he nickname, originally coined by a hack from The Los Angeles Times and subsequently taken up by both police and public across America, has hurt Richards’s reputation so badly amongst the local LA serial killing community, that he has been forced to pack his bags and move to the sleepy English town of Purley.

Utterpants caught up with the stigmatized psychopath over a light breakfast of tea and cornflakes at the Purley Hilton Hotel and began by asking him why the name the US media had given him had driven him into exile. "Nicknames are everything in the States," complained Richards. "If you haven't got a cool handle, you're like, nobody. I was hoping to be named something clever like 'The LA Clipper' or perhaps even 'The Nail Ripper', but instead I’ll go down in the annals of American criminology as ‘The Manicure Murderer’ How gay is that?”
"Well, it could be worse," we commented, "a few years ago there was a murderer who forced his female victims to smoke a cigarette before slashing their throats with an ornate cigar cutter, who will be forever remembered as the 'Frimley Fag Fancier.' Fortunately, the word does not have the same connotation here as it does in the States."

"Jeez!" spluttered the forty-two-year old serial killer as cornflakes exploded from his mouth onto the tablecloth. “What happened to him?"
He retired to Kryghystyn or some other place with no vowels in it where 'fag' apparently means 'an enormously large chopper."
"Do they have manicurists over there?" asked Bud hopefully.
"I shouldn't think so, due to some genetic defect none of the women have any fingernails. So, tell our readers a bit about your, um—career—Bud," we asked.
"Serial Killing is no walk in the park, you know. Every day I used to meticulously stalk my victims, sometimes until well after sunset. Then I'd spend all night snipping the alphabet out of magazines for police letters while watching LA Law reruns on TNT. Sure, sometimes I had time to wack one off while dressed in my dead mother’s garters and pantyhose, but it’s not all fun and games, ya know.”

Richards, who chose Purley in order to improve his golf swing at the town's world famous course, went on to tell us that although he may be a serial killer, his feelings can be hurt just like any other non-murdering scumbag. “My mother, bless her rotting soul beneath the floorboards of my bedroom, didn’t raise no sissy,” he muttered, as his voice began to break. “If I hadn’t already sliced it up and ate it in a tossed salad, it would have broken Mother’s heart to know that her only son has been branded with such a sissified nickname.” He paused to dab the corners of his eyes with a fluffy, pink napkin and continued morosely.

“It really hurt me that so many of my victims didn’t take me seriously. The last woman I strangled asked me, 'Should I have redecorated the living room?' Those were her last words! Not 'please don't kill me' or 'I'll give you anything you want'—or even 'I'll let you do it to me doggie fashion', but a silly dumbass faggot question about interior decorating. The victim before that, my boss’s wife, even asked me if she could paint her nails before I cut her up in little pieces. So I had to wait until the nail polish was dry and by then, I wasn't in the mood to murder anyone. I buggered off without so much as laying a finger on her. Can you imagine the Boston Strangler making it if he’d been called the 'Panty Hose Killer?' It was terrible. I couldn’t carry on working under those conditions. So I killed the first gal I found who had a one way ticket out of the States. Well, what I mean is, I kept killing gals until I found one who had a first class, one way ticket out of the States. I mean, I couldn't possibly fly coach; the seat pitch plays havoc with my mother's pantyhose."

When asked about his first impressions of England, Richards didn’t hesitate to mention how thrilled he was to live in the country Jack the Ripper once called home. “I have some big shoes to fill; I realise that. I was barely out of diapers when the Yorkshire Ripper sexually abused and killed nineteen hookers. And while my classmates were imitating Adam West as Batman, I was imitating Fred West by luring home stray dogs to kill and bury in my mother’s garden. Even at a young age, I knew what I wanted to be when I grew up. It’ll be easy as pie to pinch some pretty birds here since British gals are so vain about their nails. Yeah, I already feel right at home here in Purley,” he sighed contentedly. His admiring gaze never left our reporter's fingers as she scribbled in her note pad. He took a long sip of tea and then asked nonchalantly: "Where d'you get your nails done?”

“Ms. Ponsonby’s Beauty Parlour on the High Street,” we replied, “And no, you can't clip them.”

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Story © 2005 Jennifer Gardner. Picture and construction © 2005 utterpants.co.uk/ 130305