He has violent tendencies. My cries for mercy and forgiveness are often met with hysterical laughter and glee. He loves to feel powerful, to feel in control. The bed and pillow and especially his blanket, all bear evidence of his capacity for violence. Slash marks, torn fibres, serrated edges bear silent witness to the events that previously unfolded in the room. He is careful. Always sure to draw the curtains or close the door to deflect wary eyes. His room is deceivingly simple and welcoming. Many a weary traveller often find themselves seeking rest on his bed. Taking comfort in his calming words. Then, quickly, he shuts the door.
I hear endless screams echo across the hallways.
His face... reminds me of the villain of the Texas Chain-saw Massacre. Big fat peeling lips, large yellow square teeth, and a slimy tongue. His face is crude, like the northern barbarians of old. His small squinty eyes stare out at u from behind a pair of meticulously cleaned spectacles. His hair is always messy, and the stench of the previous night's prawn shells hangs in the air around him. His body, big and flabby, scabby dry skin and pus from old scratch wounds, causes girls' ovaries to quiver in fear. His favourite tools of torture are the penknife, the red pen, and the infamous multipurpose kitchen knife. He swings them around with a vengeance, with a crazed fury in his eyes, determined to fill all that oppose his selfish rule with terror.
His thoughts are twisted, hell-bent on destruction and chaos. He often forces himself into my room, and takes off his filthy slippers. He sniffs them. He dangles them precariously over my clean bed, bits of prawn shells still clinging to the underside. "Give me milk!" he demands. He needs a lot of it. Drinks like a pussy cat. Needs it in his food, his drink. I always give it to him.
He knows how to fight dirty. He knows my weaknesses. He is smart. "I don't share notes with u ah!" is one of his favourite threats. Jealous of my huge room, he constantly seeks opportunities to rub himself all over my pristine bed. Like defiling something so innocent, so pure. He says he loves it, and has to be forced to leave.
Sometimes, in order to get his way, he squirts water under my door. Threatens to flood my room. Many people have asked me about the little puddle of water around my door. He never gets it. The water never reaches anything important. More like a little patch of wetness after moping the floor. Such childishness I've to tolerate. But I am kind.
The monster. He obviously needs a girlfriend. I see the way he ogles lecherously at girls. Young girls, old women, fair men, little boys, MPVD, Elaine ******, he wants them all. The poor bugger. Its so hard to keep him away from the female cadavers during dissection.
But he is my friend. =D
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