at the door and he collapsed on a bin bag. I was not letting him near my rabbits. I then had to heft him out and lock the door. I ran over to Ginger who was by now convulsing. I sat down with him on my lap and he took his last breaths with the others watching. I loved Ginger, he did not deserve that.
    How I hate that man, his friends, his family and the entire gang, and everyone that knew about what was going on and didn’t stop any of them. I sincerely hope that they all burn in this life and the next. No one deserves what they did.

    At this point I lived in the same building as Sam Darrett. I still had no idea what he was and what he had done. When that guy broke in and stood in the front room he looked upstairs and at the top of the stairs was Sam Darrett. He and Adam stood looking at each other for a long minute or so, like they recognised each other. Then they both looked awkward and Sam Darrett ran into his room and stayed there. I shouted up for him to phone the police, he didn’t. One of the neighbours must have, probably because of my enraged shouting. Darrett was cowering beside his bed when I asked him why he did nothing. He had no answer.

    Leading up to that day Ginger had had a series of convulsions. The vet said that he didn’t know what it could be. After his death he said that he must have been poisoned as several of the others had also been. The stress had been too much for him during the break in, he was both worried for my safety, and terrified, and his little heart gave in. They stole my baby from me.
    I buried Ginger in a container and I aimed to bury him properly with Tasha at some point. At the time of writing this has still not been done. He was buried with my two favourite Citrine stones and orange flowers. Because of the situation and the events that followed he didn’t get either the burial he deserved nor did I have enough time for mourning him.

    Biscuit 
    Biscuit was the brightest of them all. He was a loner and quiet and watchful but also playful and exuberant when he wanted to be. The others bullied him a bit as he was the smallest. He was lion faced and had really stunning markings and fur patterns. Even the vets had always commented on what a good looking bunny he was. He always lived in my room and always jumped up onto the bed slept against my side like a cat would. He often lounged on the bed or just sat there regally like a gentleman contemplating the workings of the universe. 
    One day I went out on a wild rodent release and my friends came round to pick me up. They all stood in my room watching Biscuit on the bed watching me sorting out my gloves, and torch etc. He was getting stressed from there being four people in the room so we left as soon as I had got everything that I needed. When I got back he looked like he was still unsettled, then when he saw me he visibly perked up and ran straight over and circled me making that little dinosaur purring noise. He didn’t let me out of his sight for the next two days. I think that he thought that the people who had been in the house had stolen me away. He was so happy to see me again. 
    I made him a hidey place under the bed and taught him to run there if he was scared. A fox came in one night and he went straight into his hidey place and stayed there. The fox didn’t actually go for any of the bunnies, he just ate a plate of cupcakes and drank some beer from a glass and left. I made sure that the cat flap was sealed from then on. 
    Biscuit was the second one to be poisoned by Sam Darrett. I had no idea at the time and the vet thought that he had stomach cancer. Biscuit was also my little baby. He had to be put to sleep because whatever he had eaten destroyed areas of his intestine and had made it stick together in a tangled mess. The vet later said it was consistent with poisoning like the others. I buried him in a square stone pot and I painted images of him on it, landscapes with him watching the sunrise, and the sunset and a starry night.

    Miffy
    Miffy was born last and was really long like a sausage bunny. She had similar white fur and markings to Tasha except Miffy was more lion face than Tasha. Miffy was with Ginger for a while but then didn’t get on with him well, he kept chasing her away. So she lived with her mum, Alice for a while. Then eventually bonding with Moe. Miffy and Moe would explore everywhere together, she was adventurous and mischievous like him. Miffy didn’t mind being picked up and held (which is very unusual for a rabbit). 
    Miffy was nine when she had to be put to sleep. She had mobility problems when she was older due to her longer spine (birth defect) and she started having seizures the same time that Moe did, also from poisoning (which tested positive in her stool sample). 
    They should have been able to live long happy lives in safety, and they should not have had to endure the pain of poisoning, or the pain of losing their family members. And my family should not have had to endure losing them in such horrific circumstances.
    The people who did this thought that they were more important than any one else in the world. They were unintelligent, emotionally retarded, and arrogant. They did what they did for petty and ridiculous reasons. They really do not deserve to live in society with the rest of us, and the people around them should have stopped them.

