[ WP ] The running faucet

I wake up. The shower is on. I live alone. 
 
 I grab my shotgun and tiptoe towards the bathroom discretely. I do n't feel fear. I've never felt fear. What I feel at the moment is, in fact, anticipation. I've never shot someone in the shower before. And just the thought of violently tearing open the curtains and blowing whoever's inside to shreds has a sort of beautiful, delicious finesse about it that I simply ca n't resist. 
 
 In addition, their automatic nakedness would make fucking their delectable corpse all the more simple and efficient. And of course, consuming them could be done right then and there. I might as well bring a fork in with me! 
 
 As I turn the corner, my attention is diverted. My couch is on fire. And there's something sticking out of it - a pitchfork. A flaming pitchfork... 
 
 Fuck. I know who's in the shower. And bullets wo n't be of much assistance in his eradication. 
 
 I burst through the door and tear open the curtains. My hypothesis was correct. 
 
 `` About to shoot me, right? Yeah, that'll fuckin' work. NOT!'' said Satan. 
 
 I sigh and sit on toilet, setting my gun down beside me. This fucker better not be staying long. `` So what the fuck do you want?'' 
 
 `` I'll tell you, Jeffy m'boy. Hell's gettin' a little, uh... stifling for me. That the right word? Yeah, I'll go with that. Anyway, after a certain point, the putrid smell of burning flesh, the wordless screams of thousands of horrifying demons, the neverending death march of billions of cadaverous souls shuffling from torture chamber to torture chamber; all of that gets a bit old. You see what I'm sayin'? A man needs change to keep himself from committing suicide, to free him from the excruciating monotony of existence. So, Dahm-boy, this is my new home. You're one of the few surface dwellers I've formed any sort of a relationship with, and your place is a hell of a lot quieter than Ian Watkins'. And plus, you torture the shit outta people, so I figure if I stay here I wo n't get too homesick. So, how'bout it, Dahmy?'' 
 
 `` Mm-hmm.'' I pick up shotgun and press it against the roof of my mouth. As I reach for the trigger, it turns to dust. 
 
 `` You fuckin' think that'll work? Fuck, if you do that, you'll go to Hell anyway. And I'll just go back there, I do n't give a fuck. Maybe I'll make you my boyfriend or somethin'.'' 
 
 I sigh once again. `` So, do you want anything to eat, or...'' 
 
 `` I could go for some fuckin' wings. You up for wings, motherfucker?'' He steps out of the shower, his red-hot, fifteen inch cock in full view. 
 
 `` It's five in the morning.'' 
 
 `` I do n't give a fuck. I'm gettin' some wings, motherfucker. Ooh, hey, you think they got room service here?'' 
 
 `` This is an apartment.'' 
 
 `` I'm callin' room service.'' He plops himself on the flaming couch and starts dialing the phone. `` Hey, you got any fuckin' wings? Wrong number? Fuck do you mean,'wrong number?' I'm the motherfuckin' Prince of Darkness motherfucker, GET ME SOME FUCKIN' WINGS!'' He hangs up violently. 
 
 `` Some people...'' he says. `` Hey, man, you got any virgin blood up in this bitch?'' 
 
 `` Most of my victims are n't virgins.'' 
 
 `` Well, get me some. Heh-heh, hey, maybe time travel, get some blood from yourself in high school. Christ knows you never got any'fore you discovered roofies. Ha-ha! You fuckin' nerd!'' 
 
 I sigh once again. This'll be one *Hell* of a time! 
 
 *We will return to Dahmer'n Diabolus after these messages. *
