Tuesday September 05th 2006, 11:03 pm
Filed under: All Letters,Hate Letters

To the trickster,

I’ve figured out why you were so kind to me over the phone: you want to kill me with kindness. You’ve figured out the formula of how to destroy your enemy the socially acceptable way. Your post-hysterical euphoria, which I mistook for a docile and authentic approach to caring, was nothing more than an attempt to destroy the monster within me using nice, kind communication devices. Your intentions are as transparent as your see-through shirts. You are Moloch, the devious mother who cleverly disguises its ferocious mouth full of razor sharp teeth as a puckered lip full of lovely kisses. Though I won’t be fooled by your death kisses of kindness, I will call you out from the shadows and into the light of truth. You will not seduce me with your kindness dear woman. I’ve met your type before: I’ve been your type in the past. This is how I came to realize your machination – all I had to do was look into myself and there you are. You, mother of madness, are the hideous creature of pure disgust. With no sympathy for your own kind, with no heritage to be proud of, you stand alone in the depths of the underworld waiting to strike at the most innocent of creatures. You are a true beast, an absolute aberration, a beast that cares nothing of children, or of being a child for that matter. I once asked you what you wanted to be when you grew up. You replied, “Now that’s a trick question, Christopher. I never want to grow up.” I fell for your response at the time, but have now come to realize, you can’t grow up if you’re already grown. You have grown into your beast-like form, a killer of love and kindness. The way in which you kill is the most devious and odious of methods possible. You target those who are weak and not ready for anything else other than kindness. Then you pour your wicked words out from your jaws like a witch pouring a potion intended for immediate death; however your wickedness is masked by the sweet smell of laughter, and the scent of a warm heart, thus luring your prey towards you by convincing them you are a gentle lover. When your unsuspecting victim draws near to your open jaws, which by the way is also the same moment you bore of your prey, you leap from the shadows and clench down your muzzle on the throat of your entranced kill. You always aim for the jugular, knowing that one pierce of your victim’s neck will leave the delicious taste of its freshly squeezed blood in your mouth. The streets flow with the prey’s incarnadine insides as you devour any lover, any child, any monster, the way one would its most mortal of enemies. You have no friends because you’ve (sexually) devoured them all, as you spit out their flesh far into the rapid wastelands of this world.

-Your prey.

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