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Thirsty

His thirst to kill was slowly overcoming him. He was getting to the point where he was killing weekly. Anthony Buford had a need to make people suffer. He entered his studio in his secluded mansion in Tombstone, Arizona. A man that was tied up awaited him. The man was squirming.
“You cannot leave,” Anthony informed the man. Anthony shook a toothpick out of a jar and rolled up the man’s sleeve, “Now quit struggling.”

The man stopped moving and Anthony thrust the toothpick deep into the man’s arm. The man yelled, but only for a second, as he bit his tongue to keep himself quiet. A think trail of blood emerged from the hole made by the toothpick. It was thick, like molasses. Juicy.
“What did I ever do to you?” the man asked Anthony.
“Nothing, but I don’t like you and I want you to suffer.”

Anthony struck the man’s arm with a shovel and he screamed. His arm went limp and got cold. Next, Anthony made a slit on the man’s arm and peeled the skin back and tore it off. Ouch. The man screamed in agony as Anthony did the same thing to his other arm.
“Stop please!” The man yelled.
“Too late!” Anthony screamed as he raised the shovel. Anthony struck the man in the face and the man’s body went motionless. Anthony dropped the shovel and walked out of the room. He would return later to clean up the mess.

Anthony’s sickness was taking over…he couldn’t take it anymore. The sickness to kill, to mutilate, to destroy. He just didn’t know what to do. He was thirsty.





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