Most girls grow up idolizing singers and actresses, even athletes. Not me. I was always fascinated by serial killers. Did you know most serial killers keep souvenirs of their kills? Little trophies to help them relive the moment. Serial killers even give their trophies as gifts to loved ones or family members. Anatoly Onoprienko kept the underwear of 52 victims in the Ukraine. Ahmad Suradji killed 42 chicks in Eastern Europe and kept their saliva. Ted Bundy sometimes kept the heads of his pretty victims. Elizabeth Bathoy, a 16th century Countess linked to over 600 brutal torture sex deaths, kept some of her victims blood. And of course we all know that Jeffrey Dahmar kept the genitals of his dead dinner guests.
From body parts to jewelry to clothing, the world’s worst murderers, my heroes, have kept trophies. I’m a sadist. I don’t always kill for sexual pleasure. Sometimes it is for sport, sometimes money, sometimes opportunity, sometimes to teach a lesson, sometimes because an annoying fuck has exceeded his or her tolerance level with me. Whatever my motive at the time, my heroes have taught me to take tokens. I am not as random in my souvenir taking as I am with my killings. I love to take balls. I appreciate the twisted mind of Dahmer, so I keep them in a lobster pot on the stove, just like he did. I, however, don’t eat them. I make my female victims devour them in a sick game of “Would You Rather?” You see, if a worthless cunt has the choice between eating the testicles of a dead asshat or dying a painful death, she always selects option one. There is no integrity in that, so she dies regardless. I have spared the life of a couple bitches who stood their ground: no eating human rocky mountain oysters under any circumstance. In the face of death, folks show their true nature. Desperate people with no principles, no personal code of ethics, don’t deserve to live.
Just last week I took the balls of a stupid fuck I saw kick a dog. I may be a sadistic bitch, but I pick a fair fight. I put on some steel toed Doc Martins and kicked him in his worthless balls till he was puking up blood. “How does it feel to be kicked loser,” I asked as I channeled my inner David Beckham on his groin. Crying ass pansy. I strapped him to this old electric chair I got at a prison auction, chopped his balls off first, then his pecker which I stuffed in his mouth as I slit his throat. I pissed on the bloody stump that use to contain his tally whacker and masturbated as I squeezed his balls in my hand watching him bleed out. The next morning, I had a contract kill scheduled for a cheating whore gold digging wife. As she was chomping on his severed balls, my little trophy, in a worthless attempt to save her life, I asked her how her douche bag boyfriend’s testicles tasted. The expression on her face was priceless. Almost as good as the expression when she realized I was going to kill her anyway. “Maybe you can keep your whore legs crossed in hell, bitch,” I giggled as I stabbed her cheating cunt with a 12 inch serrated blade until she no longer twitched. I don’t usually take trophies from female victims, but it was kind of poetic justice that I had her boyfriend’s dead balls, well one ball, she ate the other one. So, I took her worthless clit. In an old cigar box on my mantle I have the ball and clit of dead stupid lovers. Who says I am not a romantic?
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