The following comes from a series of papers that were found in an abandoned mental hospital, dating from early 1970.
It has been about seven years since I was transferred to this hell-hole that local people call the "funny farm". It could be better; I’ll put it at that! Most of the clean white-coated doctors and nurses who work here are pretty nice and calm, but a few here are complete assholes. They treat us folk like absolute shit by calling us names, beating us if we don’t do our work, and taking away food if we become even the tiniest bit of mean to them. There was one nurse in particular that I hated more than anything in the world. Her name was Trina something or other. I can’t remember her last name at all!
Basically, she was the least liked doctor in the entire hospital. If one of the simple folk wandered out of the outside park, she would lock him out and teach the others to not do such a thing. After five hours, she would let him back in. I think one died because of a blizzard that struck the area, but it’s been a while. A few days after her tenth year on the job, one of the bigger, less smart patients smashed her head in with a trash can. He was put to death row for killing her, but everyone prayed for him to be let go. A few weeks later, he was put to the electric chair.
And then we have the big rainbow of the crazies in this place. Where do I start with them? First, there's the type of people who I like to call the "basket weavers", or as the doctors call them, "mentally challenged people". They do nothing but sit on the cold concrete floor. The basket weavers have a big toothy grin on their face to show that they look like completely unaware of what they're in. But inside of their damaged mind, the voice inside them screams and SCREAMS to be let out of this hell! They pass their time by twiddling their toes and thumbs.
But wait, there’s a lot more to talk about these people. We have the murderers who act like that Charley Manson guy I heard about. They often like to attack the prisoners and doctors alike, just so that they can get just one more kill. There are the people with two personalities, like me. They’re actually the sanest of the prisoners, but are kept in because we’d pose a threat to the outside world. I call bullshit, really! I can’t remember the rest, but I do remember that a rich guy put his rowdy ex-girlfriend in here once.
Now how did I get into this mad place, you ask, considering that I sound pretty sane? Well, it all started when my dog Max ran away. He was a mixed-breed, having a German Shepard father and a Labrador retriever mother. Anyways, when I found out that my dog ran away, I was completely heartbroken. Ever since I had graduated from high school, Max was the only friend that I really had. I fell on my knees, and prayed to both God and Jesus Christ that my dog would return. After about a week or so, he didn't come home, and I had no choice but to put wanted posters all over where I live.
At the same time, I was pissed off. I had given Max some nice food to make sure he didn't die early, and I had to clean out his doghouse and pick up his shit off my lawn. And THIS is how he treats me, by running away and not coming back? I sure as hell don't deserve this at all! I HOPE THAT RETARDED MUTT GETS SENT TO THE ASPCA AND DIES OF SOME PAINFUL SICKNESS! Sorry, I apologize for that. My split personality disorder is becoming a lot more frequent than it had before. I waited for months and months and months. And still, he didn't come home. One day, some stranger had called me on the telephone. He had hiked in a nearby park when he tripped and nearly fell over a mound.
He saw that there was something sticking out of the mound. After getting a shovel from a nearby Forest Ranger, he went to the mound and started to dig it up. Soon, he noticed what had made the mound. It was a decomposing carcass of a dog, who had been tortured painfully until he was shot in the head by an unknown man. He noticed that the dog looked like a dog that he saw on a wanted poster. When he got home, he called my number, and told me everything that happened. I was horrified. What sadist would do something to my dog Max?
Weeks went, and I just pondered and pondered on who killed Max. It could have been a bully from school who killed Max. But even then, that was taking it too far. Finally, I got an envelope. The envelope contained a letter from a man who claimed to be the killer of my dog. It turns out that the dog the man in the park found wasn't my dog, but a different dog altogether. He said that if I wanted to ever see my dog again, I had to give 500 dollars to him at the alleyway near the local bar. So I went to where he wanted to see me, and after waiting in the alley near the bar in the rain for over 10 minutes, the kidnapper walked into the alley. He asked me “Where are the five hundred dollars?” Can you guess what my response to this question was? I just took out a knife from my coat and started stabbing him with it.
It was very amusing hearing his gurgling as I slashed his nose off, and took out both eyes with my blood-stained knife. After I killed him, I hung the body over my shoulder, and walked home. The fact that the town was pitch-black due to a power outage made it perfect for me holding his body look like someone carrying away his drunken mate. After I got home, I went to the basement, brung out a scalpel, and started cutting slowly across his body, until I was able to pull the two flaps out and show his still-fresh organs. I first took out the heart, followed by the lungs, intestine, stomach, gallbladder, and kidney. I opened his face, ripped out his skull, and took the brain out of his skull. After I had cut him all up, I put him into a garbage bag, went to a nearby river, and dumped all the body parts in the river. Good riddance!
