To be a successful criminal, there’s no need to appeal to the emotions of one’s victim’s—criminality is rooted in gain, monetary or otherwise. Villainy, however, focuses on loss. The loss of hope, the loss of happiness, and in the most pedantic of cases, the loss of money.
You don’t really care.
What you do care about are those first two: you’re not here for cash, but for the utter destruction of reputation and joy both.
Jake English—General Terror, he calls himself, is the biggest fucking idiot on the wayside and you can’t stand that he lords around that title as though it belongs to him. English. It’s not his, you’ve insisted for many years, because there’s no way Lord English would have such a miserable failure for his progeny.
You hate General Terror with every fiber of your being, and with every pump of your frustrated little heart, the feeling grows, flooding like the Bible in your chest. He makes your breath falter and your vision red, red like the crescents you dig into your palms when you watch yet another—another!—botched job on the news.
He needs to die.
But it’s not enough, is it?
No. Oh, no.
It’s not enough that Jake English dies—you want to see everything that’s ever made him happy in his life ripped away, slowly, piece by piece as though you’re pulling every tear from his eye with your own shaking fingers. And, because you’ve been watching him for the better part of the year, you know just where to start.
A house will fall much faster on sand than on rock.
The Umbratic Undertaker.
It suits you.
( in case you guys were wondering why this blog hasn’t updated it’s because i am a miserable failure and don’t know how to balance school and recreation! i haven’t given up on superstuck and we have fun things in the works (!!!) but i want to be able to give it the fanfare and effort it deserves. gomen nasai. )
She’s cuter than a speckled puppy with ribbons on. Goddamn.—