hey! whiskers!

🐠 Jeff talks about his fish to Lionel:

**When asked if there were Siamese fighting fish in his tank**

(around 1973—1979)

Ed Kemper’s suicidal tendencies while in jail.

The squad.

One of Dahmer’s court appearances

“That’s correct your honor”

“Has anyone made any threats against you to get you to wave the 10 day limit?”

“No they didn’t your honor”

“Has anyone promised you anything to get you to wave the 10 limit?”

“No they didn’t”

“Have you had enough time to talk to your lawyers about that?”

“Yes”

Jeffrey Dahmer took a shower while there were two dead bodies in the bathtub, and he was sane. He drilled holes in the heads of living people to make them his unresisting companions, and he was sane. He ate a bicep which he had fried in a skillet, tenderised and sprinkled with sauce, and he was sane. For hours he lay with corpses, hugging them, cherishing them, and he was sane. He kept eleven assorted heads and skulls, and two complete skeletons, for eventual use in a home-made temple, and he was sane. The trouble was, in addition to all this, he was polite, diffident, deferential, obliging, just the sort of young man one could imagine weeding his grandmother’s garden. That level of imagination is safe; it does not threaten one’s equilibrium. To permit the imagination to travel further and visualise the hell in which Jeffrey Dahmer lived was to invite a loathsome infection.