Contemplating my idiot half-brother's multi-generation reign of terror, it seemed a fine idea to consider when the first signs of his depravity emerged.

After he left for college, the first time I visited John, aka The Golden Psycho, in his Denton apartment was at age six with freshly-licensed Neila. It was kind of a bummer. Neila was not an especially skilled or confident driver and John was kind of an asshole that day, perhaps due to his permanent dislike of Neila.

UnGentleman, Start Your Engine!
A couple weeks later, John collected me for the first of many weekends as his guest, and his first misbehavior that I recall came to pass before we'd even reached his apartment. On the way to Denton, he drove his blue Gran Torino (over which he hosed his cosigner, Mom, on the loan) over 100 mph, weaving through traffic.

He acted like a real big shot, as if he were the lone sole on Earth capable of such a feat. It worked - we have a 100-based society and I was quite impressed.

Those who know me understand I'm about the last guy who would get in a twist over driving fast. It's probably best, however, to refrain from such with a six year-old child on board. That's doubly true if it's someone else's mongrel. One has more right to kill or mangle their own crotchfruit than another's, I guess.

In 1974, almost nobody wore seat belts. Consumer auto maneuverability was short of stellar. Airbags and crumple zones were but ideas deep in the minds of engineer nerds. Safety glass was in its infancy. Dashboards were hard as rocks. Being in a car wreck often meant being obliterated.

What astounding audacity and poor judgment shown by this 20 year-old entrusted with a little boy. You just don't do that with other people's kids. One should strive to triple-ensure their safety. Quite simple, really.

This is the moment the The Golden Psycho beast was born, at least for me.

Of course, as a young boy, I enjoyed the fast ride and later told Neila about it. She was less enchanted by the matter than I and told Mom, who was even less enthusiastic, and John was told to refrain from such antics. I doubt Dad ever knew it happened. I doubt he would have approved, either.

Thanks for Dinner, Sport
The first night, we dined at the Mexican eatery where John worked. He insisted on ordering for me, which sucked 'cuz I rarely got to eat real Mexican food. Mom was an outstandingly fussy eater and the skankvittles from Pancho's Mexican Buffet unfortunately stood as the lone Mex food approved in our household.

I had my own money and was quite slim, so I couldn't understand why I couldn't get what I wanted. He ordered me a suck-ass kiddie soft taco meal and iced tea while he got a superb combo dinner swimming in sauces and beautiful, stringy melted cheese. Afterward I was allowed one sopapilla and was denied a second one. Hell, at least Poncho's brought 'em to ya by the basket full.

What a jerk. Why not have a good meal the first night you ever host a family member? It was no skin off his nuts - I would have gladly paid for the whole thing. His need to impose his will upon others, even in oddly trivial matters, was impressive.

The Great Snack Bar Overlord
After that half-assed dinner, he took me to see The Exorcist with some members of his soccer team. As with the triple-digit driving, most would question the wisdom of taking a 6 year old to see that movie. One of his teammates, a very nice Iranian gentleman with whom I hit it off, was uncomfortable and suggested The Sting instead, to no avail.

John pulled more authoritarian shit at the theater snack bar, allowing one shared box of Jordan almonds (his favorite, of course) and a small popcorn plus one small soda each. His partiality to Mountain Dew assured separate sodas, methinks.

The movie was insane. Insane, I tells ya. Used to Gilligan's Island and Sinbad movies, I'd seen nothing remotely like it. In a way, my childhood locked up all four corners and screeched to a halt that evening.

You Got Vagina on My Crucifix! No, YOU Got Crucifix on MY Vagina!
During a lull in the cinematic bedlam, I suggested to John that we get some more snacks, but he shushed me, pointing at the screen.

Well, excuse the hell outta me, but that lame kiddie dinner didn't get it done, so between the scene where Linda Blair stab-fucked herself with the crucifix while screaming...

Let Jesus fuck you, let Jesus fuck you! LET HIM FUCK YOU!!!

...and the one where she bellowed at poor Father Karras...

Your mother sucks cocks in Hell, Karras, you faithless slime!

...the munchies got the better of me. I was a growing boy, already tall for my age, and watching all that depravity and vomited pea soup can make a lad hungry, see.

I rose and tried to discreetly slink away, but John grabbed my arm and asked where I was going.

Yes, he actually did that.

When someone gets up during a film, it's pretty easy to guess why and needless complications are not appreciated by movie audiences. How needlessly vacuous, disruptive, and intrusive.

Idiot.

I growled at him that I was going to go take a piss and yanked my arm away, which made some of the college kids sitting behind us giggle. He gave a stern, foreboding look that seemed like a warning, then glared at the gigglers behind us, sparking more giggling.

In reality, the urinary bladder in my underfed body was not the squeaky wheel - my food bladder, called a "stomach" by many, was. Once in the aisle, I bolted like a jackrabbit to the snack bar, returning with a kick-ass tray of proper movie house junk food, enough to share.

That made John livid. Seriously, he, silent, looked at me like he was gonna kill me. I kept offering him food, he refused and pouted. I offered the Iranian some and he, too, opted out, but I think it was because the movie was upsetting him sufficiently to render eating foolhardy.

