Yvonnne Rutherford steps off her final inner-city bus connection, Aug.
8, 2006, into gruelingly sultry air. Memphis lay like a sun-bleached, beached whale suffocating beneath a week long heatwave. At the
University of Tennessee Health Science Center, students meander all day, bumping into each other. Yvonne drops her ton of books
twice. All eyes gaze upward at a city wide haze out, avidly awaiting any sly meteorologist promise of an impromptu thunderstorm.

Yvonne, in her second year of Pre-med requisites for Nursing, steals a glance over her shoulder. Ronnie Townes paces his allotted
corner, standing ready to escort her homeward bound. Mr. Wayne Rutherford's out of town or at his local booky. Both men wouldn't
dare have it any other way. Once the Federal Government cut funding to the Memphis Police Department by 60% earlier that year,
murder rates rose, theft increased.

Yvonne's fate among hoodlums, criminal elements, gangbusters or prolific killers is never to be compromised.

Ronnie's on the job, all 5'8" of him. He totes Yvonne's book bag as she rips off her lacy silk shirt. Bare shouldered, she shakes her
ponytail as he tries to look away from her tight halter top. Together, a finger on her elbow, they cross a four-lane thoroughfare of
roaring trucks, autos, SUVs. When combustion of cross town traffic ebbs, they raise their eyebrows when a teen walks by. Her tummy
protrudes like a ripe melon. She mumbles hello, pushing a toddler in a rusty stroller.

Ronnie suggests a fountain coke at the corner of Pierce & Arrow Blvds.
They enter Shoemaker's Emporium, watch moms shuffle bored offspring riveted on CDs and video games. School kids reluctantly
cram stationary aisles. One myopic lad cries when his toes pinch inside a rock-bottom sale on sneakers.

Yvonne's legs swing atop a squeaky counter stool. When a frosty mug arrives, she quips coyly, "Can I please have fries with that?"

Ronnie says sure. Air-conditioning descends inside. Outside, mean sweltering temperatures ascend to 101 degrees. For the rest of his
life, Townes wishes he'd purchased a full course dinner at a swankier joint in a classier part of Memphis. Anywhere else to gain more
time than down at Emporium 5 & 10. In a different state, even another country. Two years later, he sails for Iraq.

Belgrave Ave., a two lane one-way street heading North out of the city, parallels Interstate 40. The pair's destination is the 3600 block,
ten streets to the left. Their downhill walk follows quaint historic sections lined by shady sugar maples, beside overgrown walkways of
verdant waxy ivy. Traffic stops completely at 3pm.  Teens vacate a local high as a police detail aides some three hundred students
across nasty, car ridden streets.

Gina "Tiny" Bonheim staggers, carrying  a heavy bundle of clothes.
Today, she cleans her back porch directly adjacent from the Rutherford's three storey brick.

Despite Popeye arms and stretch pants too tight for human exposure, Gina gracefully sets the last bag on the back stoop for the
end-of-the-summer clothing drive. Gina's due at a church hall tomorrow to sort, wash, stack tables with odd assortments of debatable
wearing apparel.

However, First Baptist's first sight of Bonheim is at the funeral which causes a citywide clamp down on perpetrators of misdirected evil
thoughts or deeds. News of the calamity on Belgrave spreads from Memphis's shocked population to the entire nation. Gina, an
eyewitness, makes the first 911 call of the incident, a cold blooded murder so foul.

A full month later, Gina can't fathom Aug. 8. She won't raise her face to her own back door until Christmas.

As Belgrave Avenue's row-house fronts receive crippling sunshine, Myrtle the Turtle Clearmont finds a collapsible lawn chair. Facing
the alley, Mryt, a septuagenarian, lolls below shade from a live oak, marveling at Miss Tiny's energy spurts. Mryt's blind in one eye
prompting acute hearing.

Come September, Clearmont quits crying, noting: "There was so much screaming and wailing grief on that repulsive day, I wished I
was stone deaf."

Oscar Simone skips school, hides in the garage from his mother. Oscar rarely sees his father since Carlton Marshall leaves early for
work at Big Jim's Auto Body.

