Oh, my most finespun comrades, welcome. Is fate not a house of whores?
I am Achille. You will not know who I am, because I have taken exertions to hide myself. Such a lamentable… failure of candour will be rectified soon enough. I cannot apologise enough.
You are doubtless preparing to pepper questions at me like ballistics out of a scattergun.
Answer me this question? What cut does evil wear?
Heroes are those who dwell in failure and contempt. They are bereft of the possibilities. They exist in a null state. Directed psychopathy is the cure for all arrogance. Why waste time in correcting the mind state of a man when you can slit the mind out from him with nothing more but a piece of glass and a short, direct strike to the nape of his neck?
But such are frivolities. Only an enforcer stains their fingers. True power is information. Place a bomb amidst a hospital? You have claimed lives, yes, lives from casualties, causality of suffering into dispachment. Euthanasia - a release upon the taxpayer. After all, is it not virtuous for the noble enlisted to come home a hero to his blithering strain of the life support he’d rutted out on shore-leave, than for the sick, the already touch-and-go, to expire at peace in a holocaust of sacrosanct heat and light? The burned shadows on the walls will be cleansed pure in their blast marks. Their souls seared into matter more material than them - a breeze block will survive that which a human life will not. Is it not darwinian to break a human’s skull upon one?
Rank. Class. Pretty things and gaudy bangles. Servants to dry your hands, your eyes, your genitals. To moisturise your photogenic, imbred face.
Gallia is a nutritious, yet worm-riddled fruit. And on who does it fall to extract the worms, my reaper? Why, only the crows, of course.
But I distract; for the three-part sake of showcasing my expertise, showcasing my flagrant disregard for conventionality and pandering to my indolence, I will simply copy-paste the very same resumé I had ducted the way of our illustrious Royal cousins.
I prefer the term alternatively-affiliated to turncoat, Marquis, as it is far from apt. The royal cloak never fitted my shoulders. Too broad, far to flabby in the midriff.