You Can Almost Smell The History

“As you are all no doubt aware, Alexander ‘Fedora’ Fennerman had two great loves; cocaine, and himself.”

Some of the tourists tittered at this, others merely smiled or nodded.

“He swept across the Rust Belt on his chopper – a huge custom Billy Bike, almost the size of an old Hummer, or so the legend goes – without a thought for the devastation he left churning in his wake. Every night he was starting fights, picking up sex workers for cheap thrills, smashing up motel rooms for the hell of it, and generally enjoying the kind of road trip shenanigans that Americans have secretly – and not so secretly – fantisised about since the invention of the Model T.”

A few laughs. The guide took a moment to compose herself; it was important not to be too jarring in the change of tone at this point. People enjoyed the story, but you didn’t want to appear callous or bloodthirsty. Got to be informative, but respectful. Sombre, but entertaining.

“It was not until reaching Skokie that he claimed his first victim…which surprises a lot of people. Everyone seems to believe that he started murdering folks pretty much as soon as he set off, but that simply wasn’t the case. Indeed, his actions on that particular night in question do appear understandable, albeit unjustifiable:

As Fedora was about to retire for the evening  – accompanied by his escort, naturally, a Miss Carly Hornblower of Bunkie, Louisiana – a group of men, all of the shaven-headed persuasion and with questionable tattoos and, if I may be so bold, with even more questionable politics, began hurling abuse at the working girl. Initially attempting to defuse the situation by sympathising with the misogynistic brutes while nonetheless asking them to depart the scene, Fennerman was unsuccessful in pleading with them to – as witnesses later recalled him saying – ‘Quit blocking my cock’. Eventually the gang grew tired of pummelling him – oh, sorry everyone, I should have made it more clear that their response to his entreaties was one of violence, mea culpa – so they retired to their own individual Motel rooms to sleep off their glorious victory. In this, they underestimated Fedora.

Doubtless many of you know what happened next, but for those who have only a modicum of familiarity with this sordid tale, I shall briefly conclude:

Fennerman, presumably after tending to his own wounds and perhaps taking a restorative slug of bourbon, left the Motel and purchased a ‘Nailcopter’ from a nearby Drone store –  this was when such devices were still legal, you understand – before flying it through one of the thug’s windows and eviscerating the resident ne’er-do-well in a hail of razor-sharp projectiles. Before the screams and mayhem had died down, Fedora was back on his motorcycle; bruised, bloodied, and borderline insane with emasculated rage, he was now totally in thrall to homicidal impulses.

His next five victims were torn apart with a brutality unmatched in the annals of violent crime…but it was that first night which set everything in motion. Imagine; the drone smashing through the glass with unstoppable force, the occupant waking up in a brief moment of terror, the onboard weaponry shredding everything present to pieces, the horrifying scene seared into the memory of all who witnessed it.”

Taking a deep breath, the guide clasped her hands together.

“And this is the room where it happened!”


“And this is the drone he used!”

Solidarity, brothers & sisters…

About Seba Roux

Gooner, Socialist, Historian, Slacker. That's pretty much all you need to know.
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