My favorite part, after the lives have ended, is putting away my puppets. Each one appears glad to have participated, and each one gratefully winks at me as I wipe specks of blood off of their cotton skin. It's their encouragement that makes it the be-all end-all career that it is. To put this in a very seductive way: I get to just kill people for myself. And I get to bring puppets. Why are the puppets there? Because they're the only thing I can justify having with me other than the tools of the trade when murdering. I get to kill the tall football fans with black jungles on their bitch-tit infested chests. I kill the small shit head kids who want to watch movies like Shrek the Third. I get to kill grandmas and uncles and nieces, oh my! But I don't take their lives per say, no, that feels too much like rape (Something I will never do, because it doesn't feel good. Trust me, I know. I have been raped). Instead, I make them give their lives to me I'm their guest. I'm made to feel at home. They insist that I destroy them. Sometimes, I get the compulsion to do it from not wanting to hurt their feelings.
How does this phenomenon continue to happen? To me no less! Well, I think it is best explained by something my (now deceased) best friend once told me about myself. "Charlie" he said, "I don't know what it is. There's just something about the way you impress yourselves on the parents of your friends. You are that one-in-a-million guy that always gets away with a million dollar first impression. They love you from the first word that exits your mouth in their doorway, to the ingenious way you leave without the slightest acknowledgement of their presence. You have a power."
And yes, it would seem so.
I'm not even a murderer. I'm just a guest, who comes over. I entertain with puppets. We drink a few glasses of wine. They begin to play with my puppets. I give such a good first impression, that they want to give me the most valuable thing they own, their soul. They attempt to give it to me. I refuse, because I am a polite person (I am going mad). They will not have this. They take the puppets, put them on their hands. They scream and scream. Oh how I cringe. They torture me until I am obligated to humor their most urgent desire. I dig in slow with the first stab, so hesitant to cleave flesh. They pull it further into them, smiling. They say "There, I told you! I would never lie, now would I?" and I sweat. It gets good. It becomes my only function. They enjoy the torture, the blood, the death.
And at the end, when everything is back in its bag sleeping and clean, I walk into their kitchen and eat every single thing, because I am a VERY hungry man.