I have crouched in the heat with a knife in my mouth for too many mornings to count, brush-scraped shoulders aching in the clean glare, morning fire. Sweating already I waited, bated breath and stealth coiled. I caught many a specimen that way, each day a new one faltered by and I sprung. Their khakis hung in my hallway, some stained the rust of blood, some crotch-mottled sepia with incontinent surprise. I ate their eyes. Their folios and mansatchels, their blackberries and laptops, their ties, I came on and piled - a biweekly bonfire too far in the bleak for suspicious eyes. Too centered in shadow, a dim gleam of light ringed by silent evergreens. The smell of burning accountant. The char of dickface ass. Some sorority slut waits by the phone at home a groan and I've splattered my load on her motherfucking asshole bankerman's lifeless skull. Another notch. Another pair for the hallway. Another grain plucked from the hourglass of monotony, several more pushing to fill its place. And I the scythe.

Jeepers, this is creepy stuff. Remind me to get more sleep. I better write some knock-knock jokes.