Your neck in a collar, your wrists and ankles cuffed to a St Andrew's cross, and the sharp edge of my blade slicing quickly along your spinal column, until the skin opens up, unfurls, and blooms like a flower against the backdrop of your screams. Listening to your banter is akin to listening to nails screeching along a blackboard. I think that's what I'll call you from now on, Jay. Screech.
I am going to pretend that I I want to be his slave and jump on the food and pretend to stuff myself, then grab the knife and under cover of the gooey mess of ice cream melting all over my body and drooling all over me, while "begging" for more food and holding my stomach in pain, I will slit his gut and pull his entrails out, wrap them around my neck and and dance about in his blood.
Do you prefer chicken meat or seafood?