Monday, July 19, 1999
It is time that I come forward with the truth about Kirby. I thought that I could live for the rest of my life (hell, at least until the end of summer!) with the guilt that I have been carrying on my shoulders. But alas, I cannot. I cannot go on one more day with the knowledge and the blame from the crime I have committed. The weight is way too heavy. I walk through life, peering from beneath these shaded sunglasses, worried that others know my secrets, worried that people's eyes can pierce right into the truth when they stare at me. And I have become a shell of a man as a result of it. I walk around in fear, in paranoia, in anxiety.
I must confess.
I have spent the last 12 months preparing for, and successfully executing, the murder of Kirby, my own joint creation (brought to life by me and Robert Sterling).
It was me, along with my trusty 10-year old assistant Jimmy, who followed Kirby from Los Angeles to Arkansas to New York to D.C. to North Carolina to Mississippi to Tennessee to Alabama to New Orleans to Texas, and eventually to room #132 at the Indian Ridge Hotel in the city of Rachel, Nevada. We also killed the prostitute who Kirby was with at the time. Her name was Randi, she had red hair, and her dimensions were 36D-28-38. Her body is buried in the Nevada desert right now. The exact location of her dead body is in the middle of this map, graciously provided by MapQuest:
In order to make it seem like I was not a suspect, I had to "duck out" of the scene for a year. I had to stop speaking with you and your readers, and I had to make it seem as if I had no interest in following Kirby around the country. After all, why would a little ol' computer programmer like me want Kirby dead?
Why?? Let me tell you why.
Because Kirby pissed me off like no other person on the face of this planet. Everything that I did well, Kirby undermined me. Kirby made me feel like shit consistently. If something was going well in my life, Kirby would try to "take it away" from me by pointing out the things that weren't going well in my life, while meanwhile bragging about the sterling successes of his own life. He loved to argue with me, just for the sake of arguing. And he didn't treat me like a friend -- or a father, for that matter. I designed his coffee mugs, I sold his coffee mugs, I managed his international rise to fame, I coordinated all of his interviews on Leno, Letterman, and even his embarrassing appearance on Springer. I was even the one who masterminded the spin control "Think Kirby" ad campaign to help prevent his image from getting tainted after his humiliating experience on Politically Incorrect, and his moritfying parody on Celebrity Deathmatch.
But FUCK -- did Kirby appreciate any of this? NOT ONE FUCKING BIT OF IT. He laughed at my misfortunes, he cursed my successes, and worst of all -- he would raid my kitchen and eat my fucking peanut butter without my permission.
It was too much for me, Kirby's own co-creator. I felt my life going into a tailspin. I couldn't even account for my actions anymore... I felt that my life had become Kirby's life. I felt that he was taking advantage of me, that he was controlling me, that I no longer had a mind of my own anymore. And I had to do something drastic -- it was either KILL myself.... or KILL Kirby.
And so I "resigned" from being Kirby's road manager. I "resigned" from the ranks of The Konformist. I withdrew from all social circles relating to Kirby. And I went into a great depression. Every day, I held a gun in my left hand and a rope in my right hand, drinking myself silly with Kombucha Tea. But I just couldn't bring myself to it. I just couldn't take my own life. Yet Kirby's taunting voice mail messages and emails continued. I couldn't escape from Kirby.
So there was only one choice. I had to kill Kirby. I was a victim, you see, and killing Kirby was the only escape I had.
And so I slowly & carefully planned Kirby's cold-blooded death.
Knowing that Kirby tried to infiltrate Area 51 twice a year (once on his birthday, and once on the anniversary of Princess Diana's death) and knowing that Area 51 was in the middle of nowhere, I knew that that would be my best chance to get away with my hands clean. I had to work backwards. I started courting the Nevada Forensics Laboratory with my programming skills, hawking a new (yet ultimately bug-ridden) computer program entitled "Automate Your Autopsies! " After 3 months of sales visits, sales calls, and lowering the selling price from $10,000 to $499 (plus sales tax), I was able to install my program on every single mainframe, workstation, and server machine in their laboratories. The hard part was over. Any man named Kirby who was brought into their labs would NOT ONLY be labeled as dying of "natural causes", BUT ALSO would be marked by the computer as needing "absolutely no autopsy." In other words, all dead people named Kirby were immediately passed through the labs and directly to the grave -- usually in less than 24 hours. I sometimes laugh, wondering how many other Kirby's passed through that laboratory without getting their proper operations done! haahhahahaha.
I had to work quickly now. There were only 6 weeks left until Kirby would be celebrating his birthday by partying, drinking, smoking marijuana, and fucking prostitutes inside his favorite room (# 132) at the Indian Ridge Hotel. That was his favorite room because it was one of only two rooms that faced West -- so he wouldn't be woken by the morning sun as he slept in until 2:00pm with a raging hangover. One of Kirby's favorite activities was throwing empty beer bottles at the maids who peeked into the room and tried to make up his bed while he slept.
