The Sick and The Dying

I would kill you if I thought for one instant that I wouldn't have to end the miserable lives of your family, it wouldn't be fair to them - unless they went with you.


If I could ever just wipe away your existence from the face of the earth, you ungrateful prick, I'd kill your family line back when all I'd have to do is drag their carcass to the mountains where their ancestors spirits awaited.

Sometimes the only thing that really bothers me is your ingratitude, and at that - nobody ever questions the validity of your own existence, save for grandeur and posturing aside from the gnawing cancer within your bowels.

May it take you quickly, wherever you may go - to the fires, to the light, to the end of days. I pray that your illness does not kill you. No, that would be unjustified to think of the suffering you have sown and the lives you have hewn away for your own personal gain.

I can only hope that the suffering you feel is sufficient enough to remind you; you have cast your lot to the ignorant, and laid with the dogs of the world long enough to know that the fleas are sick with your blood.

But when you do realize, just how much you hate yourself for the ire you've drawn out of those positive, beautiful little souls underneath your feet - may your tears taste of vinegar and piss.

And when you end your own life, may I have the pleasure of watching?