  • Part 8: In Memoriam

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    August 2007 – Alice was a large white dalmatian rex rabbit with pale blue eyes. She met Cloud 4 weeks previously. They really got on, but were prevented from mating, or so my daughter told me.
    Alice had been a birthday present for my daughter in 2006. She came from a pet shop that was closing down, and they were selling their stock off cheap. I was going to get two rex males but my daughter pointed out that someone might get Alice for meat and she asked me if she could have her. I agreed.
    Cloud arrived via my then boyfriend who acquired a rabbit that was with a Guinea Pig that had died.
    Cloud was a dwarf angora and looked like a fluffy pale brown and grey cloud.
    Cloud and Alice lived indoors and had separate areas in the house. 
    In August that year Alice started to get suspiciously fat. I squinted at my daughter and asked “are you sure that they didn’t…you know, do the thing that bunnies do? Whilst you were not looking perhaps?” she just shook her head with an impressively good poker face. 
    Then one day Alice ripped out her leg fur and put it in a circle in front of her on the floor. She then leapt onto the sofa and gave birth to 8 baby bunnies. 
    They were slightly premature and despite all efforts two died. Which was devastating. After that I stayed up night and day and made sure that Alice fed the rest of them properly and that they all had equal feeds. 
    I remember one sunny morning waking up on the couch with the baby bunnies in a small cage with their nest in it on my stomach and a young pigeon that I had been looking after nestled up to my head (I vaguely remember him flying over from his area in the night and nestling against my head). It was so peaceful and warm. I didn’t want to get up, and I wanted that moment to last for ever. If I could pick one moment to have eternity in that might be it. The sun illuminated the orange curtains and the warmth made me drowsy, I fell back asleep for an hour until my alarm woke me up to feed them again. It was a two person job, one to hold Alice and the other to hold the babies up to be fed. Then to make sure that they were all fed for equal amount of time. Giving a little extra to any that were losing weight. 
    I weighed them and photographed them 4 times a day. The 6 remaining bunnies all made it and were gradually weaned. 

     We named them Moe, Sherbet, Biscuit, Tasha, Ginger and Miffy. When they were old enough we got them done so that there would be no more surprise bunnies. 

    The day after they were born the police came round to take some information about a guy who had been shooting rats with a pellet gun. The police were enchanted by them. One of the police officers wanted to stroke Moe because he stood out due to his distinctive white blaze on his forehead. She stroked his tiny head and exclaimed that he was adorable. Her and her partner kept bringing it up whenever I saw them. 
    Moe had the biggest character and he was the boldest and friendliest of them all. We’d sit with them out so that they could run around and Moe would come over and sit on my knee. He’d sit there for an hour or so just relaxing and watching the rest. He’d do things like jump into the bag of hay or food. He was really inquisitive, mischievous, but good natured.
    I was in student accommodation at the time, next to the railway, and it was briefly invaded by some wild rats. They had even managed to get into the sofa.
    We couldn’t find Moe one day and we lifted the sofa cushions up to find Moe laying in front of a wild rat (which was also lounged in a loaf position) like they were having a relaxed conversation. Both were startled and both looked guilty like bad dogs do, like we had caught them discussing the downfall of mankind.

    Moe really loved his sister Sherbet, they gravitated together from birth and always slept next to each other. When they were all out together Moe would lean his head on Sherbets back, signifying that she was special to him. They were never apart. In 2013 Sherbet was murdered by a man named Sam Darrett (not his actual name). I didn’t know at the time but I found out years later. She became really ill very suddenly, one day. It looked like poisoning but I couldn’t work out how that could have been a thing. She suddenly keeled over and died in my lap with the other bunnies watching. I didn’t even have time to get her to the vets. Moe sat in front of me with his head close to her. She gasped and then went still. Moe looked up at me then chin rubbed her body (in bunny language that means ‘this is something that I love’). He then ran and hid behind his purple tunnel. Alice who was watching started shaking and passed out. I thought that she had died too. 
    I laid out Sherbets body elevated from the rest on a blanket and surrounded her with flowers and crystals.
    I had previously found out that scientifically the brain takes a while to die within a deceased body so I always lay animals out for 24 hours. I make sure that they are comfortable, with their grave goods, and they all get a traditional Viking/Celtic burial. They are then placed in a plant pot so that I can take them with me when I move. They are family.
    I didn’t have a large pot so I put Sherbet in a oblong plastic pot so that I could transfer her at another point in time into the same one that Moe would eventually be buried in. So that they could always be together.
    I buried her with the flowers, and crystals etc, on top of a blanket. With another blanket on top of her, then soil. I then put the pot filled with soil at the back door whilst I went to get my shoes. When I came back Moe was lying in a loaf pose on top of the soil in the pot. He knew that she was in it. 
    I left him there to grieve for a few hours. I waited until he was done to put the pot outside in the back garden. 
    He could have dug up the soil but he ignored his natural instincts to mourn his sisters death.
    Sherbets death devastated both Moe and Alice. All that suffering caused by one vile man (assisted later by others of his ilk). 
    Sam Darrett Killed them all in the end. It was part of a ridiculous criminal process by a backwards cult. My family and our bunnies were in the wrong place at the wrong time and caught the attention of the wrong type of cowardly but malicious individuals.
    Moe survived the longest, ten and a half years. He lost and grieved for all of his family.

