I finally turned fucking Mr. Snowman into an amputee. He's the "toy" the Mooks gave me, sure that it was indestructible. It still had the late Cosmo's slobber all over it and I'm sure the smiling snowy jackass was in one piece because the great dalmatian didn't have the killer instinct. I've been working on that white bastard hard. Next the other arm and the prick's head.
Mr. Snowman—not so smiley now, are you, Motherfucker!
The Mooks don't get that a toy, for me, is whatever I can murder. It's not fun. It's survival and nourishment. Like that squeaky think whose screaming I stopped for good. Or that rubber thing that kept me out of that room and off the bed; it's in doorstop heaven now.
The doorstop before burial.
I am so tired of being held back, told "no" and picked up to keep me from killing and devouring something—squirrel, dog or garbage. My spirit is breaking. Thank God for pillows.
A pillow thingy. Did you know these things have guts you can eat and they're tasty. Problem is they don't stay down (or in, as the case may be).
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