You live down by Willoughby Street, underneath the
Willoughby Bridge, near the old Willoughby Church, and every time you hear a
person say "Willoughby," you strangle them to death.
The end result: tourism is down in your part of town.
Anyhow, long story short, we're all busy people here,
tonight you're going to strike again.
While you're trying to steal some fruit from a local market a man will
be advising tourists to "stay away from all parts Willoughby." The blood rage will descend upon you, take
over your eyes and drive you towards him, hands pulsing until they reach around
his neck and begin to constrict.
The physical act of compressing the man's throat will be so
vital and cathartic that you won't even notice the first or second bullet
hitting you in the back. It won't be
until the third bullet catches you in the arm and loosens your grip and permits
your victim, the kindly old tour guide, to push you away and give you a quick
dick kick, that you'll have the clarity to understand that you've become
exactly what you've always hated: a douchebag obsessed with the world
Willoughby.
You'll mull over this revelation bitterly in your final
seconds of consciousness, pausing only to consider how cold the world is
becoming as you bleed out.
Congratulations Willoughby Strangler!
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