It was a couple of days later when the newspaper came. It talked about Elias Downer’s body parts being scattered all over the river's edges, and how they only retrieved his left foot, kidney, and skull. I wondered if they would ever find out who the murderer is. After a few months, it was declared a cold case, as there were no fingerprints or evidence of my murder. Good! During this time, I realized that it was very fun to kill people, because the human body is a fascinating one, indeed. Although no one is perfect, I had a dream that I could Frankenstein a body and make it the perfect human being. So, at around 1 AM, I went to the town's graveyard with a shovel, and began to dig up the bodies of various people who had died in the last month. I had dug out ten bodies before carting them off to my home.
For hours, I experimented with the various body parts that I deemed perfect. The first body had the perfect arms and head, the second had the perfect heart, et cetera. After four days of stitching together random body parts, I had created the perfect human being. In the basement, I propped it up like a trophy. Every day, I would look at it for hours, marveling on what I had done. This was not to last, however. You see, when I had committed the murder of the kidnapper of my poor dog, they had found my blood on one of the fingers. I suddenly remembered that when I was killing him, I accidentally cut my finger on a sharp object, and some of the blood got on his body.
Predictably, they were on a wild goose chase to find me. Unfortunately for them, I had locked my doors and windows, so no one could peek in and find me in the house. Unfortunately for me, I had gone completely bonkers! Five weeks without medication! Can you believe it? I certainly can! During this time, I started to destroy my house. One by one, the various pieces of furniture were destroyed with various axes and knives. Eventually, the house looked like something you’d see in a ghost town! One day during the madness, I wanted to be a singing star, like Elvis Presley or Fats Domino!
I went downstairs and got my old drum set out. Using an audio tape recorder, which I got for Christmas from my cousins, I put in a three-minute long tape, and I started hitting the snare randomly. After I heard it, I didn’t like it one bit. It felt so un-natural and chaotic. Just like me! So, I did it again and again until I loved the tune. AND I LOVED IT A LOT! It had a lot of room for improvement, so I recorded me playing a tambourine over the snare. I synchronized the tambourine with the snare drum, and it sounded like a metal shovel hitting concrete. Well, for me, that is. When I was listening to the tape, my other personality got the best of me for a few hours, and I recorded myself talking about why I went insane, and some of the remarks I made, to the tune of one of my favorite folk songs, "The Campbells Are Coming!"
After that, I found some helium balloons. Because I went to high school and graduated, I knew that your voice would change in pitch if you breathed some helium. I proceeded to suck the precious helium up. After this, I rambled on about more of my life. I listened to the entire song, and I loved it! It was a little tune about my life and how I went insane! However, I thought the paranoia factor of the song wasn't quite finished, which can be very sad! So, I wanted to put a siren in the song. “Where, oh where could I get one?” I pondered! A few minutes after this, my next door neighbor croaked on his lawn (I think it was a heart attack), and an ambulance came to pick up his body. I recorded the siren it made, put it on the track, and listened to it again. It was as perfect as murdering that kidnapper! After a while, I had the entire song put on a record. However, the record was an Elvis one, and it had a B-side, like most records do.
I NEEDED TO DO SOMETHING TO FILL THE B-SIDE! IF I COULDN'T DO SO, IT WOULD OBVIOUSLY BE COPIED! I suddenly had an idea. I would reverse the song I made and put it on the other side of the vinyl. So I did, and the result was beautiful! I played and looped it every night for the next twelve days. Unfortunately, on the thirteenth day, my other next-door neighbor got very annoyed with the music, and he called the police. The police broke my door down, and checked the house. Finally, one of them said that I was in the basement. They found me in a fake Napoleon suit sitting down peacefully, with a Do Not Disturb sign, while the music was playing. So, predictably, they took me to a mental hospital, and that was where I have been since.
Well, what happened to the record, you may ask? One of the cops gave the master tape as well as a copy of the record to some failure claiming to be the real Napoleon XIV! And it got worse, too! This Napoleon impersonator took my perfect track and used it as his 'hit' single, called “They’re Coming to Take Me Away, Ha-Haaa!” Well, guess what, ‘Napoleon XIV’? I'm going to find you and take a little trip to your house. Then, I will take you away to MY happy home and see that you get the same fate as that kidnapper! Oh yeah, I will get him for stealing my music, no matter the cost! Hee hee, haa haa, hee hee. HAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHAHA
The rest of this page was ripped apart, although it’s believed that the laughing would have kept on going until the page ended.
Until 2013, the man's identity had not been found. Even when the complete records of the mental hospital were discovered on August 18th, 2009, researchers could not find who the man was. On 2/01/13, said researchers did manage to find an erased name next to the serial number of Patient #0369 that they thought was blank.
After two days, the name turned out to be Kristoffer Holzer, who is the father of infamous murderer Freddrick Gorgote. This explains why Freddrick keeps using the famous song by Napoleon XIV in his homemade episodes of Happy Appy.