"I like fiery passion, actually." - Olympus
Question #92390 posted on 06/27/2019 9:18 p.m.
Q:

Dear 100 Hour Board,

What are some crazy murder related stories do you have? Like, what’s a murder story you have a personal connection with?

-Pallas

A:

Dear Sallap,

So one time on my mission my companion we were out visiting people and we saw these two guys robbing a convenience store. We walked past and tried to play it cool. We got a few blocks away so we started doing some contacting and we realized these two guys were following us. They got up to where we were but because we were talking with someone they passed us. We started walking out of the neighborhood and we looked back and they were following us again. We stopped and knocked at a door and they passed us again. We did this several times and they disappeared.

We left the neighborhood hurriedly and were almost out of the neighborhood when they jump out of the bushes and start yelling at us saying they have weapons and to give them everything. There were two guys and I started taking off my watch to give to the guy next to me, but the guy next to my companion grabs him and and tells him "Get into the bushes". My companion starts backing away from the robber and says "No man, what do you want? You can have it. My watch? My coat?" The robber apparently is unhappy that we didn't have anything valuable so he shoves my companion and swears at him. My companion responds by decking the robber in the face. The robber goes to punch my companion but my companion dodges the punch. The robber realizes that he isn't going to win a fight, so him and the guy robbing me run off. (Oddly enough they didn't actually take anything from us. We literally offered it but they didn't bother to steal it)

We're walking back and I'm thinking about how lucky we are that nothing happened when my companion lets out a small gasp. We walk under a street lamp and I look and his entire left leg is covered in blood. He hadn't been shoved, he had been stabbed. We knock on a door and tell them to call 911. My companion falls to the ground and takes off his blood soak pants because they were uncomfortable. Luckily, we were 4 blocks from the hospital when the incident happened. I gave him a priesthood blessing and the ambulance was already there by the time I said amen. The wound wasn't that deep (We later found out the knife was one of those cheap tiny steak knifes) and my companion  only needed 3 stitches. An hour and a half later he was out of the hospital, on pain medication, and in bed snoring while I was trying to clean the blood out of his clothes.

My companion was fine, but the doctor still ordered a week of bed rest. We had a bunch of teaching appointments so our ward mission leader came and took care of my companion while I went on splits with members to teach our lessons. I was on splits with one member and he said he needed to go get something at his house. So we stop by his house and the brother of this member asks what happened to my companion.

This brother, who we shall call Carlos (not his real name), was really good friends with my companion. They liked the same soccer players, had the same name, and were both 20 years old. Carlos unfortunately was inactive because he was on house arrest. When I tell Carlos what happened he started asking questions about the person who stabbed my companion. I said it was dark and I couldn't really tell but he kept asking questions. Suddenly I realized; he was asking who it was so he could "take care of them". Carlos was literally offering to kill someone for us. I felt bad and changed the subject but he made sure to tell me that if we ever found out to let him know.

I came back and told my companion about it and we died laughing. Aside from the seriousness of the whole situation we were flattered that our buddy Carlos would do that for us. We actually did find out who stabbed my companion and his street address and everything. Don't worry though. We didn't tell Carlos.

Peace,

Tipperary

A:

Dear Jove's Daughter,

This is a story from my grandparents. To make sure I would get all the details right, I actually called my grandma this evening and had her relate the entire tale to me. These aren't her exact words, but the account itself is accurate.

It was 1959 and my grandma was pregnant with her first child. She and my grandpa lived in a log cabin in Monroe (a minuscule rural town in mid to southern Utah). The cabin was owned by a relative, had wood fire stoves, no heated water (a fire had to be kept lit in the stove to heat the water), and (surprisingly at this point) electricity. There was no phone, and all the neighbors were about a half mile or so away. My grandpa was working in the "big town" of Richfield that was 10 miles away. He worked 12 hour shifts flattening boards (which was a very labor intensive process), and was paid by the number of boards he flattened. Because it was such hard, sweaty work, he normally started at 3 or 4 in the morning, and wouldn't be back home until between 4 and 5 in the evening (side note: I know I've talked a lot on here about how intensive ACME was and how hard I had to work--my grandpa definitely has me beat).

Now, this was an era where it was common for there to be traveling salesmen/peddlers. Because restaurants weren't super common in general (and completely non-existent in Monroe), it was considered common courtesy to always invite any salesman who came knocking at the door in for a glass of water or a bite to eat. So when one day a salesman dropped by the little log house, my grandma let him in for a glass of water.

This peddler was selling pots and pans, but my grandma already had some so she declined buying any. Normally this would be the point where the man would thank his host for the water and be on his way. Instead, he stayed there. And then he started sidling up to my grandma. No matter where my grandma moved to, he kept coming closer. She would move to a chair away from anything else. He would insistently follow. She asked him to leave, saying her husband would be home soon. He refused, and just kept closing in.

At this point in her narrative, my grandma asked me if I'd ever been so scared that I could feel the fear as a palpable presence. That's how she felt. Telling the salesman my grandpa would be home soon was a lie. It was around 2 in the afternoon, and he wouldn't be home for another 2-3 hours. She couldn't even scream because no one was close enough to hear. And so she prayed. She prayed that her mother in law would come over, that anyone would come and save her. [While relating this to me on the phone, my grandma had to pause because my grandpa--who was sitting beside her and listening to the conversation--had begun to tear up. Literally 60 years after the event, my grandpa still gets emotional about this.]

At that exact moment, my grandpa heard the phrase "Oh Lord, bless this house" repeat over and over in his head, and he was suddenly overcome with the chilling knowledge that something was horribly wrong with his wife. He turned to his coworker and said he needed to go home immediately, no matter about not getting in a full days work (and so eating the corresponding pay loss).

As soon as my grandpa pulled up to the house, the salesman bolted, nearly knocking my grandpa over in the doorway as they passed.

The next day, a woman was found dead in a field. She had been murdered, but the killer was never caught. My grandparents have always felt sure it was that same salesman, and had my grandpa not listened to the promptings he got, it could have been my grandma in that field.

~Anathema

A:

Dear Palladian, 

The best I can think of is my great great some-odd aunt. One dark and stormy night... she was smart enough to use an umbrella to protect herself from the pouring rain. This is normally a good idea, but when you live in Salem in the late 1600s, not so much. Because your neighbors will burn you alive for your "inexplicable" ability to stay dry. Tragic. 

Cheers, 

Guesthouse

A:

Dear Palace,

For the sake of future Board posterity, I would just like to share the flagettes from Tipperary's original placeholder, which was (an oddly cheery), "Oh boy personal murder stories?"

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-Alta