Prepared Statement

I wrote this monologue during those great old days at the Testing Ground, at Sweet Alice, in 1995. The neighborhood was still rough, and everyone was either addicted to heroin or at least thinking about how cool it would be to try some of that Nigerian heroin that was hitting the market and turning everyone into zombies. Drinks were cheap and I was in love. David Sedaris, though I know you are not reading this, I am sure you heard me read this one.

I don't know why I like to kill surfers. Perhaps its the stupid, self-satisfied looks on their faces. Maybe its their values. I just like killing them-seein' their skulls split open. My name is Donny. I'm a Venice Beach punk. I killed my first surfer in 1988. I was sixteen.

It was at the gas station on Sepulveda boulevard in Sherman Oaks. I was tryin' to sell this dickweed some ice. Ice was new in 1988, and back then, everyone wanted it-even surfers. This guy was big, really big, with a cocksucking health club body. He must have bought it at Gold's Gum. Stupid fuck tried to mess with me, goin "You're jerkin' me around, dude. What is this shit? LIke, I thought you had the goods..." He grabbed me by the collar of my trenchcoat and shoved me against the bathroom wall. Asshole thought I was tryin' to rip him off, because he bought some two hours ago, and now it was gone, and he wanted more.

As a rule, surfers are stupid. Back then, people didn't know about ice, including me. Ice makes people paranoid fucks. So I shot him.

I was carryin' a .38 snub nose in my pocket and just grabbed it instinctively as he pushed me against the wall. It went off. There was blood everywhere, and this dead surfer wearin' a UCLA tank top with a 6" hole in his chest. He was still struggling. I could hear him gurgling bubbles of blood like he was trying to speak. My trenchcoat was wovered with blood and pieces of him. I was a kid at the time, and I didn't know what to do. So, I just did what my instincts told me. I dropped my trenchcoat over the guy's face and walked right out of there. Dead surfer.

I killed my next surfer two hours later-on purpose this time. My buddy Dale and I were on the way to Madame Wong's to see Operation Ivy, and we stopped at a convenience store to buy St. Ides. Back then, white people dank malt liquor. The Korean guy behind the counter didn't have a problem with us buying the brew, but two pricks behind us kept hasslin him. It was a big, stupid jerk with long hair and his small, vaguely-faggoty looking friend. They kept sayin' shit like "Where's yer mom?" and "You're not gonna let them buy that, are you dude? They're underage." Under normal circumstances, maybe we wouldn't have killed them. The thing is, we were on crystal meth at the time, and thought we were badasses.

St. Ides comes in these 32 ounce bottles that break really nicely when you slam them over a surfer's head. Just hitting someone with a 32 ouncer usually won't slow em down much, but it causes em to raise their hands to their face so you can give em a boot to the balls. By the time the big asshole was on the floor, and I was stomping on his face, Dale had already taken the other one out. Dale never fucked around. He knifed the bitch. Just then, I got this floating feeling like "this is really happening, you can't turn back now, mutherfucker.", so I just kept kicking his head sideways until I knew I had broken his neck. Dale had already emptied the cash register. The Korean guy had split, he was out in the Street on Wilshire Boluevard. As if somebody was going to stop. This is the big city, dickweed. We left out the back door. I was nervous as shit, but Dale was already pounding a pint of JD.

Funny thing is, nobody caught us. I had a few homemade tatts on my forearms, back then, and it couldn't have been easier to identify me, with my jacket and safety pins. Maybe it was a language thing. To the Korean guy, we were just another two punks from Venice Beach. Who knows? The police suck, but I'm not complaining.

I started killing surfers on a regular basis about a year ago. You can call me psychotic, but I just know it has to be done. Surfers are the lowest form of life on the planet, the embodiment of all the really fucked up shit in the world-so I kill them.

A lot of people have a problem with the queers and the spades, but those ideas are out of date. How can people that fucked-over and shit-upon be the problem with society? I think the real problem is surfers. Surfers have a lot of money and don't have to work for it. Most of them have rich parents. By definition, every surfer has the money to buy an expensive board and wetsuit, and a lot of time to jack off at the beach. Look at any MTV segment, and you'll see what I mean. You see them running around with their disgusting, Barbie and Ken bodies, promoting the same materialistic crap people have been indoctrinating us with since we were born. They're tools-just look at the music they listen to. The Beach Boys played for Reagan. Get a clue, assholes.

It was my dad who taught me to shoot a rifle. He learned in the Marines. Asshole. You know the mutherfucker in Apocalypse Now who is surfing while that village is getting napalmed? That was my old man. He was a survivalist. Kansas City encourages that kind of thing. Before I took off to LA, he taught me how to clean a rifle, target shoot, the whole redneck works. Asshole. I would ahve shot my old man, if I had the guts back then. He was a prick, just like a surfer. Looked like one of the Beach Boys and thought it was cool to cheat on his old lady. Bang-later, dad.

I find it amazing that I could shoot four different surfers right off of their boards, on three different occasions, before the pigs caught up with m. Stupid fucks. I don't expect to get convicted. My lawyer says I can plead insanity, but that's not what I am gonna do. I'm gonna plead self-defence.