You're Next

I'm called Payne. As in 'A World Of'. Not my real name, of course. Everyone who knew me is dead. I killed 'em.

Shit, I've snuffed hundreds. That's my technique: indiscriminate and apparently random acts of mass murder, to conceal my real targets. Cheers, terrorists. You make my job so much easier, by taking the flak.

My first hit was myself. Remember the IRA bomb at the wedding reception? I dressed some runaway off the streets in my best party togs. Blew him and my family to buggery.

Then there were the Poll Tax riots. When the Town Hall was mobbed and vandalised. Mine were among many birth records that were 'liberated'.

And the High School shootings. I disguised myself in overalls and baseball cap and gunned down every teacher who had ever seen my fizzog. Together with anyone else who crossed my path. Fuck, I hate screaming kids.

When the caretaker was found with a bullet in his brain and a stash of weapons in his locker, no-one could figure why he'd flipped. Nor why he'd set the fire that destroyed the school's documents.

Car, bus, train and plane crashes. Accidents at work. Faulty domestic appliances. Copycat serial killers. A few more bombs. All took care of deleting me from memories and thus from history. No better alibi than not existing.

Now, here we are. This ain't a confession. This is a threat. You're next. Yes, YOU.

It didn't take much to hack this sap's account. When you're dead, this poxy website will crash and cover my tracks.

Fuck, I hate poetry too.