Once upon a time there was a little boy named John who lived in Chicago, Illinois. John’s father liked drinking lots and lots of beers and boshing him over the head. To make matters worse John had a poorly heart that meant he couldn’t play any sports and he quickly turned into a bit of a chunky fucker.
John got fed up with being boinked over the head by his dad so he went to live in Las Vegas where he began working in a mortuary. One day John started hugging one of the corpses and it made him feel funny in his head so he went back to live with his Mum and Dad.
Luckily for John he sorted his shit out and got married and became a big successful business man and sold lots and lots of fried chicken.
Everyone seemed to like John and even his own father said sorry for being mean to him and everything was nice and happy for a while.
John joined a club called the ‘Waterloo Jaycess’ which involved lots of drugs and cuddles with strangers. John was so good at drugs and fiddling about with other people’s winkles that he actually became vice president of the club. Sometimes when you get good at something it goes to your head and unfortunately John started kissing too many boys and even paid to get the shit kicked out of some of them.
John had done a naughty and the policemen made him go and sit in a prison for a bit so that he could calm down.
He was very helpful in prison and kept his room tidy and ate all of his vegetables so they let him out almost immediately which is mental.
When he came out he made new friends and got a new wife and started dressing up like a big, mad, clown so that no one would be scared of him.
John and his new wife fell out because he told her he preferred kissing boys and all of his neighbours got angry with him because his house started to stink.
People started going missing in the area and John began acting the giddy goat by growing a big, bushy, beard like a pissed up wizard and drinking lots of whisky.
When the policemen went to look inside John’s house they found about thirty lads buried under the floor and a few in the garden. Some of them had things put up their bottoms.
John admitted that he’d been a right handful for the last ten years and was very honest about all of his mad shenanigans and went on to spend his time in prison painting himself as ‘Pogo the Clown’.
The court decided it would be for the best if they put poison into John Wayne Gacy’s arms so that he died. 
When he was dead they cut his brain out and wanged it into a jar.
And that was the end of John.

“The dead won't bother you, it's the living you have to worry about.” 
- John Wayne Gacy


Once upon a time there was a man called David who made friends with Harvey, his next door neighbour’s dog.
David was a postman who lived in New York City and had spent some time being an army man. One of his friends in the army bought him a gun which he liked a lot.
When David had been a baby his Mum had decided that she didn’t want him anymore so she gave him to someone else. This made David very angry.
David had two best friends, Harvey (his next door neighbour’s dog) and Satan (the demon that lived inside his brain box). David told Harvey and Satan that he was cross about his Mum running away and leaving him on his own and asked them what they thought he should do about it. Harvey and Satan told David that it would be a good idea to run around New York for the next two years shooting people to death.
David liked girls with long dark hair best so he tried to shoot them the most. 
He would run around at night with his gun shooting people whilst they sat in their cars and he found it very funny that the policemen couldn’t catch him, even though they were all trying really, really hard. Sometimes David would leave the policemen funny little notes that said things like ‘I love to hunt, Prowling the streets for fair game, I am a monster, I’LL BE BACK’. 
David changed his name to the ‘Son Of Sam’ because he was bored of the name David and he thought it sounded more scary.
David got caught because someone saw the numberplate on his car and he had to go and sit inside a jail.
He admitted he’d been a bit of a handful but said that it wasn’t really his fault because Sam Carr’s dog had told him to do it and demanded the blood of young girls. The judge asked him if the dog had told him to jump off a cliff would he have done that? And he said “No, probably not”.
Everyone decided it would be for the best if he went to live inside a prison for six, 25 year sentences which is a very long time and he’ll be almost 200 years old when he gets out.

“A 'possessed' dog in the neighbourhood won't let me stop killing until he gets his fill of blood.” 
- David Berkowitz (The Son of Sam)