Carlton avoids his mate, Pamela Simone, a renown egotist with a gun fetish. Pammy wields perpetual silence like a poker player.  
Raving, her snarly mouth's akin to mudslinging politicians. The two cohabit.
Although, Carlton's first love is Jack Daniels which he imbibes evenings at a biker bar across the street.

Carlton can't abide either the Rutherfords, two doors up, nor Bonheim directly behind the house. He's sick to death of how his woman,
Butzy, goes livid with excessive jibes re: a college student "grabbing all the good looking men in town." Butzy's previous jealousy
regarding Yvonne may include  boycotting by invisible customers for Butz's get-togethers.  Where, hopefully available, purchasing ladies
gather sporadically.   In their immediate neighborhood due to backstabbing, slashed tires, random gunshot holes in their windows, local
women give Butzy's cosmetic business a wide berth.

Butzy fixes huge "culinary spreads" for gals who are sent hand drawn invitations.  Each time seasons change, a mere handful wax
polite, brave the dining room,  nibble sweetbreads. Then, impolitely run as fast as high heels propel them away from the bulky,
behemoth, one freaky character, Butzy Simone.
Pamela's popularity's perpetually a standstill. She's not one single good word for a single resident of Memphis, as far as Carlton's
knowledge. She's never been able to discipline their son. Oscar is a nine year old vagrant, bully who roams wherever he pleases.  A
confessed truant, poor Oscar inherits all of his mother's largess, weighing 175 lbs. The kid stands 5'10" in bare feet.

On top of abnormal, everyday discontent which Carlton, a drunk by choice, can manage, there's also Butz's annual cry for help. This is
when she does something desperate and needs to be hauled off to the closest psychiatric ward as soon as Carlton pushes her inside a
The last time she freaks, Carlton's life's threatened at gun point.

Pammy collects guns, photographs same, resells firearms at flea markets.
She's quite adept creating auspicious displays. All shades down, every day of the year. When she took up with SPA de Flores, Carlton
entertains a whisper of hope. Alas, bottles of repugnant perfume, costly twenty dollar shampoos and murky facial masks eventually
serve as eye candy on wooden tables lined with revolvers, pistol, genre of collectible sidearms any randy gangster's moll might envy.

Recent signs of Pam's kibosh, gallant departure from depression, happy-girl medication is when she can't find Oscar. Carlton barely fell
inside the front door; next thing happens he's locked out, a mere two nights ago.

However, to make a tirade shorter, Oscar fears Mom plans leaving him alone with Carlton. Hating his stupid dad for years, they never
speak.  Oscar can't think what to say while Carlton cringes, avoids his offspring, a shiny lump of clay.

While temps swelter, Oscar hangs out, spies his mom tote numerous packages to her step van, a silver Blazer with tires as wide as the

Hot and thirsty, Oscar pops up, in her face about 5pm. "Mommie, take me with you, please." he pleads in a whine which grates on
Butzy's last nerve.

A dead-eye stare comes easy to such as Butzy Simone. Who, usually cocks her head in the manner of a confused spaniel, a delay tactic
really.  "Son, I kent. I'm treating my new boyfriend this time. We'll vacation a spell. When he's rid of thet nosy tramp, we'll return  for
y'all and raise you better. Understand?"

"MOMMIE!" erupts from the lad, whom barely computes plots from Cartoon Network. Absent are simple signs of correct parenting
for a child such as himself. Oscar renders his mother duly prompt obedience.  Well, there were consequences. No food for days, and
he likes eating once in awhile. Who doesn't?
Disappointed, he spontaneously determines to wish his mother good-bye.  All that tropical day, hoping she changes her mind, stowing
away inside the peculiar monster van on the sneak. Between shed and step van, nature calls.

Thus, Oscar's behind Mrytle's tree when Butzy converses with the only neighbor who speaks to her. "Ricky, you do have my
sharpening job finished, right? I said today. Remember, duh? I paid you in advance last week?"

Enter Eric DeSota, junkman of the silvery skies of Memphis, a third floor apartment dweller who rents a flat from Mrytle Clearmont.  
Alas, keeping him off the hard stuff, meth or booze, neighbors tolerate constant banging and decomposition of almost anything.
Stoves, washers, hubcaps, windows. Ricky D. cadges treasures far and wide.  Dirt escaping  DeSota's workshop enough to plant a
garden.  Inside, he hoards a brilliant metal array specifically collected via a die-hard wheelbarrow with an iron rim.

