I laugh. I laugh like never before, a cackle reminiscing the very same cackle of that hyena I slaughtered in the desert. Or was it a hooker on Palm Beach? I don't care, I'll tell him something. I'll tell him my dreams, my nightmares. This clean little boy does not know pain, he doesn't know death or wrong or evil. He'll know. He'll know. I'll burrow deep into the well that is his puny little brain and tear his very dreamy world apart. Ha! A virgin brain, ripe for the picking. Oh, how I adore such morsels. But I fail in one vital respect. I tell him of how I obtained this prick, this scalpel in my chest, embedded in such a maniacal way so as to sting me eternally but not kill me, the removal of it, though, would do the trick.
He takes a step towards me. Why'd I tell him all that? Why did I tell him about the scalpel? About ending my agony, my hell?
I look down at the flesh that was only but my casket. I look at him as he holds the object. The third of 538. Will he know what to do with it? It's up to him whether the others are protected or destroyed. I wonder how Mary and Richard are doing.... This whole spirit thing is abso-fucking-lutely fascinating.