Thomas Goodrich is a crime writer, and when he is not writing heart-wrenching accounts of Allied war-crimes (Hellstorm: The Death of Nazi Germany, 1944–1947  [Sheridan, Colorado: Aberdeen Books, 2010]) or Indian atrocities , his restless eye scans the South Florida newspapers for reports on local outrages which may have wider import.
Anyone visiting South Florida in the winter does not need me or the nightly newsreader to inform them that people are living longer. At first blush it is heartening, I suppose. After all, we tell ourselves, “If I lay off the meth and eat my Wheaties, I too just might survive to see my great grandkids earn PhDs and wind up waving ‘We Buy Gold’ signs outside some ratty pawn shop. Most of us, I think, have this image of sweet old people aging, feeding pigeons, baking cookies, and being wise, patient, and understanding. Well, like I said, this is Florida, and one can pretty much ditch one’s sweet old image thing. After living here five years, I have learned that for every person growing old gracefully there are a dozen others growing old disgracefully.
Nope, it’s not just the nice old man who is living longer; it’s also the creepy crackpot and the pervy pedophile who is stretching the mess out. Back in the good old days, back when leprosy, cholera, consumption, ague, and plague were around, these sex fiends mercifully were killed off in their late thirties, early forties, tops. Now, however, now with medical break-throughs by do-gooders, pedos, pervos, steamos, depravos, flashers, fiddlers, floggers, buggers, and sundry sexual miscreants of all description are now living twice as long and are thus cramming twice the amount of sexual perversions into one miserable life. Now, one might sincerely ask: How can anyone in their eighties and nineties even move, much less muster the energy requisite to molest a little kid or masturbate in public? Well, take it from us, we South Florida “tweeners” (40–70 age group), they can . . . and they do!
I once lived on a beach, in Greece, down where the famous olives come from. Like lovely virgin olive oil, life was smooth and slow near Kalamata. Among the locals were two elderly gents who frequented the taverna next door. Each day these two sat quietly under the lemon arbor, fingering their worry beads, chatting with friends. I soon came to know and enjoy these stately old guys in their well-worn suit coats and vests. Each—both in their eighties—I considered a model of mature manliness—wise, patient, dignified, and rather noble in bearing. I thought all those thoughts right up until the day I saw both these octogenarians behind my place crawling on their bellies in the dirt. They were trying to peek over our cliff so that they could leer down at the nude sunbathers on the beach below.
And with that abrupt bursting of my silly romantic bubble, I soon came to realize, in Greece as elsewhere, that though beaches might bring out the raging bull in some men, it is the eighty and up whose giddy-up is especially aroused. Whether the sun, the sand, or the salt, whether it’s that never in history have so many worn so little and shown so much, whatever the whether, fact is that beach conditions are usually perfect for outrageous outbreaks of octo-erotics.
In the five years that I have lived on this sandbar in the Gulf (Manasota Key) I have truly lost track of the number of sex crimes committed by our local lechers eighty and up. Not a day passes, as they say, not a day passes unless some ancient sex wretch is hauled in for some nasty bit of sexual disgustivity.
Just the other day, a vice cop was patrolling Flatwoods Nature Park near Punta Gorda. Seems one Joe Ogden was taking the “nature” part of the park a bit too seriously. While this proud pervert was petting himself in the parking lot, advertising his availability to any and all, Ogden spotted Lust Control at about the same time that Lust Control spotted Ogden. Joe quickly tried to stash his trash and act like any other normal park perv hanging around with his penis hanging out. But alas, this nasty tub of chicken guts was too late.
Strolling up, the officer did that which we are not paying him nearly enough to do and took Nature Joe away. And, in a blink, of course, the judge did that which we are paying him way too much not to do, viz., he turned Joe loose. Thus, within an hour of arrest, Joe Ogden was back out and at it again, doing that which he does best—proudly exposing his 81-year-old not-so-private privates to a disgusted public.
Up the strand a bit at nearby Venice, an undercover Lust Cop (LC) was patrolling the walkways at Caspersen Beach. This area seems to be a magnet for public masturbators and dirty degenerates in general. Pretty damned quick, disgusting deviant, Antoni Kurzydlowski (what else could he be with a name like that?), was arrested for lewd behavior—for following the LC and fondling his miserable self as he did, and for hanging out his shingle and bluntly advertising that he was open for biz. It is assumed that before he cuffed this dirty old wretch the LC put on an extra pair of latex gloves. Too damned bad seventy-something Antoni (not eighty, I know, but close enough for me) gave up quietly since I would love to report that he got a good 15-minute round of remedial tasing for his future consideration. Whatever, after plunking down chump change for his bond ($500), K Man was soon out on the paths and boardwalks of Venice again, doing what comes naturally—welcoming visitor and local alike to the sick world of Dr. Disgusto.
