It's all fun and games, it's all fun and games, it's all fun and games, it's all fucking fun and games, right? 'Til someone gets hurt. The manipulation, the lies, the cruelty, and all the wreaking of havoc, for no particular reason besides the wreaking of havoc, come to a writhing, saturnine, charcoal gushing crux.

Then the dream unfolds. The dream of the Marquis de Sade and of all his progeny, tracing the lineage all the way up to his modern day heir: yours truly. "How can you be so inhuman?" Oh, no. I think I'm the truest specimen you shall ever encounter. "So heartless?" How is my blood pumping, then, you dumb bitch? "So devoid of compassion?" Uh oh. You got me there. I don't know! That's part of the fun, darling.

As I twist (is that your neck snapping?), crush (your ribs buckling?), and devour (your soul crumbling?), I think of my next meal. And laugh, with unearthly mirth. Mmmmmm you're delicious. Your blood has the bouquet of a finely aged rose. The tears you shed mock my power. The concern you show mocks my stolidity.

I hate you. And your contemptuous conscience. I see a writhing worm. And no more. I am a falcon. I want to crush you with my talons, tear you with my beak. Devour you. Why do you exist? A waste. Such a waste. A waste. You are an insult to my Glory. To humanity, if there is such a thing. I smile when you squirm. Your pain, your misery, your suffering...they all whet my appetite for your utter destruction.

The most egregious crime against humanity is the existence of the weak.