Passion Death By: Lisa Barnes Moore Alumni ‐ Class of 2005 Card: 4 Radford Bond was my uncle. He was a tall jolly man who made his living off of boot legging, gambling, and running the local bingo parlor on Tuesday and Friday nights. His chain smoking nights of liquor and womanizing always kept the dysfunctional family he supported in a frenzy. The scene was always the same. Because on hot summer nights in the deep South, nothing changes but the amount of sweat creeping from the pores of the men and women under the bright lights of the Tattles Bingo Parlor in York, S.C. The women reeked of cheap Avon perfume, spruced up with teased beauty shop hairdos, and often too small polyester outfits. The chain smoking men held the bingo marker in one hand and their Pall Mall cigarettes in the other as they anxiously spent their paychecks from the local textile mill expecting tonight would be the night that they won the $2500 jackpot, an amount equal to three months pay at the local mill. But, on July 22, 1974, after a packed house at Tattle’s Bingo, Radford went through the motions of closing up the parlor. Proceeds from the big night were always placed in a brown paper bag and carried by Radford back to his car. He was unlocking the door of his '70 Ford LTD with the red, white and blue “George Wallace for President” bumper sticker on the rear chrome bumper, two men jumped out from behind the nearby library book return canister, put a paper sack over Radford's head, tied his hands with the sweaty handkerchief in his front shirt pocket, and started to recite poetry from Shakespeare. "Which by and by black night doth take away, Death's second self, that seals up all in rest “, the first one said. The next voice followed, “In me thou see'st the glowing of such fire That on the ashes of his youth doth lie, As the death‐bed whereon it must expire Consumed with that which it was nourish'd by.” he finished as the other man held Radford down on the ground with his foot heavy on his back. “This thou perceivest, which makes thy love more strong, To love that well which thou must leave ere long.", said the other man. Radford knew the voice. It was spoke in this crime of passion by William Maro Mutheun, husband of Radford's long time lover, London Mutheun. William Maro Mutheun was a portly man of small statue who preferred fishing at the local pond on his days off from the Piney Street Barber Shop, a job he had held for the past 38 years. After years of living a celibate life with his wife, the pent up anger and assault into his manhood escalated. London recently admitted in a fit of liquored pompass PMS that she had been giving all of herself for years to Radford Bond. That admission alone set William into a calculated death plan to end the life of the man who had transgressed with his wife and manhood. “All the world's a stage, And all the men and women merely players; They have their exits and their entrances.” , said William Mutheun quoting another line from Shakespeare as he pointed the silver 44 magnum straight at Radford Bond’s skull and pulled the trigger. The sound of the gunshot echoed into the hollow of the small country town on that hot, humid Friday night. The players, scenes, and the lives affected in this small town where justice most often is held in the hands of its citizens were acting the only way they knew how, with passion. Radford died instantly. He is body was dumped into the swift currents of Broad River and swept away. He is still missing today and his murder case has not been solved.