You should’ve stopped while you were still ahead. You got away with that serial shit in London. You weren’t gonna get away with it here. Wrong place. Wrong time. Wrong person’s watch.
I’m not Samantha “Sammy” Boyd, the great English huntress, who failed to prove that those overseas killings were your doing. After all, reputation or not, Sammy’s still a patriotic Brit, and you are a member of the British Royal Family. As for your badass American brother-in-law, General Tony “Ironman” Starks, he doesn’t intimidate me the least bit.
What was that? You’re asking me to be what? Oh, my God! You mean to tell me that on top of all of your other grievous stupidity; you’ve deluded yourself into thinking I was capable of being merciful? Gimme a break, Jack. That was your trump card? Duh. Just gag me, please. I told you before to beware of me. You should’ve heeded my advice, you pathetic clusterfuck. I am Death’s Moll in all her glorious incarnations; none of them conducive to a sinner’s long life. Truth is, I don’t know the meaning of the word “mercy.” Never did.
You really are in a tumble, aren’t you? Thugs who are violently naughty-by-nature are incapable of mercy; that’s why the do-wrongers call me Stone Cold. This mercy blunder of yours is really just too sweet. Disappointment number whatever. But, it’s a good lead-in to my ancillary.
Although I duly warned you, you chose to continue pursuing an antisocial lifestyle which could only lead to your destruction. I know we faerie folk have God-given propensities for utter mayhem, organized bedlam, and hellish pandemonium. And, I further concede that we Vampire are serial feeders by-nature and serial killers by-design. But that romantic jumble is no excuse for what you did.
You know ROE. Either we channel those tendencies of ours into the socially-acceptable venues afforded us or we end up on some Grimm’s DML just like you have. Now you pay the toll: Death most painful, death most slow.
Pops, police covert ops, wet works, bag jobs, and their like are my business.
Bottomline: I kill for a living, fool. And like your evil sorry ass, when I kill, I also satiate for a time the homicidal trinity: Rapture, Thirst, and Hunger. Hell. To tell the truth of it, the only dime’s worth of difference between the two of us is a badge.
Well. That’s not quite true. Unlike you, I’m a sado-masochist; I don’t just like to dish it out, I like to take it as well. As a sadist, you only get to enjoy half the fun of being into pain. So, you won’t enjoy what I’m about to do to you one little bit.
First, I have my fun with you; here come da pain. Then, you’ll die slowly. Sound familiar? It’s what you always say to your victims. Now the shoe’s on the other foot, Jack.
How do I know you so well, you ask? ‘Cause I’m a sado-masochistic you with a badge, silly boy. Hell. I just told you that. Listen closer so I won’t have to repeat myself again, dummy dearest.
Both of us are Darque. We’re demons who’re Elf and Vampire. But we’re also members of a society, Jack, where freedom of individual expression must always be balanced against moral conformity. Sometimes, to maintain that delicate balance, individuals must be sacrificed. People like me kill them. That’s our function in the scheme of things. It’s our reason for existing. It’s why we Grimm are on police payrolls.
After tonight, the streets of St. Louis will once more be safe from the likes of you, thanks to the likes of you, in the guise of yours truly. Still confused? Everything clear as mud? I can tell by your muffled screams of sheer terror that you finally understand.
Lastly, as your biggest fan, and a lifelong admirer of your handiwork, I can’t stress enough just how much you’ve disappointed me of late by wasting your considerable talents on Mundane prostitutes. Oh, and Jack, say hello to God for me.