Sunday, June 17, 2012


The deed is done.

The body is dismembered, the pieces burned, the ashes scattered across the countryside of several different states.  His mask has been made, the newspaper clippings all from the day he died.  White paint to cover the red tint left by the drops of his blood mixed into the papier mache paste.  Mask 35 was broken, but that isn't an issue; it would've taken its place on the wall of my trophy room, regardless, just as the thirty-four others have.

He fought and died admirably.  Engaged in hide-and-seek in my own house.  Shattered my arm with a heavy candlestick.  Nearly broke my neck with the same improvised weapon.  Stole my knife and planted it between my ribs, narrowly missing any organs.  I've spent the last few days recovering from my injuries.  My right arm is still useless.  I had to cut the body with one hand.  I thank Father for my ambidexterity.  Also for speak-to-type software.

I cannot shake a sense of utter disappointment, however.  He didn't scream.  Not once.  I slashed him, stabbed him, scalded him, and disemboweled him, but he didn't scream.  Chewed through his lip to stop himself from doing so.

No matter.  On to the next.


  1.'s over now.

    The way you use your targets' bodies is sickening. It's one thing to torture and kill someone, but to make bloody paper mache out of them? You're a special kind of fucked up.

    Honestly-- there is no threat on under the sun, no words that I can realistically type and carry out that convey how much I hate you. So instead-- I'll leave you with the last smile Moral left for me:

    He promised me that he wouldn't die screaming.

    1. Now now, I scatter the ashes of the body. I mix two, maybe three drops of blood into the paste. The body itself is not a part of the process.

      And that promise would explain his efforts. He had a remarkable will.

    2. The fact that the mask had a red tint led me to believe it was a hell of a lot more.....where did you scatter him?

      Moral was a strong man, you know? I...I'm proud of him for the fight he gave you.

      I could never kill you, personally. I don't have it in me and I don't have a death wish. But one day? Don't be too shocked if you get your beak broken, offhandedly-- if we ever meet.

    3. Unless of course I somehow worm my way onto your good side, that is.

    4. At this point, the chances of that are fucking slim. I know it wasn't personal, I understand your work-- but he was my friend. The best you're getting is a few polite words.

  2. Lucia might be unable to kill you personally.

    But I'm not.

    You will pay for this Pigeon.

    1. I will not pay for a Pigeon I have no use for.

      Commas are your friend.