He wasn't the only one upset - that movie was turning the place upside down. Crying. Gagging. Retching. Vomiting. Several rose and bolted, never to return. At the time, there had never been a mainstream film so intense and depraved. For many it simply was too hot to handle.

The Silent Treatment
To penalize my show of independence, John gave me the silent treatment the rest of the evening. He threw a pillow and blanket onto the sofa, muttered “Good night,” and disappeared into his bedroom.

The next day the cold shoulder continued. Yes, a 20 year-old was STILL pouting because a boy of 6 went to the snack bar. Passive aggression is a cornerstone of The Flozberk Way, often used like a scalpel by Mom, Neila, and John.

As we played backgammon and watched NCAA sports, him speaking only when necessary and with a coldness I'd never known from him, I noticed him eyeing my thick head of long, straight little boy hair.

Uhhh...whassup wid dat?

The Barber is In: One Chair, No Waiting
I found out the next morning. He thought I was too pretty and girly-boy lookin', so he put a chair in the middle of the kitchen floor and told me to plant my butt in it. Announcing that I needed to “look like a man,” he directed me to a dinette chair and fucking cut my goddamn hair.

A boy of 6 was being fed toddler meals, yet would somehow be moved toward manhood by an oaf with scissors. Yeah, sure, John. Sure.

It was a bad haircut. Real bad. We're talking epic. He didn't seem like a stupid or uncoordinated man, so the sheer degree of failure remains puzzling. I guess there are reasons people who aspire to cut hair go to school.

WTF was going through his head? Was he thinking he'd bring me home sporting a stunning haircut and would magnanimously proclaim that he'd improved my appearance, boosted my masculinity, and spared Dad the burden of taking me to the barber?

Or, was he lost in the moment and his own arrogance, somehow oblivious to his throbbing hubris? Knowing John, I'm puttin' my chips on that throbbing hubris thing.

In the morning, after my hair had dried and I'd slept on it, the full woefulness of his coiffeurie exploded to life and my once-smug barber was now clearly anxious, futilely jabbing at touch-up attempts with his scissors, then, running late, we hit the road to take me home.

For some odd reason, he didn't drive 100mph that time, though. Double nickel all the way.

He was also unusually quiet other than demanding that I quit touching the odd hodgepodge of growth atop my head. When I asked why I couldn't touch my own goddamn head, he answered with a barrage of silence.

In the final act in this tragicomedy, he stopped at Jack in the Box for a cup of water. I saw through the window that the matter had become tense and he reached in his pocket, slammed something on the counter, and stormed out - they charged him for the cup + water. Thankfully, he capitulated and we didn't end up crawling through strangers' hedges looking for a hose.

I was puzzled - we were but a mile from the crib and Mom and Dad, being hard working people, saw to it that we had good ol' H2O at our constant disposal.

The Golden Psycho's Mobile Hair Stylin' Mega-Extravaganza
The water was for sloppin' down the tragedy atop my head, but he seemed to be gleaning little comfort from his effort. To and fro, back and forth he herded my hair while studiously avoiding eye contact, but satisfaction was elusive.

Ready to go home, I "accidentally" knocked the cup of water off his car trunk and steeled myself for his reaction, but he was too defeated to deploy his usual hissy fit. Wow. Back in the car we went for the short drive to my home.

Exiting the car, I suggested we play soccer in the front yard, but as I said that and swung the door shut, he hammered the throttle and got the fuck out of there, almost jerking the car door handle from my fingers. Never had he taken me home without coming inside to visit. Dude wanted out.

Given that, why he bothered to soak and comb my hair is intriguing. What did he gain? I guess habitual scammers often have to focus on delaying the inevitable, even for a meaningless few seconds.

Mom wasn't fooled for a second. Immediately upon seeing me, she flipped her lid, aghast, and actually started yelling at me for allowing John to mutilate me so. I suggested she take it up with her Golden Child. She dashed to the phone and furiously dialed his number even though it was it was quite impossible for him to have made the 45 minute drive home in the 2 minutes since he expunged me and sped away like a damn dragster.

Dad took me to get a proper haircut. Mom eventually got John on the phone to tear him a new one, but his repeated “I was just trying to help” whines worked their Golden Psycho magic and that was the end of it.

Ponder
It somehow took me almost 40 years to substantially grasp what an interesting experience that weekend was.

John was oblivious to the implications of a first-grader sitting next to him as, amid many other atrocities, a 12 year-old girl fucked herself with a crucifix on a 40 foot screen , yet was vigilant as a puma at that same boy exercising his free will at the snack bar or having hair a bit too long for his standards.

What a total loon. Going to dinner and the movies with Mom and Dad was much, much more fun and less degrading.

That was the first time I was away from my home and parents. During the first 48 hours I'd spent under John's control, he managed to rocket me down the road at 100+ mph sans seat belts, exposed me to the most controversial material in existence short of hard core porn, and VERY clumsily attempted to change my fundamental appearance to match his standards.

Had we been a blue-collar family, perhaps he would have taken me to a brothel and gotten me tattooed. At least I returned home enhanced by the knowledge that that a crucifix could, under certain circumstances, be used as an impromptu (or highly promptu) violent, bloody sexual device.

Return to Appendices