If you are reading this, I'm dead. I've been dead for several years and, as per the stipulations of my will, these private documents are being released to you.
If you believe the stories that your parents must have told me, you must hate me so much.
I wish I could say I was sorry. I wish I could say I love you. But I can’t. It would be a lie.
You never met me, kiddo. Did your parents tell you my name was “Elm?” Or did they, filled with hatred and disgust, refer to me by my full name Elmer Whitaker Brown?
With such a common.... hell..... annoyingly bland name, you wouldn't expect me to lead the sort of life that I do.
Did they ever show you a picture of me? Or did they hate me so much that they couldn’t bear to show you?
If you never met me, but just knew my name, you might think of me as a short, dumpy, slightly psychotic hunter with a massive hate-on for a wascally wabbit. You might think of me as a completely normal office worker with bad myopia and glasses the size of dinner plates.
In reality, I am (was) a detective. My dumb bitch of a mom named me Elmer, but to my friends -- who the hell am I kidding, I don’t HAVE friends -- to those I associate with, I'm simply Elm. To those I have arrested, and to those I have killed, my name is Psycho. Psycho Brown, detective extraordinaire. At your service.
Ha ha ha. A bit of dry humor. That would be, of course if I had a sense of humor.
Why don't I have a sense of humor, you ask?
Because I am a type A anger-fixated sociopathic personality. In other words, a sociopath. Too technical for you? Fine. In layman's terms, a psychopath. Psycho. Freak. Loose cannon.
I'm a Hannibal Lecter. A Charles Manson. I have no conventional emotions and could cut you into little pieces as easly as I could look at you. Or I could do the same to your wife. Or your two year old neice.
And yet, I am a good person.I do no evil. Not even petty theft. Because, contrary to the mainstay of the sociopathic crowd, I understand the truth of love and honor and courage and all the hoo-ha that Doctor Phil and Oprah Winfrey babble on about.
Because I am psychic. Through some genetic fuck-up, or maybe through some act of God, I can tap into the thoughts and emotions of others. Sometimes I need to concentrate to do this; sometimes it happens by accident. As a result, I know what love feels like, whether it be the romantic lust of a horny teenager or the tender platonic love of a tender old granny.
But, enough about me. I am writing this memoir not to talk about myself, but to talk about my experiences. About the things in my life that have been so unique that I can't bear to let them sink into the invisible never-was as so many amazing lives do.
Somebody needs to know. Somebody. Anybody.
You won’t throw these pages away, will you, kid?
Have pity on a poor old psycho. Have pity. Just sit down and listen to what I’ve got to say. Listen for a little while.
Can you do that?
Can you do that for me, kid?