How much money does the above cop make trying to keep such raw sewage off our beaches? Whatever it is, it ain’t enough. Don’t even mention fringe benefits.
Over on the wrong side of the state, over at Fort Lauderdale, 81-year-old kiddie fiddler, Murray Snider, was arrested a short time back for (what else?) for fiddling kids. Although hooked up to an oxygen tank and seemingly more dead than alive, this ancient degenerate admitted to molesting little kids all of his despicable life. Although they finally caught his creepy Chester ass, “better late than never” seems pretty lame at this stage of his “career.” How this man managed to elude justice all these years, how many lives he ruined in the process, just sorta staggers the thought process. What should be done with this lovely fellow?
a) Take away his oxygen and let him flop like a carp on a river bank?
b) Drop him off naked in the middle of the Everglades?
c) Hang him upside down from a palm tree and start a small fire under his head?
d) Hand out needle-nose pliers and turn him over to his victims?
e) Give him a nice clean room, with plenty of free food and medical attention for the rest of his miserable life?
Wanna guess which punishment the State of Florida will choose?
Also at Fort Lauderdale, Phillip Winikoff came up with a brilliant scheme. Seems poor Phil never quite got his fill of female breasts in his life, dang it. What to do? Should he surf porn? No, not that—Phil wanted his boobs up close and personal. Should he hang out at “Hooters”? No, not that—one might only gawk in those clip joints, and Phil wanted his experience “hands on.” Should he jump in and join the dating scene? No, not that either—too tedious and it would only be one rack at a time. And so, Winikoff came up with a novel idea–he would pass himself off as a physician; a physician who goes door-to-door giving free breast exams!
After “examining” only a few fine “chesticles,” however, “patients” became suspicious when the “doctor” seemed to be spending way too much time with his tests and taking way too much pleasure in his work. Indeed, when Winikoff’s quivering hands moved to other parts of the victims’ bodies during the exam, there was no longer any doubt. The Perv Patrol was called in and “Dr. Phil” was quickly “busted.”
Since Winikoff was sentenced to a year in the “jug” for his sex scam, it would appear that the judge, unlike nearly all others, was not amused by Phil’s foolish fetish. The shameless wretch also received 18 years probation. Okay then, when added up that means that Phillip Winikoff will be an even one hundred when his galloping libido is finally unleashed on society again since this pervert and Viagra junkie is today a steamy 83-years-old! Surely, there has to be some kind of record here, if not for Florida’s oldest active sex predator, then for Florida’s most original active sex predator.
Of course, in all fairness it should be noted that Florida is US Cex Crime Central for all steamers, not just octo-coots. Take for instance, a typical sex sweep in Sarasota the other night. . . .
Other than keeping our jails full and our prison guards employed, one way illegal aliens boost the economy is, I suppose, by avidly supporting the World’s Oldest Profession. Take a breeze through virtually any police vice blotter from Ventura, Californicate, to Boston, Masturbation, and invariably the Juans outnumber the Johns sixty to six in street sex stings. I think it must be a genetic thing. These short, brown “beaners” lust for tall white women, as do all “men of color.” When I worked in the Mojave melon fields as a teen, I remember that going to the whore houses and getting some “poooosy” on Saturday night was seemingly all that these oversexed people talked about as we slaved under the deadly desert sun.
Of the six netted the other night in the Sarasota sex sting, five were lusty Latinos. From the looks of these swarthy “gentlemen,” not a José or Jesus among ‘em was here legally. In fact, bewildered and disheveled, it appeared as if all had just jumped down from the box car a few minutes earlier. Clearly, ‘tis a slow news day when the dead-tree media reports such arrests since these street level stingers are definitely NOT news.
Of course, any such roundup would never be complete here at Senile Sex Sentral unless at least one geezer was not netted. Old Anglo, Merle G. Widmer, looks a bit amused and idiotic among the mug shots of frowning Mexicans. Maybe Merle is quietly proud that at this late date, with both feet firmly planted in the grave, maybe Merle is happy something about him still works. Good God. Great Zeus. Big Buddha. Widmer is so old that the sleazy skank he solicited for sex could have been the daughter of his Great-Great-Grand daughter. Did a mere age disparity of three score and ten trouble this 88-year-old prehistoric fossil? Nope. Not he. Not a bit. Just pop in about a hundred big blue bombers and old Merle was ready to get it up and get it on any way he could.