Once upon a time there was a boy called Edward who lived in La Crosse, Wisconsin with his Mum and Dad and his brother Henry . They all lived together on a farm. 
Ed’s Mum was a silly old sausage and used to spend all day shouting about Jesus and reading Ed and Henry bedtime stories from the Bible. Her favourite parts were the bits with all the death and murder and the devil and that. She was always shouting about how God was in a mood with everyone on Earth.
Thanks to his Mum’s incessant gibberish, Ed’s brainbox started to go all squishy and his teachers and classmates would notice that he’d just sit on his own laughing to himself about whatever popped into his head. He’d sit at the back of the classroom and picture himself with a chicken’s legs and howl to himself with laughter. Eventually all the other boys and girls stopped inviting him to their birthday parties.
One day Ed’s dad drank so much beer that his heart burst like an egg in a microwave and he died, which made Ed sad.
When Ed grew up he was such a good boy that when he killed his own brother with a mallet and set the entire town on fire no one even thought it was him.
Ed and his Mum were now the only ones left in their family so they became best friends and Ed looked after her when she became poorly as well as looking after all the goats and chickens on the farm because he was Mummy’s little soldier. Unfortunately one day she had a stroke and died because God was sick of her acting like a cunt.
Ed was gutted. He decided to board up his Mum’s room and keep all of her dresses looking nice and pretty while he lived in the kitchen like a pig and read books about Nazis and cannibals like a right proper nutcase.
One day a lady from the local hardware store went missing and the police thought they better go and see what Ed was up to because he’d been acting so silly.
When they had a look round they discovered that Ed had been a busy little beaver. He’d been making lots of arts and crafts but he must have run out of paint and papier mache because all of the things Ed had been building were made out of people. The police found a rubbish bin made out of skulls, a chair covered in human skin and he’d even stretched a lampshade out of someone’s face. He’d been having a whale of a time. He’d made a corset out of a female torso, leggings out of a woman’s legs and he’d even stitched loads of nipples onto a belt. When the police found a box full of vaginas and a necklace made of cocks Ed knew he was going to get in big trouble.
Ed tried to explain in court that all he’d been trying to do was build a “woman suit” so that he could dress up like his dead mother and he’d done that by digging up graves and killing a few people. He reckoned that if it’s a crime to murder people, dig up the corpses of the recently deceased and wear their faces like masks and turn their skeletons into household objects then he supposed he must have been guilty. The court decided that doing all that stuff is indeed a crime and he was certainly considered guilty. He explained that he hadn’t even had sex with any of the bodies because “they smelled too bad” but even that wasn’t enough for the judge to let him go so he spent the rest of his life living happily ever after in the Central State Hospital For The Criminally insane until he died in 1984.
And that was the story of Ed.

“When I see a pretty girl walking down the street, I think two things. One part wants to be real nice and sweet, and the other part wonders what her head would look like on a stick” 
- Ed Gein


Once upon a time there was a doctor called Harold.

Harold’s Mum thought he was the bee’s knees and when she became poorly Harold looked after her until she died. 

Harold went off to learn how to become a proper doctor and honour his late Mum. He’d become a General Practitioner and make his Mother proud as she looked down at him from heaven. Unfortunately, within a couple of weeks, Harold got addicted to prescription pain killers and lost his job when everyone noticed that he was smacked off his tits.

Luckily for Harold, in England, stealing drugs and forging medical information is more of a slap on the wrist sort of thing and before long Harold had his stethoscope back on. This time in a medical Centre in Hyde.
Harold must have been very good at his job because he stayed there for about 20 years and the only bad thing he did was to murder more people than almost anyone else in the history of mankind.
No one in the field of medicine had any idea that Harold was up to no good, but luckily the lad that did the bins noticed that almost every single person who went into Harold’s office would often spend the rest of their life being cremated.
One of Harold’s colleagues thought it was strange that he had started referring to his patients as ‘victims’, she also noticed that they all died in the same upright, seated position so she called the fuzz.
Harold carried on killing elderly women on an almost daily basis until he finally cocked it up. He forged a will and pretended that an old lady had left him her house. The old lady’s daughter realised that this was probably bullshit when she took about two seconds to think about it.
After this, it all started to go tits up for Harold. His home was raided, jewellery and typewriters were found and bodies were exhumed. 
Harold had to go to court and the jury thought that killing over 250 old ladies was just about the bloody limit. The judge found himself agreeing with the jury so hard that she said Harold would have to go and live inside Durham Prison for about 1000 years even though nobody even thought he’d probably live that long.
Harold tried living in the prison for a couple of years but realised that he couldn’t be arsed staying there for another 998 years, also some of the other prisoners were calling him names and poking fun out of his beard so he hung himself to death with his bedsheets.
He spent the next 10 years frozen in a Sheffield morgue, perhaps in case anyone wanted to reanimate his corpse and let him carry on with his rounds. In 2014 they decided that bringing Harold back to life would be a terrible idea so they burned him up and lobbed his ashes in the bins.
And that was the story of Harold.

"No one saw me do anything. As for stealing morphine off the terminally ill, again no-one saw me do it.” 
- Dr Harold Shipman

Once upon a time there was a little girl called Elizabeth. 
Elizabeth grew up in a big castle in The Kingdom of Hungary, and, being from a noble family, was given everything she could ever dream of. She had Jewels and horses and the grandest clothes in the land made from the finest lace and silks. She had such lovely things that it must have made growing up in the arse end of nowhere near Transylvania, during the 16th Century, borderline tolerable. Elizabeth was so showered with good fortune that she was even lucky enough to have her very own baby before the age of 13, which might have actually been where the problem started come to think about it.

Elizabeth eventually got married to a man with a very long name at the ripe old age of 15 and they moved in together into one of his castles on the Slovakian border. As soon as they got there he buggered off to college and then to war leaving Elizabeth kicking about the castle in her jogging bottoms and flicking through Snapchat while watching Ru Paul’s Drag Race. It was boring the tits off her.

