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I've been working for about eight months. Two jobs, only one with pay, only one with any satisfaction. For the sake of posterity, call me a consequence of the generation of isolation. Where things became more important than people. Eugh, preaching to the choir of course. Look who I'm speaking to: people who, upon discovering they were being stalked by a monstrosity beyond their comprehension, decided to post it on their blog.

Fucking shut-ins the lot of you. Before you realized that mortality meant death, all you could think of was your things and how best to display them. I have the best computer, the best house, the best body, the best mind. But when Mr. Mister came along, it LEVELED OUT THE FUCKING PLAYING FIELD! Shitheads with the brainiacs, freaks with the beautiful, spurned with the loved. And you know what? Each of you could have, at ANY FUCKING TIME, been killed before this. A blow to the head, a car crash, illness; but only now that everyone's dying in the same grand mixing pot, suddenly it's kinship and lollypops for fucking all.

So no, I'm not on your goddamn side. I don't even like any of you. But fuck it all, I'm going to do my job. During the day I'm Francis Cauldhame, advisory consultant motherfucker.

During the night, I smash people's faces in.