Butzy's favorite blade sharpener, bar none, isn't into women, affluence or football. Only junk.

"Why, Pamela, I thought you'd never ask. Hold on a second, I'll find it for you."

With this business tidbit, Desota flies from Myrt's garage with a machete so big, even Christopher Columbus would be envious.

"You know, babe, these ain't considered salable. Against the law, too long. But you could hang it on the wall."

Ricky's probably the only living guest, before cops storm the place, privy to private viewings of Butzy's gun collection, a decor she
meticulously perfects. Trouncing the entire attic in hot pink paint, balancing gun stocks just so.  Flamboyantly depicted upon yards of
black silk ... Ricky admits the nuance is stunning. Especially coated lavishly with men's cologne, the innovative addition to SPA de
Flores catalogs.  Scotch Vinyl sold pretty well as holiday gifts to please the "special man in your life." The entire third floor reeks
exactly like English Leather, spreading through paper thin walls to his flat.

Other guys, a.k.a. law enforcement later emphasize those two, Simone and DeSota got along like a house afire.  Eventually, DeSota's
implicated but not yet indicted on what occurs that horrendous, fateful day. A tragedy like no other.

"So, I hear you say yall's ditching the ol'man? Leaving town with a new lover for a spate, Miss Butzy? Do tell, dollface."

"Never! I wouldn't leave you alone here in this place with all these Memphis floozies, Ricky."

"Ah, off to sell some wares. Wow, you packed these fancy wheels to the gills, gal." Ricky stands on a step ladder. peering inside the van.

"Now, now. Don't be gettin' nosy on me, chile. You mind your manners, he-ayah."

Ricky teeters when Oscar sticks out his tongue, from under the back seat. "Oh, hey, I gotsta run, doll. I'm in a fast track game of
bingo down at St. Martin's tonight. Bye."

With this chronological, on-the-scene stroke of rare luck, Ricky pedals into the bright light of Memphis's sweltering wilderness. Escape's
welcome from Butzy, whose son resembles a granite monolith. Certainly no secret at hospital where wardens attest and doctors
likewise: "Lil Oscar takes after his mother."

Their bovine eyes follow their prey. Big blinkers set far apart, so blatantly walleyed no one can read them.

Butz slumps, boringly replete with pauses and purposeful glares. Beholding four of their eyes, one's vision zigzags like a ping-pong
spectator before melting to wax. Evil eyes, totally wicked.  Pale gray, morbid peepers are startling defining blue heavy jowl faces. Ask
around about Simone skin tone. Despite, all modern makeup, courtesy of SPA Libertine, the hue remains unattractive.

What about quirky personality syndrome?

Chile, you don't want to know. Fear quickly arises if showing slight indication of Butz's psychopathic tendencies. Don't react
whatsoever. When the FBI decreed Simone dangerous and warned not to approach her for any reason, the entire US population did so
at great peril.

On Belgrave, most folks did a fast "heyahall."  While, seriously contemplating sandy cement as if seeking buried treasure with a Geiger
counter.  When all is said and done ... you meet Butzy Simone ....Son, run like blue blazes. In the case of THE KILLING SPREE OF
BUTZY SIMONE, this is highly recommended. Hey, safety first, right?  

In ordinary circumstances, Ronnie Townes most assuredly would walk his beautiful charge, Yvonne Rutherford, medical student right
to her door. Today, laboring under the crux of a debilitating heatwave holding the
city of Memphis like a candle to a flame, the two dawdle in conversation with Officer Perry Gaylord.

Soon, Yvonne inches inside the front entrance to Martin Luther King High where air-conditioning beckons with a silent invitation.
Smiling, she greets students, allowing for the fact torrid humidity winds the pair.
Point of fact being an advisory against going outdoors. Gasoline guzzling emissions, inversions squat on the city like a smashed
grapefruit, overripe, searing corneas of men, women and children of all ages.

Gaylord becomes the first uniform on the case. He clams the calamitous, Gina Bonheim. He oversees Myrt Clearmont safely inside an
ambulance. The horror is more than Myrt's heart can withstand.

