I grow tired of this game, my head hurts again, I feel dizzy, expectation crowds my thoughts, and I think the public too have expectations of me. They wait to see when I shall strike again. They want to see and hear of my work. They pretend to fear my flashing blade, yet deep beneath they want to hear and read of bloody murder. They won’t admit it, oh no, they won’t, but I know it’s what they want. They want me to rip the next w***e, but I’ll keep them waiting, bide my time, the next w***e won’t bleed until I’m ready, then the river of red will flow once more, and I’ll stain the streets with the blood of the foul-tainted w****s. The crowds are too much; one cannot go about one’s business without being accosted by the great unwashed, seeking retribution, ha, as if dead w***e’s need revengin
