I am profoundly disabled. I have murdered 116 people. I am also a sociopath.
Politically I think I am expected to say I am a person with profound disabilities, a PWD or rather that I am a person with impairments where society turns those into disabilities. But that last part is a lie. It is the fact that I am visually different; my use of the wheelchair, the intermittent tremors in my hand, my slurred or distorted speech which allow me to kill with impunity. If anything, my ‘impairment’ has enabled me to pursue my life’s work.
Before I continue, I should clarify that I have murdered between 114 and 116 people; I never was able to verify those two people on bicycles I clipped with my car. God, I love adaptive technology. When I was first ensconced into my wheelchair, I could only dream about the opportunities a driver’s license might provide. And considering the limitations of my impairment, if I ever get caught doing what I call the “fender accelerator” to a cyclist, I already have a defense. The weaves and wobbling of the cyclist in front of me was clearly ablest taunting of my disability and my need for clear precise arm movement in order to drive. Not only was I literally unable to prevent the accident, but it was one which would have never occurred had the cyclists simply respected my human equality but limitations as an adaptive driver. At least that’s what I would tell my ACLU defense team. I see this as an ADA case they would salivate to defend.
It is true that I am in severe pain, and that I have twice been offered a morphine spinal implant and twice refused. My neurological condition makes my nerve endings intermittently send pain signals of a non-existent trauma. This is painful to the point of near debilitation. In my neighborhood and local community I am viewed as a prime example of a stiff upper lip, or as an example of stubborn pride taken to extreme. Some see me as a hero, disabled but staunchly continuing on. And some have begged, moist eyed, for me to get the implant and free myself of the pain. This is all intensely enjoyable, to be regularly and freely given almost unlimited legal narcotics and opiates far exceeding typical human lethal levels and have this considered a positive and endearing personality trait.
My first kill was with a breakfast smoothie. It worked so well I’ve killed 27 people now by what I refer to as “the smoothie method.” I take a great deal of medication: things to block signals from the brain, things to aid signals from the brain as well as a hefty wack of opiate painkillers. Long ago I informed my home care rather than playing the “pill fumble” game for half the morning I simply wanted them mixed into a morning fruit smoothie. Everyone got very used to me making myself smoothies. Everyone got used to me drinking smoothies. I like the ones that taste of peach with a mix of bananas. It smells divine and more than once people have asked for a sip. I have to refuse and I always remember to smile as I say, “Sorry, it’s medicinal.” And they laugh, not sure whether I am joking with them or not. The amount of pain medication in my smoothies, as my tolerance has increased, would almost be enough to send your average human into liver failure; a three day prolonged and painful death. When I am out, my wheelchair stationary next to a park bench and a child begs me “drink please” the temptation to give in and hand it over, watching them gulp it down is almost unbearable. I am sure I could leave the scene before the seizures started, but still, patience and planning is what got me this far. And sometimes pleasures are best delayed rather than immediately indulged.
My first kill was at a Respite; one of those hotels for disabled where we ‘dependants’ are shuffled in and out, mixed among the seniors on respite with all the bustle of a transit hub. On the first morning, I noticed those with dementia, the chronic loquacious cases and those reenacting arguments of two decades ago. I also watched one elderly gentleman who had risen from his seat and was now seated at another table, one which displayed the name card “Ethel.” He had removed the covering and was now cleaning off the plate of pancakes with a steady gusto. I wheeled myself into the common kitchen area where the respite worker, Larbie, was making himself toast. Between making himself food, smoking in the veranda and making cell phone calls in the linen closet, Larbie had care avoidance down to an art. “What is happening to Ethel’s pancakes?” I asked.
Larbie looked around the corner. “That’s George, he’ll eat anything put in front of him.....or anyone else.”
Larbie shrugged, “She should have been here for the start of breakfast.”
Fascinating. That night I noticed George slurping down his dessert strawberries (and the portions of three other residents).
I spent the rest of my days at the Respite accustoming Larbie to the sound of me making my smoothies. After a day of blender noises he stopped coming to investigate. After three days, he didn’t even look up. I was certain the blender sounds had become so much white noise that he would not even be able to remember hearing it.
On my last day, I must have been confused, since I tripled the amount of pain pills I put in my smoothie. Odd how things like occasionally happen. I made a strawberry banana smoothie for my final morning; an extra helping of strawberries, enough to create that tantalizing scent of summer. I had barely put my smoothie down on my table when I realized that I had not completed my full preperations for the morning departure and wheeled back to my room. I do dislike leaving loose ends.
Fifteen minutes later I returned to find my smoothie glass empty. Oh dear.
I washed the glass, placed it in the drain board, emptied my room and waited in the lobby for my taxi. I am very patient.
Later I read a newspaper story, on page 28, about a tragic accident in the same respite hotel that I recently resided. It seems a patient must have wandered into someone’s room while confused and swallowed a large amount of pills.
I certainly hope they didn’t hold Larbie to blame.
This is the start of a series of stories I have begun regarding ruthless, sociopathic and all around nasty people with disabilities. It was inspired by THIS POST by Dave Hindsburger. So thank you Dave for helping me to understand exactly how MUCH criminal activity we could get away with under the cloak of disability stereotype (both from the AB world AND our own community). Plus, it has been far too long since I killed someone; I just needed to get it out of my system.
4 hours ago