I could probably make a genuine argument as to why I’d lay you out thirty ways in a single night and still be ready for more, but you wouldn’t get it. What a man wants from a woman and what a woman thinks he wants are two very different things. If I say I want to ram you on a kitchen counter to the beat of Cantonese Opera, you’ll take it personally, and it ain’t. Go on thinking you’re already dead; you’ll never be disappointed. And by the looks of Jack in your photo album, the guy could get off on his own mom if there was a mirror nearby.
As for me, I’m no damn flamingo. For one, I’m fucking straight as a razor. I don’t even dig lesbian porn. One man, one woman, maybe a toy but nothing that needs batteries. And second, I’m the last person on earth that wants to draw attention to themself. Most of the time I’m just as much a zombie as you. I eat, sleep and drink mediocre. But I dream in color. Funny thing, I learned in school that everyone dreams black and white, it’s your memory that paints the color. But when I dream, sometimes the only thing I remember is the color of the blood.
That kid you should have killed, the pony-tail loser with cheap shoes that got you all wet for killing even though you couldn’t pull it off, now he was nothing. Kids like that are a dime a dozen. They start off paying their way with a smile and end up buying their dinner from a shooting gallery with money they made sucking cock behind dumpsters. Sure, they’re sexy now, but wait until heroine eats all their teeth and their arms are so covered in scabs that they have to shoot up in their pinkies. Fuck that kid, I did him a favor. I did you a favor.
What you won’t admit, what you’re afraid to your little pink thong panties to admit, is that you’re the fucking flamingo. These assholes don’t deserve to live. They’re stupid, they’re petty, and they’re fucking boring. Those few of us who have the imagination and brainpower to think for ourselves have only two options: Either we take advantage of them or we waste our lives trying to make them feel like we’re no better than they are. You’ve chosen the lesser evil. Don’t go thinking that makes you kind.
You see, I don’t remember things happening the way you do. From what I remember, your eyes lit up like the Fourth of July the instant you put that sad little knife through that kid’s chest. Here I am, hiding out in an abandoned hotel, planning my next move, when out of nowhere comes a woman with a full murder kit (and don’t fucking kid yourself, no one carries duct tape and bleach who doesn’t know what they’re planning to do,) and trailing behind her is a nasty little puppy-boy. But hey, things have changed since I was a young man, maybe the kids fuck a little rougher now, maybe the rubber gloves serve some purpose I don’t know about. Things start to get hot and heavy, so I kick back and wonder if I should kill them both right away or wait until fluids get exchanged. And then puppy-boy throws out his little bone and this girl doesn’t go for it. Good for her, as far as I’m concerned it’s a woman’s prerogative if she doesn’t want to get dicked by a half-fag dressed up like Dracula. I’m not expecting the knife, and neither is he. Just one quick jab, like an absolute fucking natural, under the ribs and into the diaphragm. Down goes this kid, he can’t even scream. I’m thinking this woman should be smart and cut him from ear to ear. But this woman is a novice. She stops too long. Not because she’s realized what she’s done, no, not because she’s horrified and shocked, but because she wants to watch his puppy blood drip out. Drip, drip, drip… That’s when I knew if I didn’t do something the little fuck might get away. You needed my help, so I helped you.
You’ve got some balls of steel if you think you can make out like it was the other way round. We hid the body together, sure. But it doesn’t matter who sliced the meat from the bone, or who poured peroxide on the carpet, you’re the one who struck the killing blow.
And so what? That little shit was going to die one way or the other. It’s not because he was so damn pretty, it’s because he was such a repulsive pile of detritus that he was only dragging the rest of us down. Christ forbid the motherfucker get a chance to breed. We're already inundated with white trash babies.
So here’s the real difference between you and me, Ingrid; I’m not ashamed of being better than other people. I don’t date women who have no respect for me, I don’t wear baggy pants over an ass I could bounce marbles off of, I don’t save messages on my answering machine from people who called me to ask for other people’s phone numbers so that I can call them back and play 411 for them. And I sure as Hell don’t hide a notebook in my closet underneath my handgun with newspaper articles about a serial killer who’s still at large. Did you think when I broke into your apartment that I just looked in the fucking fridge and left? In two months you’ve managed to collect your own little library of Mercy. I’m honored, really. But more than that, I know you. You want to kill. The sooner you admit it to yourself, the sooner you and I can move on. Come on, baby, don’t be coy.
-Mercy
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