A Letter To New Scotland Yard


As you can see by the grisly photographs that accompany this letter, I am a killer, and a skilled one at that. There are a few missing, my earliest ones, but you have images of those in your archives, I know.

At first, I thought I was on some moral crusade. I soon realized that such a crusade was useless. I stopped, for a time, to re-evaluate what I wanted. It was simple. I wanted the voices to stop. And I knew how to accomplish that.

Over many years, I traveled to every corner of the globe. I have slain people in every country, every province, state, etc. The old. The young. Men. Women. I even had took a hermaphrodite in the US, once.

Some places I visited more than once, and regimes fell and borders changed. And, soon, I had spilled blood on every continent around the world.

And, now, as the sun sets on Antarctica, and the blood of my final victim freezes in the snow, I walk into the wasteland. To the South Pole. To my death.

At last, the voices are silent.

Sincerely, as always,

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