Also in Sarasota, sixty-nine-year-old Tom Petcher is back out on the streets. Since it’s going to be a wondrous warm week ahead in South Florida it is assumed that Tom will once more be on the beach at Siesta Key catchin’ them rays, flashin’ those little girls, and pleasuring himself.
Not long ago, Tom was at the same beach, doing what he loves most—exposing himself to children. With his swim trunks pulled down to his ankles, Petcher the Letcher stood in knee-deep water and put his bat and balls in the on deck circle so that a couple of fourteen-year-olds could admire them. When the girls turned away in disgust, our bat boy simply floated around on his back with his mast in full view, and again his teenage targets fled this loathsome loser. Petcher’s extended antics gave the Siesta Key Perv Police just enough time to reach the beach and catch the wretch as he fled through the parking lot. As noted above, this lovely citizen is out today, flashin’ his trash, free as a blow-fly.
Still in Sarasota: After his wife bought the worm farm, some 80-year-old loon befriended several skanky Sarasota street-walkers, and these lovely ladies decided to simply open up branch offices in the crazy coot’s home. Now, this sleazy addition to his household may have added some spice to the old fool’s dead dull life, but it was just hell on neighborly relations. Pretty damn quick the homeowners on the block realized that something highly irregular was occurring over at Ebenezer’s place, a house that had formerly been a model of modern mature stability and boredom. The hoarse, hysterical laughter at midnight . . . the screams and shrieks at early dark thirty . . . the empty syringes at dawn . . . Hmmmmmm.
“He said they were turning tricks in the ‘Monkey Room,’” one neighbor told a reporter.
Coming and going, day, night, dawn, dusk, 24/7, the slutty scab-pickers and their equally loathsome “clients” carried on the carnal carnival with about as much indifference and disregard as the masturbators down at the beach.
“How’s the prostitution business?” yelled an exasperated neighbor one morning to the lusty geezer.
“Great!” spit the crazy crank who seemed pretty protective of his prostitutional property.
Sarasota seems a bit unsure how to handle this issue. For my money, let the old nutsack be. In a week or less he will wind up in the freezer after bitching out and badgering his drug-crazed guests for the umpteenth time. Then the city can move in and hose the place out. Problem solved.
Odd. I’ve noticed that when someone commits a certain-certain sexual crime, and gets away with it, copy-cat perverts spring up. One particular miscreant seemed to lead a charmed life. Unlike the run-of-the-mill deviant, this individual would flash kids in the beach parking lots, but unlike other misfits, he kept his lust on a short leash and did not linger long. Although he was eventually cornered like a cockroach and captured, imitators sprang up. Several of these steaming dog piles are running around in this area now, exposing their naked ugliness to women and kids. Truly, these are some pretty broken animal crackers. Just yesterday, Lust Control nabbed Albert Hickerson. This old degenerate, age 76—say again—This old degenerate, age 76, was seen sitting on a picnic table disporting with himself. And yet, as quick as moral meatballs like Al are taken to predator prison for one day or less and treated to a few free hots and a cot, two more seem to be released.
The above are just a few sundry items that have occurred here recently. By no means assume these are anomalies. Nope, these are rather pedestrian accounts that appear virtually every day, every week, month, year, decade, down here at Cex Crime Central, aka South Florida. One might think that, given the antiquity of the perps, that the problem would abate naturally as these octo-pervs bite the big one. But nope, like dragons teeth of yore, when one kicks the can it seems like five more rise up to take his place. Case in point. . . .
Over at Fort Lauderdale a short time back cops picked up Robert Malone as he was shuffling along a noisy highway. Just as there are bad ways to die, there are worse ways to live. Certainly Bob Malone was locked somewhere in the latter world. For the past fifteen years Malone had been on the run from New Jersey for warrants on sex crimes. Of course, first thing Bob does when he lams is head to Florida. Apparently, it’s what all molesters, rapists, and kiddie fiddlers do because it’s warm, there are plenty of kids here to fiddle, and sex criminals, like all other birds of a feather, enjoy flocking together to swap tales and pass on secrets for success. That’s the bad news. The good news is that Bob Malone is 70, and when next he gets out of a Jersey jail it will be in a state-issued wooden box. Six feet of Garden State sod should cure Bob of his perversion, I think.
And that’s what I mean by dragon’s teeth. The year-round warmth draws predators and perverts to Florida like everyone else. Better to be a steaming sex fiend and warm than a steaming sex fiend and cold, or so the reasoning must run.