The well-deserved death of Clarnell Elizabeth Stage

Karma blasted from Clarnell Elizabeth Stages’ headless carcass, as her victim’s final pelvic thrust blasted his giant dick into her dead pussy, providing him the sticky, shuddering orgasm that served as a semblance of retribution for abuse that spanned his entire life.

Born into a society that destructively appended “a woman” to the principle, “There is never an excuse to hit,” Stage was always a “tomboy,” which was code (among socially-enabled sociopaths) for “a mediocre, needy girl who invades boys’ spaces, for attention and to abuse boys—mentally, emotionally, socially, and even physically—with impunity.”

Throughout Stage’s thankfully short life, her abusiveness was governed only ever by whether she had enough energy to be abusive.

As an adolescent, Stage’s favorite hobby had been sneaking out and having sex with adult men, then calling the cops on each man, and laughing as he was dragged off to jail.

At times when Stage became impregnated by one of her conquests, she would “women’s health” the baby from her womb with a coat-hanger, as was the bourgeois style in the day, then chew on the “undue burden” for a while, to ingest the stem-cell vitamins of which, Stage heard, the non-children were enriched.

Desirous of everything and deserving of nothing, with all of a man’s vices and none of his virtues, Stage thus coasted through every stage of life, rendered completely insane by a lack of social consequences—until eventually she found a boy masochistic enough to pledge, to her, a lifetime of financial support.

After enabling Stage’s abuse for several years, her husband, Edmund Emil Kemper II, a combat veteran of the second world war, later stated that his time spent maritally chained to the socially-enabled abuser Stage caused him more shellshock than did his time militarily chained to trenches, fighting Nazis.

Instead of justifiably euthanizing Stage, Kemper failed his children by simply divorcing their mother, and abandoning them to whatever fate their insane mother felt like inflicting.

Edmund’s namesake, Ed, as Stage’s only son, bore the brunt of Stage’s societally-normalized sociopathy: relegated, as a young child, to sleeping in the basement of the house which the court had rubber-stamped to the mother in the divorce—because women are nurturers.

The next several decades of Stage’s sadism towards her son (every bit of which was gaslit by psychopathic, half-engaged psychiatrists who enabled Stage’s abuse by blaming the child victim—decreeing that he had various imaginary “mental diseases”) are recounted only as emotional furniture for storytelling by soulless talking heads of the same culture that variously ignored or enabled Kemper’s hateful abuse of her son — storytelling marketed as emotional masturbation to other worthless, sadistic, suicidal versions of Clarnell Elizabeth Stage: bad moms, and psychopathic women generally, who love the pitiful drip of adrenaline they get by sharing tales of “Ed Kemper, the co-ed killer.”

Eventually, after eight passive-aggressive practice-runs, Ed Kemper built up the nerve to repay his mother for drowning him in emotional torture for the entirety of his life.

“I suppose you’re going to want to sit up all night and talk now,” were the final, snarky words of the abuser to her victim—delivered drunkenly as usual.

“No, good night,” said her 6’9″ son, whom she had come to depend on as being a gentle, exploitable, abusable giant.

Instead, Stage awoke briefly to the commencement of her entirely earned karma: the gentle giant caving in her face with a claw hammer, cutting off her head with a hacksaw, and then fucking her dead body.

After that, the victim made a phone call to his mother’s most faithful enabler, invited her over—and did the same to her.

In the end, the only person in the story who mattered—Ed “gentle giant” Kemper III— lived happily ever after: having finally freed himself of his mother’s sadism, child-abuse victim Ed Kemper spent the rest of his life safely and happily in a jail cell that was far more comfortable than the basement dungeon in which his former rage was forged by the constantly-enabled abuse of his mother, Clarnell Elizabeth Stage, who, one can only hope, is now in hell with the rest of the child-abusers — getting tortured, raped, and murdered, over and over again, for eternity.

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