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"You will not touch Papercut ever again. Let's go through that one more time: you will not touch Papercut ever again. If you do, you have given me the God-given right to break every bone in your finger in nine places, cut your face off, and stretch it out on my front porch to dry. Then, after bandaging your faceless head, I will strap you down to a table and make an inscision in your gut. A small one. But every day, I'll make it a bit bigger. A bit deeper. Until I can smell your festering flesh from a mile away. Eventually, I'll be able to see your intestines. And I'll slowly pull them out of your gut. I'll trail them around the house, Ric. I'll let you bleed out all over my carpet. And I'll keep you alive, too. I'll let the flies swarm over your innards and your mouth. I'll let the maggots crawl in your rotting wound. I'll make you regret the day you were ever vomited into existence from that gaping, sordid hole between your mother's oft-spread legs, do you hear me? You will never touch Papercut again.


Ever Yours,
Aramis