At the stone-cold walled entrance to St. Katherine's Episcopal, one block from Yvonne's place, Yvonne informs Ronnie she thinks her
younger sister, Patrice may have a secret beau. Ronnie laughs.  Whatever he knows, he's bound by a secret code to notify Wayne

Giddy from oppressive heat, surprised by their sweaty stamina, they linger under seductive shade from St. Katherine's provocative
cottonwoods. Spying the priest, a neighbor who joins Ronnie for a Tuesday night poker game down in Wayne's self-proclaimed
bachelor basement, hardly a den of iniquity, the two men gab for fifteen
minutes.  Promising to say hello to their mother's from Father Slylvestor, they reluctantly depart the languid sanctuary.  Foraging along,
stepping upon dappling sunlight sidewalks, hell-bent on cool glasses of sweet tea in Yvonne's kitchen.

Later, when questions arise concerning the culprit, Butzy Simone, Father steps forward with details of rather troubling conversations,
the most despised woman in Memphis (Butzy Simone) undertook to illicit on his
frail shoulders. Sylvestor's just a short, frail feller, yet he carries the Almighty's message inside prisons and hospitals.  He goes on record
saying, "He never saw Yvonne look so radiant that fateful day."

Belgrave's alley is a hidden passage where darkness gains credence from tall buildings on both sides. About halfway to Yvonne's, they
see Butzy vehemently slamming car doors, berating Oscar with a broom handle. She
yells at her son to get lost. "Get back in the house, you little punk. I'm leaving shortly. A thing, I should have done the day you were

Ronnie and Yvonne immediately look for an alternative route to the front sidewalk. Easily in evidence is the much acclaimed, Nurse
Johnson's walk-through. Only a few of the row-houses open alley to street. They find, to their dismay, Butzy raging upon them,
dragging something tightly against her tree-limb leg.

"So here you are Ronnie Townes, in the arms of your skinny piece of ass, the oh so smart, college girl. Yvonne, right?" Butzy glares,
doughy, pieface from the lips up. Someone once said her nasty expressions could stop a clock.

Yvonne whispers, "Ronnie, my sister has twirling practice. You walk her home tonight."

Townes puts a grip on Yvonne, steamrolls her into the first gate they reach Butz follows in hot pursuit. "Don't be like this, Ronnie. My
great big van is packed. I wanna ride you to New Orleans, Baby. We'll have a blast, you and me."

Ronnie's jaw drops. To Yvonne, he shouts RUN!

Oscar Simone suddenly appears at Johnson's inner gate. He's locked it. Grinning, he waves the key in evidence. "My mom's talking to
you, boy," Oscar swaggers, blocking hopes of an exit strategy.  Then, Oscar spits on the sidewalk, splashing Yvonne's legs.  

"Oh, my God, Ronnie!" screams Yvonne. "This broad really is crazy!"

Just then the pride of Memphis for days to come, teenager, Carolyn Johnson opens her mother's back door, sees the foray. She loudly
beckons the pair inside, holding the door wide.

Ronnie never takes his eyes off the behemoth of Belgrade. He rushes Simone, with a maneuver from his former linebacker repertoire.
She tumbles sideways, swings. The machete bites into his leg, spurting blood like a geyser.

Grabbing Yvonne by the halter top, Simone picks her off her feet, runs four car lengths, slams the girl against  her  van. "Hah, pretty
tha-ang. You thought you could best me. It's me, he loves. Soon the whole world knows you're an awful slut."

Yvonne nearly faints from pure fright. The last thing she sees is Oscar laughing his fool head off.  Poor, Yvonne, caught in the web of
a psychopathic killer, also watches Carolyn, her best friend, barrel down the alley with a shotgun. She hears Tiny Bonheim wailing,
"STOP IT BUTZ! Or we'll shoot!"

Butzy places the keys in the van, the driver's side open. She can leave now and it's over. Her tenure as mother and mate, not exactly a
wife, will be history. Her disgust for the entire city of Memphis crawls across her wrinkled forehead. Oh how she hates these people in
the 3600 block of Belgrave Avenue. She rubs Ronnie's blood against her cheeks. Without a care in the world, she swings a wide arc.
With the potent grip of a Louisiana Slugger, the machete contacts with bone, decapitating the head of her intended victim.

