Every bank holiday Monday, for around the last three hundred and two years, I’ve made a point of indulging in a spot of killing.
On those rare occasions where the the sun comes out I’ve been known to practice the fine art of mass murder. When it doesn’t shine I kill ‘time’ as I loath that particular son/daughter of a gun for always going quicker on days off work.
This past holiday I managed a record haul of eleventy nine and a half. Some of them deserved it, in fact I asked a few after I’d killed them and they were in full disagreement.
Even the ones that didn’t know how to talk seemed happy to confirm they wanted post death sandwiches round at mine. Obviously I took this as confirmation that my murdering was respected, if not always appreciated. It did present something of a problem though as there is no ‘mine’. I don’t exist apart from in reality.
People aren’t generally the benefactors of my murdering ways. I once ended the life of an Elephant who’d annoyed me by looking at a Gazelle in the wrong way. There was another occasion when I snuffed out a banana for attempting to split up with a garden rake.
My favourite execution was the bank holiday I dropped lucky and discovered two potatoes running for President wearing the same jacket. I know I was justified in their slaying. Especially when one of them attempted to teach me how to count to ten in Portuguese.
I pride myself on the meticulous planning that goes into my murdering sprees. I leave every stone unturned and no scenario worked through before I act.
The clues I do leave are simply concrete evidence of my guilt which can never be traced back to me apart from every time.
Like all good killers the press have named me to scare and excite their readers at the same time. I’m sometimes known as the Daily Mirror or New York Times, depending who’s reporting on my heroic deeds. I was once called Kelloggs Cornflakes as well, I think that was reference to my serial killing.
If I’m ever caught I will plead guilty of being not guilty and not guilty of being guilty. I will then have myself declared fit for trial by a lunatic and throw the book at myself. After my sentence has been declared I’ll lock away the key so nobody can find it to lock me away.
In years to come they’ll make a film about me called ‘messages from our sponsors’. My part will be played by a Big Mac and cheese. Audiences will stay away in their droves by coming in their thousands.
When you go to sleep tonight keep all three eyes open. You just never know who might not turn up!