Who is the Jazzman?

The Jazzman aka Jerry Alfred Warren.

Full name: Jerry Warren

  • Jerry killed his mother and father when he was 16. Then he burnt the house down.
  • The vacant block where Jerry finds the last “pretty” (Jerry’s name for the corpses he finds), is the Warren block, his old home.

    Jerry Warren

  • Locals fear the vacant block but do not know that Jerry owns it.

Popular lore: Popular lore suggests the Warren boy was abused by his father, and his mother would do nothing but watch. The story goes that one night the boy stabbed his father to death, then cut his mother’s throat. To try to hide what he had done, he set fire to the house, burning everyone inside. To this day the Warren boy remains locked away in an asylum somewhere.

True story: Alfred Warren, Jerry’s father did beat him every night. It is true that Wilfred Warren, Jerry’s mother, watched Alfred brutally beat Jerry to within an inch of his life almost nightly, but that’s not the whole story. Wilfred couldn’t move to help her boy, she too had been brutally beaten. Dragging herself up to rest against a blood soaked the old kitchenette, she could only watch in horror as her husband viciously beat her child. On that fateful night, Wilfred’s beating had been so bad, she lay dying and was unable to make her usual attempts to pull her husband off her boy. With blood, from a gash to her head, streaming along her brow into her eyes, they joined with her tears. As she watched another night, the last night, of that man torturing her beautiful boy, the sheet of blood covering her eyes, only  foreshadowed the horror Alfred was about to endure.

Jerry’s thrashing was severe. Bloodied and bruised he’d rolled into a little ball. His father kicked and punched him, taunted him, with every breath he took from him. Jerry could see his mother watching, knew she was unable to move. Knew it had to stop. Jerry never blamed his mother for the actions of his father. Enduring what seemed like hours of abuse another blow landed on the side of his 16 year old head. Jerry remembered the pocket knife his father had smilingly given to him only three hours earlier. Alfred continued to kick Jerry’s badly beaten body. He’d occasionally stagger to where Wilfred sat to give her another punch to the face and kick to the stomach.

A continual stream of blood dripped from the ends of her short blonde hair into her squinting green eyes. Her mind had begun to focus again. Clarity had returned. Along with some feeling in her legs. She too had decided that that night would be the last night that man would ever touch her boy. Alfred turned to Wilfred, as he always did, never missed a beat as he kicked into his sons limp body and began his nightly spiel.

Uncaring of where his blows landed, he started to scream with a contorted voice, full of rage. He looked at Wilfred, and kicked and punched Jerry as he screamed, ‘Stop judging me with those eyes… you’re always judging me with those green eyes. What’ll the boy grow into while you’re judging him with those eyes all the time,’ he’d say as the sound of another sickening blow connected with Jerry’s head. ‘Always judging,’ he continued, ‘I’m gonna take those eyes out of your head one of these days, just you wait and see if I don’t… always judging… always accusing… always watching… with those green eyes…’

Alfred was a chronic alcoholic whose mother beat him daily. It’d been suggested that old Mother Warren had knocked off Frank Warren, Alfred’s father, just prior to giving birth to Alfred. The story has never been substantiated but widely believed as truth.

I mean who dies from home-made Mushroom soup?

An intended victim if you ask me!

Alfred only ever gave Jerry one gift. The pocket knife Jerry was searching for between blows, for his 16th birthday. That day, the day the Warren family died.

Adrenaline took over. With a will to end the pain forever, Jerry felt around in his pockets until he found the knife. He looked up to see Alfred come in for another blow, and pulled the knife from his pocket, flicked it open and raised it just as his fathers fist came for his head. The knife embedded deep between Alfred’s white and bloodied knuckles. He was taken aback from what’d happened. He stepped closer to where is wife was slouching in a pool of her own blood. His eyes were wide in disbelief. It quickly changed to fury. Jerry fought through the his pain, and reached above his head, grabbed the rim of the kitchen sink and pulled himself upright.

Keeping the knife directed at his father, he began a slow short walk to where Alfred stood, crying and trying to wrap his hand in a tea towel he’d grabbed from the table. The same tea towel used to pull Jerry’s roast Lamb birthday dinner from the wood stove three hours earlier. As he neared his father, Jerry saw his birthday cake on the table. It hadn’t even been be sliced up. Everything was covered in spatters of blood. In that moment years of rage grew. The abusive alcoholic bastard standing in front of him stood crying about a small wound to his hand, while his mother sat dying.

