Are they prettier than me, baby? Fair, fair. Could be, could be. Bigger tits, bigger butts! But I'll tell you what you won't find in them: my mind. Crack their skull, pull the brains out. You won't find a miligram of fun you've seen in me. My, my. Have fun talking to buffoons.
I have a lot to say to you, my darling, but I'll let you live. I like you breathing, I like you confused and gurgling. I like you in my hands till I can crush it.
You're so silly. Look down. Who built the floor you're standing on? Who built the roof that sheltered you from the acid rain? Who built the wall, brought the couch, heat up the furnace, cut you the apples, and pour you the wine? Oh, you're so silly. Don't make me snap.
I've killed men. I've killed few terribly insecure men. I've killed few egotistically neurotic men. I've killed them in a way that they won't have the face to see me again, and that the mere mention of my name would make 'em spiral to self-victimization.
I've killed men in creative ways, ruthless or gentle, in the blink of an eye or tortured their soul for months first. No, baby, but here's the thing—even if I kill them, their skeletons will always come back to me. That's something not a mere good pussy can do, baby.