Some people never know when to leave the betting shops and head off with their earnings. People like Jerry MacKerren. He'd play until he was broke, vanish for a few hours and come back with bloody knuckles and more cash. The staff never questioned it, they made so much from him that it never seemed worth the bother.
Until he came back with a suspiciously large amount of blood on his shirt, calmly saying "Oh, it's no' mine." before returning to his usual machine to fritter away the £200 that he'd somehow gained in the short span of 90 minutes. They called the emergency services from the breakroom, making sure someone kept a close and covert eye on him until the police arrived, armed and ready to fight if need be. He went quietly, pausing before they led him out of the door to say he'd be back when he got out.
The trial didn't take place until the next year with a grand total of thirty muggings and nineteen murders being held against MacKerren. To his credit he never denied a thing, said it out and loud that he'd needed the money to bet on and they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He did try to blame the local shops for feeding his addiction but at the end of the trial he was sentenced for life and given a $450,000 fine to pay as compensation for the families of the deceased.
Typical Jerry, he never paid his damn fine. In fact he only went and died nine days in, managed to hang himself from a stairwell when nobody was looking. He was always a fellow for grabbing whatever opportunity he could. A creature of habit too.
After his death bodies began to turn up around the area again with Jerry's signature kill signs. Poor sods had been beaten to death, their faces pulped beyond recognition and all of their pockets torn off, money gone somewhere or other. At the time we had no idea what was going on, we thought there was some stupid kid somewhere deciding that for some reason Jerry was his role model and becoming a copycat was the perfect homage to his rotten legacy.
It wasn't until Jerry's usual machine began acting up that we began to suspect something far worse than a copycat. Somehow the original was back to his old habits. CCTV footage showed that every night at his normal time the machine would start acting odd, like someone was trying to play it but their hands were janked up. It'd stop for a couple of house then start right back up again, money feeding itself through from an ever-growing pile on his chair.
The police are at a loss - how can they arrest someone who's already bloody dead?
Until he came back with a suspiciously large amount of blood on his shirt, calmly saying "Oh, it's no' mine." before returning to his usual machine to fritter away the £200 that he'd somehow gained in the short span of 90 minutes. They called the emergency services from the breakroom, making sure someone kept a close and covert eye on him until the police arrived, armed and ready to fight if need be. He went quietly, pausing before they led him out of the door to say he'd be back when he got out.
The trial didn't take place until the next year with a grand total of thirty muggings and nineteen murders being held against MacKerren. To his credit he never denied a thing, said it out and loud that he'd needed the money to bet on and they were in the wrong place at the wrong time. He did try to blame the local shops for feeding his addiction but at the end of the trial he was sentenced for life and given a $450,000 fine to pay as compensation for the families of the deceased.
Typical Jerry, he never paid his damn fine. In fact he only went and died nine days in, managed to hang himself from a stairwell when nobody was looking. He was always a fellow for grabbing whatever opportunity he could. A creature of habit too.
After his death bodies began to turn up around the area again with Jerry's signature kill signs. Poor sods had been beaten to death, their faces pulped beyond recognition and all of their pockets torn off, money gone somewhere or other. At the time we had no idea what was going on, we thought there was some stupid kid somewhere deciding that for some reason Jerry was his role model and becoming a copycat was the perfect homage to his rotten legacy.
It wasn't until Jerry's usual machine began acting up that we began to suspect something far worse than a copycat. Somehow the original was back to his old habits. CCTV footage showed that every night at his normal time the machine would start acting odd, like someone was trying to play it but their hands were janked up. It'd stop for a couple of house then start right back up again, money feeding itself through from an ever-growing pile on his chair.
The police are at a loss - how can they arrest someone who's already bloody dead?
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