Wheezington
falling like ashes to the ground hoping my feelings they would drown,
but they never did, ever lived, ebbing and flowing
inhibited, limited 'til it broke open and rained down. It rained down, like..."
Sit down for a moment. Just shut up and let me talk and get my thoughts in order. I don't need you trying to talk over the voices in my bloodstream. You can't beat them in a contest and it'll just annoy the shit outta me.
So I'm Wheezington. Lord Saint Wheezington to you. Not that you care. 'But Wheezy,' I hear you say. 'You're a Lord of what?' Property, Genius. Territory. Not land. No, nonono. My investments are on the microscopic level, much like your IQ, so this shouldn't be that difficult to understand. You think you are simply You, but you're not just You. You're You with a heaping helping of my territory. About five pounds of it, to be exact, and every single fucking one of you snowflakes are exactly the same in this regard. Need a tissue?
Heh heh heh heheheheheh.
Yeah, coexistence is a bitch when survival comes into play suddenly. No, really. Need a tissue? That sniffle could mean big trouble. In fact, it will if I have anything to say about it. So many of you jackasses are too stupid to live, anyway. Okay, seriously, you make my job so damn easy. Did you actually wash your hands after taking a shit earlier? You do know fecal residue seeps through up to six layers of paper, right? And these little bacteria go swimmy-swimmy-swim-swim and get spread all over your phone screen that you conveniently touch before doing everything. That's just the tip of the fatberg. I could go on about how you treat deadly plagues like major fucking inconveniences, too, but you're already well aware about that.
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.
My life, my love, my drive, it came from...
Pain!"
Date of Birth: 04/14/1990
Race: Ratkin
Breed: Metis
Gender: Male
Aspect: Plague Lord
Demeanor: Creep Show
Apparent Age: 40's