Butzy Simone shouts with glee:  "So long, Belgrave. Nice knowing yiz. It's been real."  That van takes off like a batmobile escaping
nefarious bowels of hell.

On the alley floor is left the torso of young med student, Yvonne Rutherford. Four doors up, Carolyn Johnson tightly wraps a blanket
around Ronnie Townes' leg, unsure if it is still attached. She does this mindlessly after Yvonne's death.  Bonheim collapses on the spot.
Myrtle goes inside for fresh sheets. She'll be damned if anyone sees that poor girl like this.  She talks aloud, the purpose of her mission,
steadily seeping into stunned brainwaves.

Perry Gaylord careens his cruiser to Bonheim's stoop, siren blaring. He vomits in the side entrance to Ricky's workshop.  Not once in
his entire life does he ever again behold anything so gruesome.  

While the copper pukes  behind the garage,  Oscar saunters over to the scene of the crime.  He kicks Yvonne's head across the alley. It
hits Bonheim's greenhouse, leaving a bloody smear like one sees on an artist pallet.  Red lines run earthward.   As Yvonne's head
ricochets across dry alley dust, Oscar playfully kicks it skyward. The blood on the end of his right sneaker is enough to incarcerate him
for a very long sleepover in a correctional residence for wayward youth.

This time, Yvonne goes airborne, not of her own volition. The cranium lands in Bonheim's marigold patch. Perry never recalls
unfurling a roll of crime scene tape. He needs backup and someone must block the streets, instigate a citywide manhunt. He's on the
wire, not knowing what he's doing.

Gaylord handcuffs Oscar. The fatboy offers no resistance, winded chasing after his mother's silver van. He shows no remorse, not a
hint of shame, nor surprise. Cold blooded lot the Simones, folks later concur. Oscar is
thrown into the backseat of Perry's cruiser for his own protection.

Tiny Bonheim witnesses the entire vivid, sinful ordeal. A death like no other.  Wasteful and horrendous. The episode causes her to sell
her house to the first low bidder. She's not the only one in the 3600 block of Belgrave to do so. For Sale signs go up the next day. Tiny
pounds blistering fists atop the roof of the cop car. "You evil little sunofabitch! I hope God punishes you everyday for the rest of your
life. You're scum, Oscar Simone."

At seventy-three, Mrs. Clearmont never expects to be called to high duty. Her bent figure simply reacts. She lays a white sheet over
Bonheim's walled garden, weighs it down with potted plants. She covers Rutherford's fallen body. Then stands like a soldier beside it,
tearless, until the first ambulance arrives.

By nightfall bright lights of Memphis will not be lit tonight. In honor of Miss Yvonne Rutherford, slain at the marvelous age of 20
years. Worse is yet to come for the Rutherford family must be alerted of their daughter's tragic demise at the machete swinging hands
of a vicious murderer, a ruthless maniac. Into the spotlight shall enter the ironic commentary of a gungho media, a city broken in two
by geographic reasons alone, intervention of the FBI, the CIA and homeland security. Apparently, THE KILLING SPREE OF
BUTZY SIMONE, a fugitive at large just begins.

Perry Gaylord, cop, is reluctant to leave Yvonne's earthly remains to a growing list of experts from crime scene investigators.  Nor to a
pedestrian crowd of spectators who spread the word of the fatal attack like wildfire.

Awaiting Memphis law enforcement, he worries about Yvonne's sophomore sister. According to his calculations, Patrice is probably on
the field twirling her baton with the marching guard. When young, healthy minister, Sylvestor shows up, he announces his problem.
"Rev, we need to get Patrice, escort her home through the front door."

Memphis PD throws an immediate block on byways bordering the sad event. Traffic crawls around a four block perimeter.  Motorists
escape toward Route 40. At this point, the airport's alerted to look for Butzy in the step van. Since the slayer Simone is half white fear
arises from the chain of command to avoid possible retaliation. The Memphis population is 66% black. Authorities live with decreased

Without a doubt, Patrice is to be carefully handled in her shocked bereavement. The priest volunteers, taking off on foot with
instructions to enlist school officials. The principal's Volvo passes instantly through the road block. Now inside the house are: Patrice,
tearful and wobbling, Nurse Johnson, Principal Tate, the determined priest.

