I don’t hate women, not particularly. There are things about women, actions, behaviors, small perversions of the psyche that make me sick to my stomach. Of course, the media always paints a picture of people like me, they call us woman haters, say that we have issues with mommy, that we get off on some erotic fixation with killing. But that’s the sickness of women; everything is about them. The world is their fucking spotlight, everything a guy can do has to be motivated by his mother or his dick. A guy can’t have a conversation with a woman without her thinking he’s got a hard on for her. Let me tell you something, sweetheart, you’re not special by virtue of your sex. I’d cross a road to spit on you before I’d try to cop a feel.
So why, you’re thinking, are the majority of my victims women? It’s because they’re so sure I want them. I drive up to a guy, ask him to get in the car, take a walk back in the woods, the guy’s gonna question that. But a woman assumes I’m looking for a quick bang. Of course I’d want her to come with me, right? Of course I want her in my car, she’s got the goods, she’s got what I want, she’s carrying the almighty glory hole. Of course I’d want her, because what in life is more important for me but to get my hands on that precious package?
I’ve got a pit bull dog, seven hundred dollars worth of pure-bred muscle, and no woman in the world has a damn thing on that dog. That dog can run a mile at a full sprint without breaking a sweat. He’s got jaws as wide as my head. When he walks into a room, people mind their fucking manners. You can have the biggest tits I’ve ever seen, and I’d still only spend a tenth of what I paid for that dog to get into your panties.
Now men, they have their own exclusive disease. A man’s always got to be the tough guy, or the sensitive guy, or the smartass. Every man has a gimmick, and most of them are about as intriguing as a bucket of shit floating in a sea of piss. Truth be told, I don’t get along with men as well as women, believe it or not. Because men, above all else, crave power. They want to have a billion dollars, a two ton pickup, and a handful of blondes ready to suck them off on every corner. If I had a dime for every guy who tried to one up me, I could fill an Olympic pool. No matter how petty the argument, or how pathetic the guy, every man has to prove that somehow he’s better than the next guy in line. Again, my pit bull dog trumps them all. Bruce Lee, with all due respect, couldn’t put one over on my dog to save his life. But me, well, I’ve got a .38 says that dog can kiss my ass if he ever gets a vicious notion.
If I hate anything, I hate stupidity. I hate that when I go to the grocery store to pick up some small thing, there’s always a jackass with a dopy grin ahead of me that can’t get his fucking credit card to run. Then he acts like there’s something wrong with the card, like he didn’t already know that he’d spent his last ten bucks on lesbian porn. I hate that people say things like; “It’s all good.” What the fuck is that supposed to mean? It’s not all good. Everyday in this world people get raped and murdered and generally fucked up the ass by life. That’s not good. Where’s the fucking good in that? If you think it’s all good, it’s probably because you’re the filthy hippy fuck that’s doing the raping. If you think it’s all good, why don’t you drive your bullshit, zen ass down to Mexico and spend some time with an eleven year old boy that’s getting pimped out for crack? Find the good in that, you stupid fucking faggot.
I don’t kill people because I hate them. Hate just breeds avoidance. And if I could, I would avoid this whole, pathetic universe. But I can’t, so to get a little relief, I occasionally carve out people’s eyes and feed them to my dog.
But it’s my turn now to ask a question. I could have killed you, Ingrid. What is it that you think stopped me? I’m just asking because I wonder what it is that goes through your head, late at night, when you remember that I know where you live, that I’m still out here, that I’ve got a get out of jail free card with your signature on the dotted line.
-Mercy
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