As police try to pick the lock on a motive from a serially secret life . . . My interview with scumbag Mass murderer Stephen ‘Padlock’


MaddenMischief:  Well, Padlock, are you satisfied with yourself having caused so much misery and suffering?

Padlock: I dunno. I don’t think no more.  For me it’s over.  I’m done.  Well done.

MaddenMischief: How can you stand yourself?  Look at the monster in the mirror?  Sleep?

Padlock: Well, I don’t stand no more.  Can’t see neither.  Sleep is all I do.  Deeply. Soon I’m off to a much warmer place they say is 600 degrees Celsius.

MaddenMischief: So are you proud of yourself, you sick son-of-a-bitch?

Padlock:  Truth is, I don’t feel nothin’.  That’s been my problem.  Once I was kind and caring toward some people, but my real friends, the ones I could depend on, were my guns.  I loved ‘em.   Whenever I felt ineffectual, tense, fearful, I would hold ‘em . . . rely on ‘em . . . trust ‘em.

MaddenMischief: When did you get this this horrific idea?

Padlock: I think it started after I sold property that brought me millions of dollars.  Here I was.  A one-time letter carrier.  Now a millionaire.  It made my head spin.

MaddenMischief: That made you want to kill innocent people?

Padlock: Not at first, but it got me thinking if millions of dollars couldn’t make me happy, couldn’t relieve my anxieties, my stress, my feelings of inadequacy, there was no hope for me.  Gambling gave me some relief, but then that wore off.  Plotting something horrific was the only thing I could do to take my mind off my own miserable self.

MaddenMischief: So you wanted to share your misery.  Is that it?

Padlock: All I know is that I couldn’t stand seeing people around me enjoying themselves.  Drinks and pills helped a little to calm me down, but they soon wore off too.  And I was only pissing away my money in a callous casino.

MaddenMischief: So that’s what brought out your insanity and started your diabolical planning to commit mass murder?

Padlock: I suppose so.  Whenever I thought of large numbers of people enjoying themselves listening to music only made me feel more isolated, out of sync and miserable.  My only chance at relief would be shooting all those lights out that kept reminding me what a dark, miserable life I was leading.  The thought of doing it gave me a kind of strange lift, a pleasurable excitement and exhilaration.   If I pulled it off, if I set a mass murder record, people would wonder who I was, why I did it. They’d know my name.  How clever I was.  They’d be thinking about me.  Searching for my motive.  I wouldn’t be just a homely nobody no more . . .  not just some lonely jerk with a bankroll, but I’d be somebody.  I’d be the lead story on the news day after day . . . for weeks and weeks.

MaddenMischief: You’re nuts!  Crazy.  You’re a lunatic who belongs in hell!

Padlock:  Maybe I’m crazy like a rabid fox.  Ain’t I got everybody stumped?

Madden’s books cover such topics as the mean temperament of condominium dwellers in “King of the Condo” to what makes Trump so liked and disliked in “Is there enough Brady in Trump to win the inSUPERable BOWL?” available on Amazon. 

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