The story goes, circa 2002 and a group of my friends were in a car driven by a guy called Bill, who was cousin to two of them. Bill was a bit of a prick. So, Bill thought it would be fun to go racing with them in the car. Bill was also not a very good driver. So, after accelerating along a long straight, Bill approached a roundabout, braked too hard, came off-road, hit a lamp post, and killed everyone in the car apart from himself.
What happened after that isn’t entirely clear. I know there was a major family feud (as you’d expect when one cousin kills two others), and I know Bill had a major row with his mother. What happened there though, only Bill knows. The police couldn’t find anything other than traces of her blood. She hasn’t been seen since. Bill has never been convicted, apparently due to lack of evidence.
I still don’t know what to make of it.
I worked in a boxing factory for a couple weeks once when I was in college. After working there for about two weeks some of my coworkers begin telling me that the guy who was working in my section was pretty new and that he was from Idaho. Nobody really knew anything else about him because he didn’t talk much. He was the softest speaking guy I had ever met. I noticed a tattoo of a child’s face on his right shoulder and asked who it was.
He said it was his son who he choked to death because he wouldn’t stop crying. It had happened 40 years before, and he was in his late 60s, early 70s. I smoked a couple joints with him before work and during lunch time too. I can’t really describe how I felt when I had realized I’ve been smoking every day with a guy who had choked his son to death 50 years before. I ended up quitting a couple days.