It's almost that time of
year again. Shops full of enough brightly-coloured decorations to
induce seizures, cheesier-than-stilton ads on tv, peculiar customs
that would certainly raise an eyebrow at any other time of year and
children so full of sugar, they're probably flammable. That's right;
Hallowe'en. Don't get me wrong, I love hallowe'en. And not just
because it's a great excuse to get moderately stewed, while dressed
as a champagne bottle.
I always loved it as a
child: the toffee apples, the bags of mixed nuts (which brought the
challenges of trying to crack a hazelnut without damaging ornaments
and trying to crack a Brazil nut without damaging yourself), the
fireworks and, of course, the assorted spirits walking the earth for
one night only. While I have since (mostly) outgrown witches,
vampires, et al, I do still enjoy the odd urban legend. You know,
missing person eventually found dead in a chimney, someone on PCP
turns cannibal, that sort of thing. They're grown-up fairy tales,
unsettling if you dwell on them, but mostly just escapism. They're
fun, because you know those things can't possibly have happened, so
you indulge your imagination for a moment, then it's back to the real
world. Like the story of the toxic woman, that's just absurd, surely?
A human being whose blood is harmful to anyone near it? Not possible.
Except it is, because it
happened. The case is actually quite well known. On the 19th
of February 1994, Gloria Ramirez was admitted to an emergency room in
California, suffering from advanced cervical cancer. Around the time
it became apparent that Gloria was not responding well to treatment,
medical staff noticed an oily sheen on her skin. A nurse drew some
blood and noticed a foul odour, rather like ammonia, emanating from
the syringe, which she passed to a doctor, before fainting. The
doctor noticed manila coloured particles in the blood, then
complained of feeling light headed, left the room, sat down and
fainted. Shortly after, a respiratory therapist also fainted. In
total, 23 staff were affected. Gloria Ramirez was pronounced dead 45
minutes after being admitted. The case was swiftly downplayed,
dismissed as mass hysteria and basically swept under the rug,
although some people have their doubts about the mass hysteria
explanation. Like the doctor I mentioned, who spent the next two
weeks in ICU and developed hepatitis, pancreatitis and avascular
necrosis (cellular death of bone components, which causes bone
structure to collapse. Not fun). The fact that the autopsy was
carried out by people in full hazmat suits also suggested something
more than panic might be to blame.
In July this year, a
disused bank chimney in Abbeville, Louisiana provided proof that the
first urban myth on the list isn't so mythical. As the bank began
renovations, the remains of Joseph Schexnider were discovered in the
chimney, which had long since been closed off. He was last seen alive
aged 22 in 1984.
As for PCP turning an
otherwise unremarkable person into a crazed killer and cannibal, that
just sounds like propaganda. Until you hear what happened, the last
time Antron Singleton took PCP. Better known (apparently) as the
rapper Big Lurch, Singleton was picked up by police staggering around
the streets of Los Angeles one night in April 2002, after a PCP binge
lasting almost a week. He was naked, liberally coated in blood and
howling at the sky. This was unusual enough, but it gets worse. His
21-year-old female room-mate Tynisha Ysais had been found in her
apartment by a friend. She was dead, with a 3-inch section of a blade
broken off in her shoulder and tooth marks on her face and on her
lungs, which had been torn out. A medical examination performed after
his capture found human flesh in Singleton's stomach that was not his
own.
And then there's the
cursed phone number. The most trouble I've ever had with a phone
number was a few years ago, when I got a new phone, changed my
number and found the new one hard to remember for a while, which is
part of the reason I find the cursed phone number so interesting.
Seriously, there aren't many phone numbers that are easier to
remember than 0888 888 888, but the convenience comes at a price.
Everyone who has had the number since 2000 has died. First,Vladimir
Grashnov, former CEO of Bulgarian company Mobitel, which issued the
number. He died of cancer in 2001, aged 48. Despite a flawless
reputation, there were rumours that a rival deliberately caused his
cancer using radiation poisoning. The number of doom passed to
Bulgarian Mafia boss Konstantin Dimitrov. He was shot by a sniper in
2003 while inspecting part of his drug empire in the Netherlands.
Russian Mafia bosses were thought to be behind the murder. The number
passed to businessman Konstantin Dishliev, who managed to keep
breathing till 2005, when he was shot outside a restaurant. By day an
estate agent and by night the head of a massive drug trafficking
operation, Dishliev was killed after police intercepted enough
cocaine to ski down coming into Bulgaria from Columbia. The number
has since been suspended by Mobitel, who are apparently worried about
the possibility of any more fine, upstanding pillars of society being
murdered by sinister rivals.
So it turns out that if
you do a little digging, you might find there's some truth in that
outrageously macabre story, after all. Think about that, next time
you get an email about that babysitter brutally slain by what she
wrongly assumed was a statue of a clown.
And, in case you were
wondering (or didn't already know); yes, I am the proud owner of a
champagne bottle costume. You haven't lived, till you've seen a 6'4”
champagne bottle dance.
