Brad the Butcher pt. 1
Hello. Oh hi. There you are, tiny moth. Come to collect my clothes, have you? Oh, the disappointment you'll have when you try eating my hemp pyjamas. Then when you do I'll wring your throat out and then go sharpen my axe. Unconscious you will be and when you awake from your slumber you will witness your own death. If your head happens to survive and your eyes still haven't popped from your previous strangulation, you might see a room with a wing here, a leg there, an antenna way over there… I like to keep my victims awake while they die. It adds to the satisfaction of the kill. Anyone can just kill a man with a plastic bag. A real murderer like me enjoys what they do and is not a moneywhore i.e. a hitman. We are professional hobbyists, a rare breed, but well worth the prolongation.
Are you still here? Am I a frog? Shoo before I lick you, Moth.
I somehow convinced them to get my hemp pyjamas to “calm me from my moth fears.” I know how to get what I want here even though the winds are against me. Here I am in the midst of wackos, some real nutcases. They are far beyond my level of insanity. I pleaded insanity at my trial because they told me I was under oath. And I'm a man of my word. And yet I still control them because my sanity is contagious amongst them.
I can understand how killers like me get their kicks from the cause of our insanity, but about those psychos in this joint who defecate on everything or lick the walls or head bang - where's the fun in that? Those are the ones who should be helped the most. They don't know what they're doing, never mind why they're doing it.
It's been a long time since I killed someone. 11 years, 2 month, 2 weeks, and 4 days. Too long. I go crazy when I'm constantly being watched. I sleep in a padded room so that I don't hurt anybody at night. I can't murder someone if someone else is watching me do it. That's my weakness. One must be sneaky, fast, and prepared. Killing, like birth, takes time.
It has been to my sad disappointment to dub this asylum “The Bone” because it is so dry. There can be no bloodlust here. I am defeated and I accept it. The only way I can kill is to get out of this asylum. There must be a way out. One of the psychos must know a way out. I'm sure one of them knows. A warped dimension elevates each one of those crazies. Something so rotten, so twisted, so vile that words cannot explain.
I will not see my 12th year at this crazy-house. I will start a new life with all the money I'll ever need. Along my previous killing spree I hit gold when I made a kill on a wealthy businessman. I caught him with his vault open. I took whatever cash, bonds, and gold I could carry in a suitcase and buried it in a secret location. When I'm out of here, I really mean I'm going to start a new life. With all of the money that I stole from that rich bastard I could make it quite impossible to track me down.
Those will be the times when I can roam free and go about my hobby. All I need is a bit of time to break free from this nuthouse. Time to devise a plan and execute it.