"May I Wring out your Towels?" Confessions of a Reformed Strangler

It started when I was just a boy and my father took me to see Star Wars. The movie started, robots blah, explosions blah blah, been there, viewed that. Then there he was: Darth Vader, a walking cornucopia of COPD and awesomeness. And when someone pissed him off, he didn't reach for his lightsaber--no. He didn't rip their brains out through their noses. He extended one hand, calmly, and strangled the man with his thoughts. My impressionable mind saw this veritable dumptruck of glamor magi-suffocating his own servant, and from that day on, I had a new answer to "What do you want to be when you grow up?"

The catcher's mitt never left my closet again; all my energy was directed to making my dream my enemies' waking nightmare. I found a teacher. Locals called him Creepy Homeless Patrick, but I called him Master. My master bragged that he had strangled his way through life, using his throat-crushing deathgrip to create fear in those who would edge him out of his prime panhandling location in front of the Salvation Army, and providing him an excellent source of protein during the lean months of winter. He often yelled at colors. He was my only friend.

My training was thorough. I started on stuffed animals, did my time choking fish, and worked my way up to women. I could snap a lesbian's neck with two fingers by the age of eleven. I was ready.

You never forget your first real kill. I can still feel his five-o'clock-shadow tickling my thumbs when I daydream on the job. He was a mechanic, a man's man. The faint coat of axle grease covering his flesh made him a tough customer, and, as he reached for his wallet to show me pictures of his children, I silently thanked Creepy Homeless Patrick for making me work my fingers to the bone on those halibut. The job was nearly done, and wouldn't you know that a quiet little "I find your lack of faith disturbing" had to slip past my lips as he tried one last time to kick me in the testicles! I flicked an extra quarter my master's way the next time he stopped by to preach to my cat.

The phrase "drunk with power" is terribly overused, but I think it's safe to say that, when you find yourself choking a midget, atop a mountain of dead midgets, screaming Duncan Sheik's "Barely Breathing," well, you're it. Seventy corpses later, my sloppiness got the best of me when, the day after wringing the life out of a biker with a most unsettling combover, I went to school having forgotten to let go. I was busted and, with no Force powers to speak of, helpless once the cuffs were on. I tried to think: "What would master do?" I'm hazy on the details of the aftermath, but suffice it to say that an insanity plea was entered on my behalf.

The next ten years I spent brimming with regret and morphine. In my dreams I was Tartarus, chained to a rock with a bare throat dangling just out of reach. I'm not too sure why they let me out - I suspect a fire alarm was involved, but regardless, I knew that I had to free myself from the prison of Lady Strangling's seductress caresses. It would be back to the loony bin with me the moment they found a blueface in my attic. It was time to give up the game.

After one last hit.

Patrick was waiting for me in the rain outside the Salvation Army. The drama would have been unbearable had he not been wearing gloves on his feet. His hands were fast, but mine were faster. Plus, he was reaching for his wiener. In my mind he was Vader, and as he whoo-perred his last whoo-perr, I knew that we were both going on to a better place. In retrospect, he's probably in hell for all of the murder, but at the time, the thought was a great comfort.

I found work wringing out towels. Everyone always says they'd never pay someone to wring out a towel, until they see me in action. Years of murder have given me strong wrists, and I've found that squeezing out water can be almost as fulfilling as squeezing out breath. Plus, people don't pay you to choke them--not to death, anyway.

Although under duress, I'll admit that every once in a while I still indulge in suffocating a sparrow or a waitress. It's so hard to let go.