Luckilly, the Indian Ridge Hotel was completely un-computerized, so it was a relatively easy sell to sell them on my new (yet ultimately bug-ridden) computer program entitled "Gouge Your Guests! ") for $10,000 (plus sales tax). One night, while setting up their new iMac with the new GYG software, I simply lifted one of the extra keys to room #132 and put it in my pocket. So fucking simple.
I then retreated to my apartment in Los Angeles and waited.
Meanwhile, a young 10-year old friend of mine named Jimmy (we had met at a Southwest U.S. Karaoke Championship about a year prior) was paid $20,000 by me to befirend Kirby and keep him close by his side. Kirby abused & used Jimmy, just like he abused & used me, but never for a second did Kirby think Jimmy was a plant. As long as Jimmy had peanut butter in his fridge, Kirby was happy and wasn't asking any questions. (On a side note, I had expected to sell both computer programs for a total of $20,000, so I was actually out of pocket $9,500 at this point).
One night, at 3:00 in the morning, Jimmy paged me to alert me that Kirby was leaving RIGHT THEN AND THERE for his trip to Area 51! My pager read: 515151 (it was our code). I quickly threw on some shorts and a t-shirt and hopped in the car towards Kirby's house. I kept a low profile -- parked halfway down the street -- and as soon as I saw Jimmy & Kirby hop in Kirby's car, I started following them with my lights off and always a distance away.
But he didn't drive towards Nevada, that fucking bastard! Instead, he went on a prostitution binge in almost every major political city in this country! It was as if he was literally fucking away his disgust for this government of ours. If I had known that I would be spending almost a month on the road following Kirby, I would have fucking brought a change of clothes. But no. For almost 4 weeks, I slept in my car with the same shorts and the same t-shirt and the same goatee. I ate what I could, when I could, but I rarely slept -- I was always on the lookout for Kirby leaving -- which was usually in the very early hours of the morning. (Jimmy never got involved in the X-Rated action -- he remains to this day an innocent, virginal, and unharmed boy).
But finally, he drove towards Area 51 and ended up in Rachel, Nevada at the Indian Ridge Motel. And that night, as expected, the poor doomed prostitute Randi showed up.
Jimmy was sitting outside the door to the hotel room, sipping a Diet Dr. Pepper as planned. I took the key out of my pocket and handed it to Jimmy, along with a vial of arsenic and three other poisons. Jimmy poured the poisons into the Diet Dr. Pepper and waited. I went back to my car and also waited. When the throes of passion had died down inside the hotel room, and it seemed for certain that Kirby had passed out on the bed, Jimmy snuck into the hotel room and placed the Diet Dr. Pepper on the bedside table. I snuck into the hotel room behind Jimmy and removed any other liquids from the room (beer bottles, Jolt cola, etc.) and then I took out a wrench and jimmy-rigged the sink so that no water could be produced from the sink. The only drink left in the room was the Diet Dr. Pepper. When Kirby woke up in the morning, completely parched, he would have no other choice but to drink from the Diet Dr. Pepper.
But suddenly, the prostitute woke up. She was not nearly as drugged out as Kirby, and was obviously a much lighter sleeper to boot. She started asking "Who the hell are you guys?", yet before Kirby could be awoken, I instinctively bashed her over the head with my wrench. She collapsed onto Kirby, who shuffled a little bit in his sleep and then pushed her off the bed. We waited in silence to see if Kirby would wake up. You could hear a pin drop. My wrench was perched over Kirby's head, just waiting for him to open an eyelid. But he did not. Good boy, Kirby. Jimmy and I grabbed the dead body, cleaned up the little bits of blood on the wall, grabbed the top sheet which had some blood on it, and looked around impressed with ourselves for doing such a fine clean-up job. We buried her in the desert, came back to the hotel parking lot, and waited.
The next afternoon, the maid carefully peeked her heads into Kirby's room, afraid to be hit by some beer bottles. But nothing was thrown at her. She tiptoed into the room, and we could just barely hear her say in a Spanish accent, "Mister Kirby??" No response. And then, after a few minutes, she came running out of the room, screaming her head off. I think she may have caught a glimpse of us in the car, but it didn't make a difference. She was already in the front office calling the police and we were already on our way back to Los Angeles.
We never did see him take a sip from the can... and we never hear did hear his last few breaths. You see, we never planned on being tied up in the desert with a damned prostitute. But alas, you can't have everything, I suppose.
But no matter what happens now, I can definitely say that the world is a much better place without Kirby in it.
Kirby The Konspiracy Boy Says, "I NEED 2 KONFORM!!!"