Sometimes while strolling the Internet I come across news items that appear to be truly unbelievable which turn out to actually be true.
Just the other day I read about the arrest of a forty-five year old historian in central Russia after police discovered 29 corpses of women, dressed as dolls, in his apartment. Dolls? I would assume they were more Malibu Barbie than Raggedy Ann or Cabbage Patch kid, but then again... maybe they were dolls of famous women through the ages such as Queen Isabella, Catherine II, or Ethel Merman.
I imagine the corpses dressed in beautiful evening gowns, seated around the dining room table with a feast of Russian inspired food served on the historian’s late mother’s finest china. I see candelabras burning scented red candles to keep the flesh stench from overpowering the historian’s nasal cavity. And the wine? Must be red. One never serves white wine when there’s a corpse in the room.
And after dinner I imagine the historian, dressed in the finest suit his meager income could buy, dancing with each of the corpses as the candles burned to their bases.
Moonlight serenade on the balcony.
The music. The romance. The necrophilia.
Aaah... just another night for a forty-five year old historian with nothing else to do on a Saturday night in central Russia.
Maybe someone should teach him how to play Solitaire.
Just the other day I read about the arrest of a forty-five year old historian in central Russia after police discovered 29 corpses of women, dressed as dolls, in his apartment. Dolls? I would assume they were more Malibu Barbie than Raggedy Ann or Cabbage Patch kid, but then again... maybe they were dolls of famous women through the ages such as Queen Isabella, Catherine II, or Ethel Merman.
I imagine the corpses dressed in beautiful evening gowns, seated around the dining room table with a feast of Russian inspired food served on the historian’s late mother’s finest china. I see candelabras burning scented red candles to keep the flesh stench from overpowering the historian’s nasal cavity. And the wine? Must be red. One never serves white wine when there’s a corpse in the room.And after dinner I imagine the historian, dressed in the finest suit his meager income could buy, dancing with each of the corpses as the candles burned to their bases.
Moonlight serenade on the balcony.
The music. The romance. The necrophilia.
Aaah... just another night for a forty-five year old historian with nothing else to do on a Saturday night in central Russia.
Maybe someone should teach him how to play Solitaire.
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