Saturday, April 15, 2006

Springtime, and the Dying's Easy

I'm a cold-blooded killer, a murderous bastard, an assassin itching to strike. My bodycount this weekend in Selinsgrove is inching into the 30-plus range, and the carcasses are everywhere, crushed and oozing, bent and bruised and broken, in trash sacks and on the ground and behind furniture. Remorse shouldn't be an issue here but I have to admit that at some level I'm concerned that, after all of this willful, vengeful violence, my swift, brutal dispatching of so many clueless victims could swing back to me like a boomerang. Will I suffer karmic reprecussions of some sort, or be eternally confronted in the afterlife by those who met death by my heavy hand?

Hard to say, hard to say.

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