Eventually her husband came back from what was called ‘The Long War’ but he’d picked up some strange disease that had made his legs go all fat and then he died.
Elizabeth had just about had it up to here with this bullshit.  
After chatting with one of her scullery maids she decided she would try and get into the Guinness Book of World Records. She tried juggling pigs and then she tried smashing eggs into her own head but nothing seemed to stick. She needed to do something that would carry her legend far across the lands for years to come. She decided she would become the most prolific and mental serial killer that anyone had ever seen and call Norris McWhirter post-haste. 

Elizabeth began luring young girls to the castle by telling them she’d give them a job. That job, as it turned out, was to be beaten, burned and eaten alive. Elizabeth would use hot tongs to burn the girls and then freeze them. Occasionally she’d cover them in honey and flesh eating ants and there was even talk of needles. It was a party in the castle, and no one wanted to be invited. 
Some say she bathed in the blood of her victims in an attempt retain eternal youth, but even if she did, that stuff about the ants is worse, isn’t it?
Eventually the police turned up and caught her red handed, quite literally. They found girls dead, dying and locked up in the castle, so they placed her under house arrest, which seems extremely bloody lenient as far as I’m concerned. 
During her trial they worked out that she might have killed about 650 people which is so naughty that it’s quite hard to put into words. When you consider that you shouldn’t even murder one person, murdering 650 really does take the biscuit.
The King said he wanted her dead but she had a pretty good legal team and they managed to get her bricked up in a tiny room in a castle which is a small victory of sorts.
After 4 solitary years in her windowless cell she said her hands felt cold and then she died.
And that was the story of Elizabeth.

“Do I look like someone who cares what God thinks?” 
- Countess Elizabeth Bathory de Ecsed

Illustrated by Nick Reyniers
Written By Matt T Haydock

  • Go to a fancy dress party dressed as your own genitals and choose this as the night to propose to your partner.

  • Prank all of your work colleagues by running out of the toilets in tears and frantically telling everyone that you've just been raped by a man in a mask.

  • Soak your next door neighbour's pumpkin in petrol overnight so that they blow their hands off when they try and light the bugger. (Also, rob their house whilst they're at the hospital if you're feeling particularly cheeky)

  • Go to the police station and confess to a bunch of murders that you didn't commit. Write the word paedophile on your head in lipstick and see how much trouble you get into. A terrifying night guaranteed.

  • Sellotape bits of soil to your face and spend the evening sat on the toilet listening to Aswad

  • Dig up grandad

  • Paint the names of famous serial killers onto the side of stray dogs and hurl them into your local Pizza Express 

  • Go to a fancy dress party dressed as a dog's vagina. 

  • Tell your 7 year old son that his dad died in a car accident on the way home from work and his ghost lives in the basement now

  • Empty the contents of your Hoover into a bowl and offer the contents to 'trick-or-treaters'. (Answer the door in tears and waving a gun about) 

  • Break into an old people's home and whisper loads of mental shit to all of the senile residents when the nurses aren't looking


Broadcaster David Attenborough last night sensationally claimed that he’s directly responsible for teaching parrots how to talk and considers it his crowning achievement. Addressing the room during a conference at the Natural History Museum, the 98 year old national treasure claimed that he came up with the idea of teaching birds to use language during a period of downtime between filming in 1954.

“We were in the jungle and the cameraman was pissing about with his tripod and this little cockatoo came and sat next to me on a log” he said. “I started chatting to it and it looked interested and seemed to be replying with a series of twits and tweets. I began showing it how to form sounds using its tongue, much like you would with a young child” he continued. “After an hour or two we’d moved on to the alphabet and by the end of the day the bloody thing was chatting away like an after dinner speaker”.

The Blue Planet presenter went on to explain that before he’d had the brainwave there was absolutely no record of avian life replicating human speech. “No one had ever thought of teaching a parrot how to talk but I’d seen them replicating other sounds in the jungle such as monkeys and I thought it might be worth a crack”.
“I guess that little cockatoo went off and taught one of his mates and so on and so forth until it spread around the world and now it’s just one of those things we all take for granted” he added.
“Every time I see a parrot talking in a pirate film or saying the word fuck on Youtube or something I just can’t believe it. I just think back to that afternoon in the Amazon and think...I did that...I made that happen. It’s not every day that you change the behavioural pattern of an entire species”
Attenborough, who already appears on the list of 100 Greatest Britons and has over 20 species named after him (none of which are parrots) went on to explain how he was going to keep it to himself but decided it was an achievement he wasn’t willing to take to the grave. “I wasn’t going to say anything because I thought that people wouldn’t believe me but when I look back over my life I really do consider teaching parrots how to talk up there as one of the most important things I’ve done in my career”.
When asked to verify Attenborough’s claim, Mrs Bithiny Horsebasket who is currently the Head of Life Sciences at the museum said “If Sir David says it’s true then it’s true...even though the earliest reference to a talking bird comes from the 5th century BC and video footage of birds talking exists from long before he was born...he’s the boss what he says goes”