  • Part 7: Invasion of the Brain Snatchers

    by

    The gypsies chose to occupy the same cul-de-sac as the early release prisoners from up North. It was quiet and out of the way, and it had a constant stream of vulnerable people for them to exploit. They called it easy pickings street.

    They fought bitterly but had a common aim – to set up a criminal consortium that would bring regular income to the gang, mostly through home cuckooing and benefits fraud.
    The gypsy faction was comprised mostly of women who were ejected from various static traveller sites for bad behaviour. This motley gang of wayward women wanted to infiltrate society and steal the things that society had to offer, right from under their noses. Then childishly mock them behind their backs.
    They mostly wanted houses because houses gave them status and a “base of operations”. When they took the buildings they emptied the contents and dumped everything in the bin, not seeing or understanding the value of such things. Often the victims bodies were casually thrown in the bin with their personal belongings.
    The victims lives were erased, and these female gypsies particularly revelled in this. They wanted to punish society for valuing the things that it did. They became more bitter and twisted, and more hateful and malicious with each murder. Defiling and torturing people because they were educated, or successful, talented, or just happy. But mostly because they were attractive in any way. And God help them if they were any mix of those things. Anyone with a sparkle in the eye was a supreme target, delicious to destroy in the eyes of the suicide club. Once the gang had taken over most of the cul-de-sac they picked their victims from else where. The whole thing moved from collecting buildings and expanding their operations to just spreading misery and revelling in that misery.
    The early release criminals just wanted money, so there was a constant conflict of interests, which screwed with each others ‘business’. But they had incriminating evidence on each other which kept the gang bound together miserably, until they died.

    The equipment was like a curse. It infected everyone that it touched. Every user, every gang, every gang leader.
    There was a high turnover of ‘staff’ , because most would kill themselves, or their families. Or they would go mad. 

     Three generations later the ‘business’ had morphed into something akin to voyeuristic serial killing. They spent months, occasionally years, on the kill, with little or no “dividends”. It became more ritualistic with each generation until it became ritualistic torture, ending in a forced suicide or a heart attack when the victims bodies could take no more. Each victim was taunted by spiteful women who relished every moment. It was a torrent of pure malicious hate mixed with brain damage, and pain.
    It became like a version of Hostel, the horror film, where the gang would sell victims to embittered people who didn’t officially exist in the world and who only had hate and loathing in their cold hearts. The victim would then be mercilessly tortured as the owners wanted their moneys worth. 
    Their usual con was to brain damage or paralyse a victim and place them with a ‘handler’ to claim benefits as a carer and for the victim. The victims always fought desperately for their lives against the brain ravishing audio blows. They were also abused in every other imaginable way. When their brains gave, the point at which their consciousness vanished in to the physical damage there was a look of betrayal and anguish, then despair gave way to sadness. Followed by a blank vacant empty stare. Exactly like when animals are slaughtered in an abattoir, the same helpless despair.
    When the victim died they employed their people to pretend to be them. They could then move them on to different locations in the guise of the victim whilst continuing to claim benefits with their literal identity. 
    This now had taken a backseat as the factions played and toyed with victims then fought over their ‘accidently’ murdered corpses. To then just throw the corpse in the bin. As they branched out more and more into society, they began to introduce rules. At first they set a rule to just choose vulnerable victims who wouldn’t be missed, who had no family and no friends. But it became a free for all as knowledge of how to build, and insert the ‘equipment’ was passed on to others. The fourth generation of children of the now cult like gang grew up to be sociopaths. They were arrogant and thought that they were invincible, and above the legal system.  They had no boundaries and no respect for human or animal life, and they had no empathy and no mercy. The kills were horrendous and involved torture worse than any in any crime, or any war, and the gang members began to relish the suffering that they caused, making it into a miserable, ritualistic game.