Howdy y’all! I’m your new contributor, Crimson Skye and I would like to welcome you to my Beldam Stories. I’ve been causing mayhem and terror on the world’s burlesque circuits for years and now I’ve been asked to write about burlesque and gruesome stuff. The gruesome stuff I can do, easy as pie, the burlesque…I’ll try. Most of my stories will be mostly grizzly but at other times you may just end up with an angry rant – although I tend to keep up the craziness when formulating these rants by muttering darkly on public transport. That way, no one ever sits next to me.
Now with it being so close to Halloween, what better way to start than with gruesome? So I’m going to start with a lovely little story from way back in 2003. Sitting comfortably?
Once upon a time, there was a man called Peter Bryan…admittedly it doesn’t have the same ring to it as, say, Hannibal Lecter but not everyone starts life with a glamorous moniker. Peter Bryan was nuts. At first he was just plain nuts and a petty thief but after being sacked from the day job for stealing, like any sane person, he plotted revenge.
Most of us would probably start with a prank phone call or maybe start a rumour about your ex-boss and a mutant from Harvester on Facebook, but Peter Bryan decided to bludgeon the shop owners daughter to death with a claw hammer. He then jumped from a third floor window in Battersea (I grew up in Battersea!) but survived and was done for manslaughter with diminished responsibility. Whilst locked up in Rampton maximum security psychiatric hospital for nine years, he learned how to appear sane…as you do in a mental hospital.
Thus, apparently sane, he was assessed and released into the world but after being caught blowing raspberries on the belly of a 16 year old girl, (unfortunately they don’t specify if the belly was still attached to the girl at the time), he was admitted to a general hospital ward under care in the community. Ah! Care in the Community – that genius idea of the last Tory government. Without them we wouldn’t have any lunatics and nutters accosting us at the bus stop while we’re minding our own business and shouting at us that we’re a monkey fucker, just as we’re tucking into a banana. Oh…was that just me then?
Receiving treatment at the Topaz ward, (doesn’t quite have the same ring to it as Rampton maximum security psychiatric hospital does it?), it was agreed one day that Peter Bryan could leave the ward as much as he wanted to from then on. So Peter Bryan left that day and went to visit a man called Brian Cherry.
Brian Cherry was a nice man with no friends…erm…except for the friend that went round to his house that night and discovered his dismembered body. Oh and Peter Bryan eating Mr Cherry’s brain.
I like this bit from the statement: At around 7.15pm his friend Nicola Newman let herself into the flat and noticed a strong smell of disinfectant. Bryan then emerged from the living room bare-chested and holding a knife to announce: ‘Brian is dead.’
‘She naturally did not believe him and tried to look into the room,’ prosecutor Aftab Jafferjee told the Old Bailey.
Naturally! Faced with a big, bare-chested man standing in your friends flat with a knife, telling you your friend is dead would you:
a) not believe him and push past the big, bare-chested man with a knife further into your friends flat, thus leaving the big, bare-chested man with the knife standing between you and the only way back out? Or;
b) believe the big, bare-chested man with a knife standing in your friends flat telling you your friend is dead and go home to watch EastEnders and think nothing more of it?
Naturally Ms Newman did not believe Peter Bryan and pushed further into the flat where she found Mr Cherry lying naked on the floor sans one of his arms and a large part of his brain. The Daily Mail kindly provided a delightful diagram:
Now, it’s the fine detail that really sets this story apart from the normal humdrum cannibal stories. When the police entered Mr Cherry’s flat – I’m guessing Ms Newman had not gone home to watch EastEnders – they found him standing in the hallway, in the dark (straight out of the big, bumper book of horror cliché’s) with blood-stained hands, jeans and trainers…no top though, on account of him being bare-chested and all.
In the kitchen, on the stove was a small amount of meat frying in a pan…I prefer sautéed. Next to the stove was a shit load of Mr Cherry’s brain tissue and hair matted with blood, heaped on a plate next to a knife and fork on the draining board and most importantly, a large, open tub of Clover butter!
He told police “I ate his brain with butter. It was really nice.”
Can you imagine the mood in the marketing team at Clover? On the one hand, wonderful product placement and press coverage worth millions thanks to the police. But on the other hand, that bastard Bryan not mentioning how he prefers Clover over other leading brands, found in the dairy aisle in your local supermarket!
Why on earth would a man be crying over a corn on the cob? I like to think he’s looking at the corn on the cob, the butter dripping off it, his kids and his wife staring adoringly at him and thinking “Corn on the fucking cob again? I swear, if I’m given corn on the cob one more fucking time, I’m going to fry your brains in Clover…and what the fuck are you looking at, you little brats? You’re not even mine!”
And of course when I have the girls over for a girly night on the sofa, I make sure there’s enough bread and butter to go round with a nice Chianti!
Peter Bryan was absolutely found guilty of murder and being completely nuts. He even admitted it himself saying he found he was “comforted by the smell of blood”. But even after all this, with prison officers in Pentonville using riot shields when unlocking his cell in case of attack and saying that he wanted to kill a warder and eat someone’s nose (yup…nose!), the prison doctors at Broadmoor believed he had ‘settled’ and transferred him to a medium security ward where he went on to kill a fellow inmate in the kitchen!
His words: ‘I wanted to cook him but there was no time, nor was there access to cooking equipment. I briefly considered eating him raw.’
I’m guessing they use Flora at Broadmoor.