Jimmies

By Erin Lee

You maddddd-e up your mind about me, Momma, and Candy the day they caught me wearin' my favoritttt-te T-shirtttt.

Silly you. 'Cause I ain't Momma, Candy, or even Flora. And believe it or not, there was a time long before all them Things. Them Things are just the sprinkles on tttt-top. I'm Jimmie. And that's gonna have to be better than salty nuts.

Momma's right. Serial killers don't grow on trees. But they don't get planted either. And now, with nothing to lose, it's time for a guy to set-ttt the record straight and clear up all the Things that came to be long before Thing 13.

You ready, sweet T-tttthing? This is a story about your very own Jimmie and just how I got from that backyard freezer fort, off Momma's couch, and on my way to infamy.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Crazy Ink
• Release date: May 13, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201347864

Erin Lee

Erin Lee lives in Queensland, Australia and has been working with children for over 25 years. She has worked in both long day care and primary school settings and has a passion for inclusive education and helping all children find joy in learning. Erin has three children of her own and says they have helped contribute ideas and themes towards her quirky writing style. Her experience working in the classroom has motivated her to write books that bring joy to little readers, but also resource educators to help teach fundamental skills to children, such as being safe, respectful learners.

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Warning:

This book is dark fiction dealing with disturbing, undiagnosed psychological issues. It dives into the mind of a twisted serial killer and his bat-shit crazy mother and includes violent, graphic material only suited for adults. It is not suitable for minor children.

This novel is intended for entertainment purposes only, not for clinical research, case study, or diagnosis. The DIARY OF A SERIAL KILLER SERIES was born as the result of multiple interviews with men convicted of murder in three states, combined with years of graduate level research on the pathologies that contribute to violent acts of murder and their architects.

Interviews, correspondences, and all research—including clinical case reviews and professional journal articles—for this project were conducted in the author’s capacity as a novelist, not a psychologist.

This book is a work of fiction and is not based on one particular man’s story alone. Instead, it is a combination of stories fictionalized to give one portrayal of what may (or may not) go on in the mind of an odd serial killer during active killing periods.

You maddddd-e up your mind about me, Momma, and Candy the day they caught me wearin’ my favoritttt-te T-shirtttt.

Silly you. ‘Cause I ain’t Momma, Candy, or even Flora. And believe it or not, there was a time long before all them Things. Them Things are just the sprinkles on tttt-top. I’m Jimmie. And that’s gonna have to be better than salty nuts.

Momma’s right. Serial killers don’t grow on trees. But they don’t get planted either. And now, with nothing to lose, it’s time for a guy to set-ttt the record straight and clear up all the Things that came to be long before Thing 13.

You ready, sweet T-tttthing? This is a story about your very own Jimmie and just how I got from that backyard freezer fort, off Momma’s couch, and on my way to infamy.

Chapter One

Age 13

Listen, retard. Ya gotta learn to play the victim. It’s the only way you’ll get anywhere in life, Momma said, swatting at my arm.

I was gifted but not some sort of genius. How she expected me to turn her hoard into some kind of wrongdoing by the town was beyond me. Yes, Mmmmm-momma, I said, just hoping she’d shut up, so I could get back to Lucky.

Reaching in my front left pocket, I let my fingers tangle around Lucky’s foot. The Price Is Right would be on in an hour and Momma would get off the whole plan to clean up the yard the minute Bob Barker came on. Scanning the front porch, I wondered how it was even possible that she’d collected so many things so quickly. Yeah, we’d been here a few years, but Earl’s money’d run dry, and it weren’t like she did all that much shopping. Momma preferred to live for free.

But Momma didn’t shut up. She never shut up, really. Not when she had a mission and the town on her back—again. She went on and on about how I was a coward the same way she always did; tellin’ me the only way the selectmen would ever leave us alone was if I marched right on down there and told ‘um I was gonna kill myself if they made Momma throw out another of her creepy dolls.

Rolling my eyes, I moved toward the far right corner of the porch that still had the screen on it—kind of. Wondering if it’d be better to just pull the darn thing off, I figured it’d only set Momma into another of her fits.

Well? she demanded.

I said I’d do it, Mmm-momma. I just think we should probably clean up a bit before I go.

But Momma wasn’t havin’ it. The same way she’d made me march right on down to the town hall to protest the $1 town garbage bags tellin’ them we couldn’t afford it; she really was gonna make me threaten to hang myself or some shit if they didn’t leave my Momma alone. Like the kids didn’t already think I was a weirdo.

I could only imagine what Abe Johnson and the other kids at school would say when his father told him that weird old Jimmie had made a fuss again in the name of his Momma. But the truth was, I’d have to get it done. The Price Is Right wasn’t on forever. Even when Momma watched the repeat showdown episodes, she eventually turned her attention back to me. Wishing I could crawl up in my freezer, so she’d leave me alone, I satisfied her when I told her I’d do it by three. Praying today’d be another of those where Mr. Johnson got sent home early for the whiskey he kept stashed in the town clerk’s bottom drawer, I pulled a large cardboard box from the top of the pile and carried it over my head, down the steps, and to the side yard. The whole time, Momma kept those evil eyes on me; callin’ me a coward and a pussy among a million other things.

She weren’t all that wrong. Truth be told, I was afraid to walk up them concrete steps, past the clerk, and into the selectman’s office, but not for the reason Momma suspected. Truth was that I was embarrassed about the seventh grade. What Momma didn’t know was that because she made me skip to steal the vodka from the Minute Mart, I’d had one too any absences. I hadn’t bothered to tell her because I knew full well she’d orchestrated it. Me being in school as long as I could meant the checks would keep coming and at $100 in food stamps and $700 for my disability, Momma needed me to pay the bills. It was sickening.

Be careful with that, pussy! Momma screamed from the front door. With a cigarette pinned between her yellow fingers and a bottle of wine in the other hand, she glared at me like a box of junk was worth keeping.

It’s just magazines. It’s ffff-fine.

You’re just like the rest of um, Jimmie. Them things could be worth something! Some of them are from Poppa’s attic. Antique, even!

Leaning the box to the side, I asked Momma what she preferred I start with. Why this was even my problem was something I’d never get. It wasn’t like I was in