Lots of Manhunt Make You Write Crazy

goddamn the scissors that bastard put through my foot hurt like a motherfucker. pulling them out hurt worse...

right now im walking down the hallway, crowbar in hand, looking for that evil fuck to show some skin, a hand, anything. i need to be redeemed, have my wound matter...

its dark. sneaky bastard pulled the fuses to the house...good thing the moms a freak for candles...little battery operated ones that look real. lets see him figure those out...

i can hear him skitter and scurry back and forth. if only this house didnt have so many goddamn doors...fuckers rich, likes lots of space. i can dig it, y'know...but fuck, whys he gotta be such a pussy?

shadows and reflections catch in my eye, gleaming off the old looking-glass, and im sure i look like quite a hatter in this getup. but thats the only way hed pay me to come over and play this little monthly game with him. sick fuck. at least he pays well. itches like a motherfuck though...

bastard likes doors and empty rooms? stair ways that lead to nowhere? ill hide then. let him find me. then i can win. and when i win...ooohh, there will be a reckoning. those scissors hurt. lets see how he likes it...

z out