Somehow, Yvonne's mother must be met at the bus stop before sorrowful news of her daughter's decapitation reaches her. Tate
combs the distraught neighborhood, approaches Mrs. Rutherford, grabs her by the shoulders. Then tells her there's been an accident.
Marybelle Rutherford's demure collapses, her astonished expression breaks his heart when he answers, "Yes, one of the girls. Yvonne."

When two FBI agents  make  the scene, they move Memphis Forensics forward with hands waving along curious and sympathetic
alike. "Go back into your houses!  Right now this is the best way to help this family,"
a guy encased in hip holster and  bright FBI jacket repeatedly shouts through a bullhorn.

Word spreads like smooth mayonnaise on a Kaiser roll. If you are in sympathy, don black. Pretty soon, mourners gather at attention on
overhead balconies, along back gates, all dressed head to toe in their Sunday best, all ensconced in black mourning duds. Sounds of
bewildered voices, anger, constant weeping reach the Rutherford living room due to intensity of the volume outside.

Inside, Patrice clings to her mother as they're informed of the worst information they'll ever receive during their entire lives. Nurse
Johnson offers a shoulder, can handle sedatives. Marybelle screams, doubles over, grief stricken, hitting at everyone, except Patrice.
The look on Patrices face makes grown men cry.

The priest paces the back foyer, concentrating upon bright colors  cordoning off the alley. Amazingly, he rivets on the yellow letters,
FBI, watches crime scene tape twist in the breeze, shies away from spinning red lights atop both ambulances. "We have to reach
Wayne Rutherford," he confides to Tate.

Florid and sobbing, Tate nods in agreement.  "You're absolutely correct. Do you know where he is, Reverend?"

"Wayne's down in Lo'ville at the track, I think."

"Oh, my God.  Wayne's at Churchill Downs!" Tate's not a betting man, but he's positive authorities better stay with the man a spate,
understandable Rutherford will go berserk.

Perry's yesterday's minute concerns were protecting his cruiser from saliva or flat tires.  Early on, he vows to stay with Yvonne. Perry's
the last to quit the scene, climbing inside an ambulance bearing Yvonne to her first destination. Her severed body is driven to
pathologists whose faces contract, registering disbelief while their hands shake. None can take in the evident horribleness of the girl's
untimely murder. Forced decapitation is unheard of in Tennessee. Maybe in Iraq, also previously on television.

Few in the know in the city sleep very well that torrid August night. There's a murderer at large. Whose ideas of why to kill and how to
kill are cold blooded and damn right a rarity. Which, this hospitable, insecure Southern city of commerce readily admits they're
seriously shocked and justifiably appalled by. The Mayor appeals to newspapers, radio stations. "Mum is the word," he declares, "The
victim's father has not yet been informed." As for the media, many of these employees of the Fifth Estate remain chafing at the bit. It
is unlikely a silent lid will
be scrunched down and strongly turned upon what most of Memphis forthwith dubs: "The Crime of the Century."

So where is she? The pale blue skinned monster, Simone?

At large presently, on the day in question, Simone heads due west. Two hundred miles from Memphis in Chippewa, Tennessee, about
to undertake a premeditated killing spree on August 9.  Time flies. The scene
reveals, the step van astride a drive-in bank window. Butz handcuffs the teller's arm to the deposit drawer, pointing a 1940 machine
gun from a Hollywood movie directly at an incredulous teller line, encased inside a
sitting-duck wall of glass.

Threatened with bodily harm, they  react,  do as Butzy bids. The step van, now weighed down by a recent shipment from an armored
car, Butz instructs those in the car park  to stand back. She shoots all three men,
tears off the arm of the female teller, Nancy Thomas, single mother, part time go-go girl. Thompson's arm is later discovered along a
Michigan Interstate.

Butzy drives to a deserted junkyard in Indiana. Removing twenty-four cardboard boxes containing silk roses she made herself, she
tallies her treasures: the cash withdrawal and her precious guns. Disguised as a man, she girdles, prods, corsets her bulging torso of 350
lbs of pure blubber, dons a tweed suite, mustache, golf cap. Wielding a tight turn on a 1953 four-door Buick Coupe past walls of
squashed autos, the demon Simone proceeds north.

