To kill. It's great. I prefer slicing. Slowly.

To kill. It's great. I prefer slicing. Slowly. Fast. How ever the fuck they deserve it. Or how ever the fuck I feel like it. Welcome to the mind of a serial killer.

Or should I say welcome to the jungle? In a serial killer's mind there are multitudes of tigers, tigers, burning bright. Everything in here is symmetrical, evil and deadly.

But fearful symmetry aside, in the mind of a serial killer lives an Architect who is mapping the boundaries of Albion on your skin. All in service to the auguries of innocence drip

dark blood, retching down under the Bag Head of Baghead's brown paper bag. It lunged at us, emaciated arms swinging, from the dark forest, uttering a guttural wildcat banshee howl.

I tried running away but immediately tripped over

my basked of used “The Wedding Planner” laser discs. The cases scattered and burst open causing discs to speed through the air slicing the arms of my

couch into very neat fillets of fabric and stuffing. The LaserDiscs then broke through the wall and crashed into the next apartment. Thank goodness nobody was home, or that would

have been messy. we cleaned up the place and went to bed. the next morning I had to go to work, ok that sounds like a problem but it actually is not. i really like my job,

because who wouldn't enjoy masquerading as Death in a dungeon? Especially when a party of schoolkids turns up and one of them is scared of

saying something dumb for his famous last words.