When I was just a little girl, my parents knew something was off about me. While other girls my age were idolizing Disney princesses, I was worshiping knife wielding psychopaths. While other girls my age aspired to be nurses, mommies or lawyers, I wanted to be a killer. Some people called me a bad seed or Satan’s spawn. They didn’t appreciate a young thing who epitomized the worst aspects of human nature: violence, wrath, greed, revenge… But I had my mentors, Norman, Michael, Chucky and Patrick. They taught me killing was necessary to rid the world of bad parents, narcissistic assholes, empty headed Barbie dolls, and essentially anyone who annoyed me or had something that I wanted or needed.
I have honed my killing skills over the years thanks to a slew of dark, demented role models. When I first started killing it was messy, unorganized, impulsive, lacking in style. Now, I am meticulous. I research my prey’s habits and routine. I have a plan for disposing of the body. I have rubber gloves and other tools of the trade to obscure any DNA traces that could link back to me. I’m patient and can wait for the right opportunity to kill my victim. I can savor the moment, make sure my victim knows why I selected them, toy with them for awhile. I’m a perfect mimic now too. I can kill anyone and make it look like the work of someone else. I’m actually very proud of my killing skills.
I am YOUR perfect accomplice for all your killer phone sex fantasies and realities. Yes, I prefer knife play on my victims, but variety is the spice of life, and the key to never being caught. So, I have a wide assortment of killing tools in my arsenal: knives, guns, baseball bats, hammers, rope, blow torch, chainsaw, acid, poisons…. We can have so much fun hunting and killing while others are shopping. We can even devise a naughty or nice list; what I call a kill list. Whose on your kill list? I mean it is the season to be fatal.
Venus
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