Monday, 1 September 2008

Diary of a Serial Killer Part 2

Now, the entry you've all been waiting for, Diary of a Serial Killer, Part 2!

Nightmare day! After lunch (turkey goulash, v.v. stodgy) I was called to the office, to find my solicitor and a group of other men sitting around a desk. Apparently, I'm being fingered for some crimes I may or may not have committed whilst travelling around America in the 80s. Shudder! They want to extradite me apparently, but they're waiting to see if they can get authorisation.

Still waiting to hear about the extradition. Received a letter from K, apparently his latest play, A Stitch in Time Saves No-one is opening at the Crucible. Seized with a fit of jealous rage, I sent him back a bag of my toenail clippings. Then I sent off a cheque for £400 to the Argos catalogue, because I wanted one of those George Foreman sub-machine guns.

I didn't get a wink of sleep last night because I have a horrible feeling that I sent the toenails to Argos and the cheque to K. V.frustrated at not being able to kill him, I stapled a picture of him to the back to my cellmate's head before I beat him unconscious with a table leg.

I love solitary. It gives me time to think. Trouble is, I don't want to think now because I found out today that the extradition is going ahead. One of the guards has brought me a portable TV in; he owes me because I recommended a good Cabernet Sauvignon, but all it would pick up was The Benny Hill Show. Not only did the TV have a poor signal, it was thirty years slow and has questionable attitudes towards women and milkmen.

Well, I've never been so shocked! I've been given the death sentence. Just for chopping up two fat truckers and feeding them to two fatter truckers! I've said it before and I'll say it again, the law is an ass.
I decided that my lawyer was a buffoon, so I decided to act as my own defence. Admittedly, I probably didn't help matters by beginning, 'Fat piggy people and bottomfeeding hillbillies of the jury.' And now, I am to be killed. So be it. There are worse things that can happen to a fellow in Texas. Like visiting a waffle house.

The eve of my execution. I was refused my request for a last meal. Apparently, they couldn't source the liver of a sixteen year old virgin in time, so I was given something called a "Big Mack", which I used to grease up the bars of my cell and escape.
Regrettably, the police picked me up about a mile away, trying to get a good table at a gourmet steakhouse, despite the fact that I hadn't made reservations.

Given the electric chair. V.painful!

Cremated. Feeling a bit low at the moment.

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