this isnt a story but an extended metaphor

i do not premote any crimes my metaphor talks about


1. think of a inamimate ob ject and write about it

i am death, kenneled in my masters back denim pocket dwelling on my past. like a cobra i am ready to strike but now im still' coldly i wait for my orders and my next victim.

i remember my first -you never forget your first- it was a cold winter night it was foggy i recall black rodents bear the bitter frost while their wiskers wisk past my owners feet . i snarl them away with my serrarted mouth this drives them back to their so called abode as they revert back to eating their own faeces. my concentration gathers to the feet on my victim i grunt as i am thrust fowards and while out streched i go in go the kill as i shoot forwards the slogan respect your life not your knife glimmers fain ay in my silver eyes i snigger sardonically and continue with me devilish deed. it was quick really.

we circled and i snapted at him we werelike wolves having there last stand. his eyes were white and face was black caked with a balaclava and cap covering his head my owners bling glistened n the light as i went in again hand shaking  i jerked forwared hestently i pieced his chest it was quick really as i slid though his cartilage to his heart and i burrowed in further then lost control i slipted and poked my head out the other side of my victim i smiled on the slow redraw it was exciting i kicked out  at his arties and his black blood bubbled to the white winter floor i bolted only leaving my victim to bleed out and a blood splatttered rag i was cleaned with.

But that was my first time now people part like the waters for me and my master we are a match made in hell even the smog parts


Respect Your KNIFE Use A KNIFE


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