If it was me, well, I always said that I would like to go out by drowning. Supposedly it's nice and peaceful; quiet, like a return to your birth. So that's fucking out for these cocksuckers.

I'm talking chainsaws, strangulations, acid enemas, but maybe, if I'm feeling thoughtful, I'll just put my thumbs through thier eyeballs.

Anyway, I don't really want to kill anyone, yet I love violence. Let me pause and ponder this, while your eyes grow weary and tired.

In slightly unrelated news.

I'm paging through the Sun-Times and I see a picture of Ronald McDonald. He's slouched in a chair behind a plain beige table. He seems lost in thought, which i read as a hangover. Some fat guy in a suit stands next to him. Don't know what he looks like. He's a suit.

Here I go.

- Fuck, man. There's Ronald McDonald. Jesus, clowns are creepy.

Here goes The DeathMarch.

- Do you remember that thing about Andrea?

- No. What was it?

- Her dad and John Gacy used to be drinking buddies. They'd go out every Friday.

- What the fuck! What did he say when he found out about him?

- He had died by then.

- Good for him.

Me and Gacy. I'm three degrees away.

Next time in MurderWorld - What it's like to drink with a serial murderer that dresses up like a clown for children.