Jerry stood stock still. A blood draped boy stood his ground in the centre of the kitchen. A menacing look on his face as his father wept. Alfred looked up and saw him standing there, and for a few seconds felt a strange sensation. It was fear. It welled to the surface as it once did in his youth, and for a moment he was 16 and Jerry was his mother standing before him, ready to run the switch across his back again. Unlike him, he could see Jerry was about to follow through. Any control Alfred had had over his wife and Jerry was lost to him. Terror took the place of his rage, so he did what he always did, he began taunting them once more, and took a threatening step towards Jerry.

Jerry lunged at him with the knife, barely scraping against the plaid of his shirt. Alfred took a step back, a step too far. Wilfred saw Jerry had stood up to the man who’d hurt him so much, so often. With her last ounce of strength, she threw herself forward and wrapped her bloody body around Alfred’s feet. Holding tight, Wilfred caused him to topple over. As he began to fall, he smashed his head on the hot, steel Metta’s stove and a large slice of his scalp came away, sizzling as he hit the floor.

Taking the gift so eagerly accepted only hours earlier, the only thing he had ever given him, Jerry began a ferocious attack. Alfred, dazed and confused from his fall, found he couldn’t move, that something was lying on his legs. It was holding him down. As the first strike of the knife, the first of many, plunged into Alfred’s chest, Jerry’s rage took over. He stabbed Alfred Warren forty seven times in the chest. Sat astride his father’s corpse, blood spattered over his face, hands, clothes, the walls, Jerry looked to his mother. She was semi conscious, her dead weight was still holding tight to Alfred’s feet.

Jerry desperately wanted her blessing for what he had done, but when he looked to her all he could see were the piercing green of her eyes. His father’s voice started to scream through his head once again… always in his head…

Staring into his mothers eyes, he understood, that to be truly free from his hell, he needed his father’s wife to no longer judge him with those eyes.

Even though his rage had abated, Jerry cut his mother’s throat. Jerry loved his mother and because of that love, their shared pain, the cut wasn’t very deep. After Jerry cut his father’s wife’s throat, he finally saw his mother and not those eyes. They sat on the bloodied lino floor. Jerry pulled his mothers head up onto his lap. Her dying body also lay lax across the feet of his dead father, she couldn’t let go, and the warmth of her blood soaked into Jerry’s clothes.

Sudden fear and sadness filled his heart as he realised what he had done to his mother. He cradled her in his arms and cried as she lay wrapped in Jerry’s love for her.

‘Jerry,’ she whispered. She coughed a light spattering of blood onto his face, ‘You’re a good boy Jerry, mummy loves her good boy. I’m so sorry, forgive me, I forgive you Jerry, Mummy forgives her little boy,’ the kind and caring Wilfred said in her dying whispers.

Holding her head tight to his chest, Jerry looked down to see his mothers face one last time. As he looked at her, her eyes were closed and her tears had stained across her face into dried streaks of blood . He leant down, kissed her forehead and sobbed, ‘I’m sorry Mummy, I’m so sorry. I just wanted him to stop Mummy.’

Jerry wept over his mothers as she took her last breath. When she died her eyes fell open, and the last thing she saw was her little boy, finally free. Holding her. Her head fell back in Jerry’s arms, her piercing green eyes looked directly into his own and he knew what he had to do. Just one more thing and it’d all stop. He had to cut those eyes out of her head, those judging eyes that made his father beat him so. Using his father’s gift one last time, Jerry cut each eye from their socket.

No-one ever came to the house because no-one wanted to know what was happening. After the deed was done Jerry cradled his mother for a long time. He never wanted to let her go.

In the early hours of the morning, Jerry finally lay his mother down, got up off the kitchen floor, showered and changed his clothes, then threw his bloodied clothing on top of his father’s body. They’d been living in an old wooden railway cottage for the past year. Alfred managed for the rail lines. Jerry threw more wood on the kitchen stove, then moved his mother’s body away from Alfred’s. He didn’t want his father to touch his mother ever again.

They lay in a large shared pool of blood. Jerry left the house through the back door. He went to the old wood shed and pulled out a jerry can.When he made his way back to the house, as he reached the fly-wire door one of his mother’s eyes lay on the floor, and that green eye was looking straight at him through the wire. He walked inside, tipped petrol on that eye, then poured fuel all over his parent’s bodies. As he walked into the living room towards the front door, Jerry threw a match into the kitchen and the fuel ignited with a ‘whoosh.’ The bare floors were so old, the entire cottage was up in flames by the time he reached the post box.

