I kill, therefore, I am.
This primal instinct courses through my veins from dusk till dawn. It shouldn’t come as a surprise to anyone that knows me. But then again, who really knows me? Everyone I meet - mostly trespassers and blasphemers – end up on a meat hook. My meat hook. The meat hook that Grandpa passed down to me. It sometimes saddens my heart to see them struggle. Kicking and flailing about, reaching at their backs in desperation, completely helpless.
But the saw sets things straight. It always does. The saw is family.
After a few good tugs on the pull cord, she roars to life, drowning out the screams of the ignorant pieces of trash that threaten my family and everything we stand for. And as soon as the teeth of the spinning saw blade touches their soft, supple skin an amazing thing happens.
Through the stench of blood and exhaust fumes, their wide-eyed hysteria suddenly disappears and they give in to my power. And then I step in close and shave off whatever I need for dinner. An arm. A leg. A kidney. Or whatever Daddy needs for the gas station. We sell some of the finest barbeque in Texas at our gas station. Can you guess what our secret ingredient is? I could tell you myself, but then I’d have to kill you.
Don’t take it personally.
You see, the saw doesn’t discriminate. Just ask the fat cripple Franklin. He got too close so I turned him into a work of art. His dried jowls are on display right next to my possum skeleton. Can you tell I take my work very seriously? Some would say that I’ve taken things a little bit too far and truth be told, I can appreciate this sentiment. I see it in their eyes right before I bring the ball-peen hammer down onto their thick skulls. My brother tells me the hammer still works the best. Better than the air gun. We don’t always see eye to eye but I have to agree with him on this one.
It’s dinnertime so unfortunately I must go. We’re having company. I’m not sure who will survive or what will be left of them but one thing’s for certain: Dinnertime at my house is always… interesting.
P.S. – Even though I reek of head cheese and wear a mask of human skin, I’d be much obliged if you could overlook these minor flaws and consider me as a serious contender for first ballot placement in the Hell of Fame.