Sinistyr Mistyr is his name. Hacking and slicing is his game.
For in his basement are his toys,
That help him to capture without much noise.
He finds his target and drugs them up.
Then drains their blood into a cup.
No anesthetics for this job.
For when he begins he enjoys hearing the sobs.
He takes his potential weapon of choice
And cuts into their chest with the thrill of their voice.
The sound of ripping flesh,
Echoed off the walls.
As well as the anguished sounds of their calls.
One limb, two limb, three limb, four.
He hacks them away until there are no more.
Next are the eyes,
Still frozen with fear.
He takes them out with knobs and gears.
Finally, when the screetching stops,
A can tab he does pop.
He sits in his chair,
Smirking at the cadaver.
Plotting who's next,
To go after.