White gloves clutch the knife that was thrust into his stomach.
This man’s intestines spill all over the rug, accompanied by blood—and lots of it.
It reminds me of dropping salami that has been dunked in meat sauce.
Sick.
Rotting, maggot-infested teeth grimace back at the dying man.
If he never had coulrophobia before, he does now.
The blue and silver suit gets an added dose of red—and it matches his nose.
Just before the man’s eyes roll back into his head, signifying the end of his existence, he catches a glimpse of the painted face and gasps, with the last breath he’ll ever take,
“Bastard…”
Then he drops to the floor, and a pool of blood forms.
A red, white, and blue reflection is seen, and it ain’t no flag.
An insane laugh is heard, and the clown ties a balloon around the finger of his victim’s corpse, and it reads,
“DEATH IS FUNNY…AND I’M LAUGHING!”
Sick.
Next time you see one of those freaks, even if he isn’t evil, punch him directly in his enlarged shiny crimson nose, because you can never be too sure that you won’t suffer from the same fate as that poor deceased victim.
Because they are not men—they are clowns.
Coulrophobia…you’re catching it.
She was so very special and nice to me, but she wouldn’t shut up about her favorite type of coffee, and where she goes to do her hair—like I really care!
As a result of her motivated mouth, I slowly lost my mind.
My brain is nowhere to be found and I’m forced towards my primal instinct:
CAUSE TORTURE AND PAIN!!!!
So I sit her down in her favorite chair
and I sew her mouth up carefully
and I slice her throat so fluently
And as she cries a tear of blood she curses my name and it really gets me in the mood.
And now she's bloody, lying on the steps leading to my basement.
Duct tape prevents her from speaking a word
and barb wire prevents her from taking a step!
Every inch she moves, it grinds into her skin, sending a muffled scream into the quiet air.
A cockroach crawls across her face and there's no hope left for her.
No more conversations...
Soldier of Christ, kill yourself with love.
I just might be sick enough to kill the symbolic dove.
What in God’s name are you speaking of?
Answer me, or, like I said, I’ll murder that pitiful dove.
Soldier of Christ, tell me what the 8-ball can’t
Or I shall hack and slash and smash and rip your flesh in half.
What in Christ’s name are you speaking of?
I should sew your mouth shut to keep you from preaching about love
You poor, pitiful, brainwashed little creature.
What will your excuse be when the dove croaks?
Where will your peace be when you see people flee from the oncoming battle tank?
A soldier of Christ is a bragging paraplegic.
It talks the talk but has yet to walk the walk or even set a foot on the land.
Do you even know what the word life means?
Can you even tell how much you are busting at the seams?
Your flesh, beliefs, and spirit are morphing.
Pretty soon, you’ll be a six-foot question mark, and you’ll deny it by saying you’re an exclamation point.
Eat the infants, eat them all
Devour their brains and chew their soft skull
Undeveloped hands and feet are still pieces of meat
Undeveloped pieces of meat are still TASTY!