I don’t take drugs, I never have, I never will. I prefer clarity to delusion. I have control issues, you should be able to surmise that much, at least. Of course, I’m not against drugs, per se. I just prefer to be on the giving rather than the receiving end. If I had a way to do it without implicating myself, I would publish some of my studies on the effects of psychotropics on subjects in severely distressing situations. Not that I’d get any fucking recognition for it. You’re definitely right about one thing; no matter how smart a guy is, it’s always some fucking idiot that gets the credit. Look at our president; the man couldn’t tie his own damn shoes in the dark. Try and tell me there ain’t some political mastermind behind that shithead getting into office. My girlfriend voted for the faggot, and she’s about as dumb as they come. She goes to church every damn Sunday, but she can’t seem to keep her knees together for more than ten hours at a time. I’m not complaining, though.
For a woman who will never kill again, you’ve got a serious fucking fixation. I’m starting to wonder whether this is entirely about killing for you. I kind of like that.
Trust me, you don’t need to worry about getting caught. I’m not an idiot, and only idiots get caught. Perhaps you aren’t familiar with the Bureau? These guys spend more time skimming hash out of evidence than actually looking for killers. I work with the fucks all the time, they’re fucking clueless. Even if they ever did catch scent of me, I’ve got citizenship in three countries under three different identities. I speak five languages and I have enough cash on hand to live well enough for at least a year. They won’t catch me, but if you send them my way, I’ll find a way to take you with me. I’ll need the company- and the skin. You wouldn’t believe the demand for human skin on the black market. Usually I can only get so much at a time, but with a living captive, well, let’s just say I could make you last through several harvests. So don’t worry about the fucking cops. Worry about me.
You know what I like about you, Ingrid? Aside from your masochistic reluctance to admit what you want? I like the way you make yourself feel shame. It’s very Catholic. Right now, I’m picturing you in a plaid skirt and a little blue vest, swatting yourself with a ruler while you masturbate. It just doesn’t feel good unless you regret it, does it? It’s never real until you’ve paid for it. You’re a truly fucked up woman. You’re going to make a great hunting partner. I’ve already bought you a rubber apron and a butcher’s saw. Oh, yeah, this is going to be really good.
-Mercy
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