In Michigan, Butzy craves nuances of new wheels, a DVD player, a/c, power steering. Entering a KOA campsite, she spies a metallic
blue van, she simply can't resist. The owner unpacks groceries. Inside his Overland Pop-Up trailer are his wife and baby son. Butzy
glides over a kiddie pool, moves like a gazelle, aiming a pre-holstered pistol straight at the young Spanish senor's face. "Fork over your
keys, mister."

He complies as his wife dives under a sleeping bag. The kid cries after the first shot. Butzy rushes the trailer, the engine of a "Big Blue
Van" revs out-of-control, awaiting orders.  With nary a decent thought in her head, besides kidnapping, Fastdraw Simone plugs the boy
in the leg. Grabs him by the foot, throws him into the woods.

Fortunately, for the child and madre she leaves as fast as dew melting on green ferns. Another scene of carnage down. After the
Breakfast Special at a  local dive, booking home to KOA lumbers an RV. The gran of
this senior twosome brandishes a cell phone. Butzy, thinking not to be overheard by 911 freaks, folds.  Threateningly waves her gun
out the window, changes her mind, exits the scene of the crime. Retired librarian, Marge DeCapella utters for days: "Big Blue Van, Big
Blue Face." Her husband drives the bambino to hospital.

By this time the whole country is appalled by the killing spree, reminiscent of the Washington DC Sniper. When an Alabama blogger
dubs Butz  "Shark Bait Simone" the pseudonym sticks.

Shark Bait moves east, hides out at a New Hampshire premeditated reservation, spends winter on an undisclosed island. Butz acts coy
and lonesome, spends little, eats sparingly, loses weight. Online and beaming at her own good fortune Simone applies for a cooking
post upon a merchant ship. Changing to Butch Cassidy, swaggering into a liquor store dressed like a hunter. To her delight her
application's accepted, she's to be at the connecting dock next May, she celebrates.


To this day, wildest details of THE KILLING SPREE OF BUTZY SIMONE have not led to this psychopathic, marauding
murderer's capture, although tried in absentia in Memphis.

The Big Blue Van's sunk in a nearby lake.  With money to burn, Butch buys an SUV by Ford.  Come May, squeezing it onto a pier,
heady, unaware her itchy beard slants at a toll bridge.  Her pallid blue face shines for an instant in a rear view mirror. A phone report's
relaid by a toll keeper. On ship, Butch de-escalates directly down to the hull, gets fingerprinted, cold cocked.  The culprit with blood on
his fists follows the manhunt for Pamela in the New York Times and The Chicago Tribune, through November when the trail's
decreed dead. Very, very dead.

Ain't highly ridiculous THE KILLING SPREE OF BUTZY SIMONE comes to an abrupt end approximately ten months after it
initially began one fateful, awful August in Memphis, Tennessee. Speculation for the ocean dwelling shark appellative, the criminal's
demise takes place off coastal  Norfolk, NC. In the end, the white trash barbarian  whose genes incorporate two races, swims with the
fishes. Accidentally overboard at the auspicious hands of merchant marines.

Wayne Rutherford might hold some comfort in the moment Shark Bait hit the waves, dead or alive. When he receives her ring via
Priority Mail, he asks no questions. Anyone else just might see a little justice in this conclusive plight of the fiend alias The Behemoth
of Belgrave.

Incidentally, the intrepid machine gun, a cinema prop turns up in Baghdad in 2008.  Butz's fingerprints are all over the fake weapon.  
Prints match sets found at the Tennessee Bank.

Word in Memphis for Yvonne's killer to be brought to immediate justice stands while the case goes coldly underground.  Where they
say "good riddance" to a callous, lowlife, butcher and hope it rings true. You meet the likes of Butzy Simone, you know what to do.
The three men, she shot in Tennessee, left three families steeped in grief. Butz did those guys in with a thirty-ought deer rifle.  Doctors
who bailed Shark Bait Simone after her third hospital stay, were quickly replaced in Memphis, Tennessee.  
By Paula LaRue