Wheezington

Lord Rasp-Gasp St. Wheezington the Filth, Esquire

• Type Something Here
• Words Go Here, Too
• What Do You Want From Me Now?
• I Can't, icant, I CAN'T
• GRAAAAAAGH!

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"I was choking in the crowd, building my rain up in the cloud,
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."
But let's make it a game anyway.

"So I'm Wheezington. Lord Saint Wheezington to you. Not that you care. 'But Wheezy,' I hear you say in the most obnoxious voice possible. '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 two kilograms 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, do you 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 of that. Hilarity ensues. I mean, I dunno about you, but I'm laughing."
Ch-ch-ch-ch-ch-ch.

"So what does this mean, ultimately? It means you're going to fucking die a painful death but the odds were stacked against you from the beginning anyway. I'm the exterminator, see, and the planet has a few infestations that need cleaning out and my friend Dyspnea and I are just the ones to see to it. Hey, hey hey hey, maybe- Maybe if you try sucking up to me now I won't feel inclined to use you as a viral dirty bomb later. It probably won't work. But, it might."
Always ssssneaking, alwayssss shooting, always ssssibilant.

"Nothing's gonna fucking change. Everything stays the same until the party comes to an end, huh? What, feel inspired to make a difference for the better in the world only to feel too tired when you get home, distracted by streaming media and video games? Oh sure, the 'kind-hearted' want things to be better and they really would be more active in making that difference if they could, but, see, work is at five in the morning and they're barely scraping by with bills and all they can do is continue to be cogs in the Great Fucking Machine that chops everything up and glues it into place and calls it modern art. Clearly not the only thing that needs chopping up but that's what the skulkers are for. Oh. Who are they?"
Here it comes, here it comes.

"Glad you asked."

"Oh let the bullets fly, oh let them rain.
My life, my love, my drive, it came from...
Pain!"

What Do You Want From Me Now?

GRAAAAAAGH!

Words Go Here, Too

Rite Name: Rasp-Gasp
Date of Birth: 04/14/1990
Race: Ratkin
Breed: Metis
Gender: Male
Aspect: Plague Lord
Demeanor: Creep Show
Apparent Age: 40's

I Can't, icant, I CAN'T