By contributing writer J.B. Hour
Diagnosis Murder isn’t just a TV show from the early 1990’s. It’s actually the title of my newest PIC article. Who knew, right? For some reason when I woke up this morning, I thought about the time this guy asked me to help him commit murder. Yes, you read that right. MURDER.
Now, it’s not every day that somebody asks me if I will help them commit murder and is totally serious about it. It was probably one of the most disturbing experiences of my life. I figured since it was on my mind, I’d share this story with you, the PIC reader. My loyal fans. I’ll start with some back story.
There is this guy, Ricky, who is crazy. His real name isn’t Ricky, either. I would never tell you his real name, even though I doubt he has the internet, or will ever see this article. Although, if you never hear from me again, please forward this article to the Pennsylvania State Police. I’ve known Ricky for a long time. I don’t really “know” him as much as he’s friends with my older brother. Ricky has always been a loose canon, even though he grew up in an upper middle class household and really has no reason (that I know of) to be a psychopath. Though, some things are just genetics, I guess.
Ricky was always an outstanding athlete and always treated me with respect, which I was grateful for, considering he was probably the toughest kid in school. I’ll give you an idea of how tough he is. I’ve been in a lot of fights—I would say probably 20-25 throw down fist fights in my life, many with people who were lot bigger than me—but I have NEVER had my ass kicked, nor have I ever lost a fight. The closest I came to losing a fight was a draw with somebody almost twice my size. We both walked away after about half an hour of fighting. I was once punched in the face so hard that it split my lip in two, requiring 13 stitches. I shrugged off the punch (that most likely would have knocked out most people) to beat the shit out of the kid. With all that being said, I wouldn’t mess with Ricky if you paid me a million dollars.
I have always been extremely nervous around Ricky, too. He’s just that kind of person.
Ricky also spent time in prison for dealing drugs. Like every all-white suburban small town, we had a major drug problem. White kids with disposable incomes have nothing better to buy than drugs, I guess. I don’t get the fascination; I’ve never done any drugs. A few years ago, a bunch of the major drug dealers in town were busted and served some minor prison sentences of about 1-2 years. During his time in prison, Ricky took steroids, which I guess were readily available. When he got out, he looked like Scott Steiner in his prime. If you don’t know what Scott Steiner looked like in his prime, click here. He’s the one with blonde hair. That’s how big Ricky was when he got out of prison.
Shortly after Ricky got out of prison, he spent time on house arrest, getting into more trouble, and doing more steroids.
Fast forward to the fall of 2004. I was unemployed after the company I worked for went bankrupt. During this time I decided I would switch careers and get some additional schooling. During my time of unemployment and learning, I participated in a weekly poker game which I consistently made money from. Enough so that it helped pay the bills, actually. We played every week and I would bring my brother, as long as I could spot him the $15 buy in that he never seemed to have, even though he was the one with the job. Although, it should be noted that I collected more money on unemployment than he made at his job.
It was one of these nights playing poker that Ricky asked me to help him commit murder.
Ricky lived a few minutes from where we played poker, and my brother had placed a phone call to him using my cell phone. Ricky ended up asking my brother if he could come pick him up and give him a ride somewhere. But, since my brother hasn’t had a driver’s license since about the year 2000 and didn’t have a car, he said he couldn’t give him a ride because he hadn’t driven us there.
Ricky hung up disappointed and we went back to playing poker.
About 15 minutes later my phone began to ring (thanks to caller ID), and I answered. It was Ricky. He asked me how I was doing and then asked if I could do him a huge favor. He said that he needed a ride to this guy’s house, and that he was going to kill him. He said he was desperate, and that I would really be doing him a favor if I could give him a ride. He was completely serious.
Let me break down the conversation.
Me: Hello? Ricky: Is (insert my brother’s name) there?
Me: This is his brother’s phone, who is this?
Ricky: Is this JB?
Ricky: Hey, it’s Ricky Traklovich. Dude, I need a huge favor. You drove there right?
Ricky: Dude, can you ride me to this guy’s place? I’m going to kill him, and I don’t have a ride.
Me: I can’t do that!!!
Ricky: Dude, I’m desperate, I really need a ride there.
Me: Ricky, I can’t do that. I would be an accomplice to murder. I could go to jail for life.
Ricky: Don’t worry. I won’t tell anybody you drove me there.
Me: That’s not really the point. I still can’t, in good conscience, take you to do that.
Ricky: Are you sure?
Ricky: Alright. If you change your mind, give me a call.
Ricky: Is (insert my brother’s name) there?
I know a lot of people use the expression “I’m going to kill him” as exactly that, an expression. But let me be perfectly clear: Ricky was NOT using an expression. He was really planning on killing this guy, for whatever reason. Maybe he ate the last slice of pizza, or drank the last beer. It wouldn’t be out of the scope of reality to believe Ricky would kill somebody over that.
I hung up the phone and announced in disbelief that Ricky had just asked me to help him commit murder. Luckily, he never got a ride, because I haven’t heard news that Ricky has killed anybody. Yet.