Found lying on the front verge, bloodied and bruised, first responders believed Jerry had escaped a murder suicide, after the neighbours gave their account of the goings on at the Warren place. Neighbourhood whispers abounded with rumour and speculation about Jerry’s involvement in the death of his parents. Police covered every avenue of the investigation, but Jerry was found to be the sole surviving victim of his father’s murderous rage, then suicide after setting the house on fire, and the case was closed. Jerry never spoke about that night.

He was too old to be placed in foster care, so childcare workers put Jerry into an institution for 2 years. His only living relative, his wealthy psychotic grandmother on his father’s side, refused to take him in. Grandma gave Jerry his father’s old car after he came knocking on the door once he was released from state care at 18. Refusing to let him in, she threw the keys out of the door at him with a piece of very old paper threaded through them. On the paper was a hand written address to a lockup where the car had been stored. It was the only thing that hadn’t burnt that night.

The night his mother died still gave Jerry nightmares, but for the most part, he was a happy healthy young man, even with the abuses suffered at the hands of carers in the institution. There was nothing they could do to him, that could even touch on the abuse he suffered at the hands of his father. He missed his mother greatly, and she talks to him often… in his head, but every time he thought about her, all he could see were the green of her eyes.

He bounced around for a few years before joining the forces. At 26 Jerry took part in an aid operation in Iraq, driving trucks (1990). After a 6 month tour, Jerry was given a medical discharge. He became traumatised by the death and devastation he witnessed. He was driving his truck full of doctors and other aid workers delivering fresh water and medical assistance where they could, along with other aid supplies through an area covered with land mines. They’d just left a small community of refugees when they heard a mine go off.

Getting everyone back into the truck wasn’t hard, there wasn’t many aide workers left. Jerry drove to the site where the dust plume hadn’t yet settled back to the ground. When they arrived, Jerry saw a group of screaming, crying, bloody, dead, dying, dismembered children who’d walked straight into a mine field. There were disembodied limbs laying around on the ground. They were still bleeding into the fine dust as it settled.

Jerry pulled the truck over to let the doctors out to assist, but the sight of all those children covered in blood, victims of something they had no control over, was too much for him, and he disappeared into his mind. Jerry’s trauma was so deep that he retreated into himself. He began to live moment to moment, in those moments that play on a loop. So traumatic are the images playing out in his mind, that he sees them in sleep and in waking. They are relentless.

Jerry was catatonic for over a month and was sent home. He spent more than a year in and out of hospitals. His Post Traumatic Stress Disorder (PTSD) continues to this day. Never regular with his med’s, Jerry is only ever semi lucid, and is occasionally picked up by police when a concerned member of the public calls them for assistance. Jerry is sent to the psychiatric hospital where they put him on his med’s for a few days.

After the incident in Iraq and Jerry’s subsequent trauma, he developed schizophrenia. When he stops his medication he is eventually hospitalised, but when he becomes stable, he is released from hospital with enough med’s for a week and directions to see his own doctor for a repeat prescription. Jerry makes all the right assurances to hospital staff, promising to see his own doctor. They know he won’t follow through, but there’s nothing they can do about it.

After the first day, the med’s begin to wear off and Jerry quickly devolves into his psychosis. His assurances dissolve into the imagery playing out in his mind. Jerry’s trauma is life long. He relives the beatings he and his mother endured at the hands of his father, and the night he killed them. He continues to experience the abuse he endured while caught up in the childcare system, and he eternally witnesses the death and destruction of the little children, whose devastation hit at the heart of Jerry’s own personal traumas.

Jerry is 53. He has his father’s beat up old car. His grandmother, certain that he’d killed her son, had never shown Jerry any compassion even before the death of his parents in a tragic house fire. Why would she? She never showed any to Jerry’s father… or his grandfather, so the story goes. She knew what her son did to his son because, ‘That’s how boys should be treated.’

Although he travels from vacant block to vacant block, Jerry always returns to his vacant block, his home. He is incapable of escaping his life, all he has endured, everything he has done, and all he has witnessed. He both sees and hears those victims. Their voices are incessant within his mind leaving him with no rest.

All the utilities to Jerry’s block are taken care of by an executor. Jerry’s quite wealthy on his own thanks to his mother. He received quite the inheritance after her death. He knows about it, but he doesn’t know about it also. His damaged mind won’t allow him to grasp hold of reality for very long. Though when he requires medical treatment, his executor is contacted and Jerry is sent to the best hospitals and psychiatric facilities. In the end, they can only do so much for him before he has to be released.

When old Gran drops off the perch Jerry’s going to be a very, very wealthy man… unless Tibbles is going to become a very wealthy cat.

I hope this gives you an idea behind the character Jerry, aka The Jazzman.