Tonight’s kill count: 1.
Scorpions, is this your secret shame? Does some erotic desire cause you to come here, seeking punishment? Do you listlessly toss and turn in your earthen beds, soaked with sweat, yearning for my unforgiving caress? When you begin your grotesque coupling, is it me you picture, a stern and foreboding overlord primed to deliver punishment?
You continue to seek your end here. There must be some primal, unfulfilled need at work. Blatant idiocy? Pure suicidal madness? Yearnings of the flesh? It matters not. The French have an idiom for orgasm, Le Petite Mort, the little death. Allow me to deliver the grand, final death. I shall be your overture, if that is what you wish. I am the storm, and I can not be contained.