GET READY TO DIE. But while you’re getting ready to die, let me clear one thing up: what I’ve been doing to you and your friends tonight isn’t “elevated horror.”
In fact, as a sadistic killer, it irritates me when my victims use that term. It forces what I do—stalking and killing people while wearing a pig mask—into a snobbish hierarchy. It suggests that there are “good” and “bad” ways to stalk and kill people while wearing a pig mask. A depraved slaying is a depraved slaying, period.
When I slay my victims, I want them to experience their death on its own terms. I want them to avoid labels. Most of all, I want them to SUFFER. OH, HOW I WANT THEM TO SUFFER.
Is that so much to ask?
Look, I’m sorry you have broader personal or political issues you haven’t resolved, but those have nothing to do with the ways I’ve been killing you guys. When I stabbed your boyfriend with a pitchfork, I had no clue he was dealing with insecurity about coming from a family of poor farmers. That was just a coincidence. It could have been any of you. I just really like stabbing people with pitchforks.
And that shed full of Victorian girl dolls where I tied the volleyball captain to a chair? That was the only room with a lock on the outside. I wasn’t trying to make her confront her guilt over the death of her baby sister. But once she looked at the dolls she started sobbing and saying stuff like, “I’m sorry, Kaylee!” and “It’s my fault, Kaylee!” as if she were going for a Best Screenplay Oscar or something. It was insufferable, and NOBODY UNDERSTANDS SUFFERING AS I DO. AHA-HA-HA-HA.
It just… rubbed me the wrong way, is all. As if my other bloody rampages are somehow “less than?”
ARE YOU SCARED, MY PET? GOOD. Because I’m not going for “more of a psychological vibe.” I'm serious. I'm going to lose it if one more person tells me they're feeling “no so much fear, but dread.”
WHY IS THAT MORE IMPRESSIVE? TELL ME, WHY?!
And speaking of dread: me taking my time killing you all tonight? I was just waiting until there were no witnesses. That’s it. I spent twenty minutes in the closet watching that kid Bryan before I finally impaled him through the eye with a fire poker, and do you know what his last words were? He said he appreciated how I “didn’t stoop to the cheap gimmick of the jump scare.”
I MEAN WHO WAS HE TRYING TO IMPRESS?
You and the rest of tonight’s stuck-up victims have ruined a perfectly enjoyable night of grotesque horror. Earlier, I was having a delightful time chasing that fraternity pledge. I even put on my best pig mask for it. But then he turned around, got on his knees, and begged me not to “punish him for the industrialized West’s willful ignorance during the rise of the Third Reich.” WHAT DOES THAT EVEN MEAN?
When I first burst into your cabin, revved a chainsaw, and screamed “WELCOME TO YOUR NIGHTMARE,” I didn’t mean existential nightmares like loneliness. I meant I was going to fill your mouth with spiders. If I knew your biggest fear was loneliness, I wouldn’t have spent my lunch break looking for spiders.
IT’S JUST PRETENTIOUS, IS ALL. When I stare into the faces of my victims, I want to see the life drain from their eyes, not a smug look that says, “I get this on a deeper level than you.”
So now, for the sins of your snobbery, I’m going to kill you slowly. NO, IT HAS NOTHING TO DO WITH ECONOMIC INEQUALITY. Where did that even come from?
Cry all you want. Nobody’s coming for you. The Sheriff you called for help earlier? I’m afraid I had to chop his head off. I don’t think he made it, though I didn’t stick around to find out. Two witnesses started debating if I was making a statement about Blue Lives Matter, and I was like, “Not touching that one with a 10-foot pole.”
So… any last words before you die? If you say “I’ve already been dead for years,” I’m going to kill you.