"We've all got the power in our hands to kill, but most people are afraid to use it. The one's who aren't afraid control life itself."

--Richard Ramirez
The Night Stalker

( o )------(PREDATOR)------( o )

I'm in control now and I always will be from here on out and thereafter; or rather, at the very least until I decide for my own magnificent Madness to end. I'll never let anyone take that control from me until my final breath says goodnight to my last heartbeat. Now that I've tasted this delectable swell of power pulsating itself throughout my nervous system, my brain craves for it constantly and consumes almost my every thought. It's no longer a simple question of just wanting it anymore, and has advanced into a matter of pure necessity. The pack of police and paparazzi searching for me can try to halter my activities, but I'll just put an end to it real quickly by swallowing this pretty little white friend of mine named cyanide. I keep it tucked away close to my heart in my left front pocket, so that I can subconsciously feel the poison slowly massaging my heart to death through a thin layer of cotton and polyester. There's no thrill or rush of any kind anywhere similar to that of living life every day on the brink of death. They'll never be able to control me in this life, and whatever waits me forever more when it ends, is a mere afterthought clouded by my lust for this magnificent Madness.

My pill will be my own personal little suicide safety net I'll use as an assurance that if those hungry wolves searching for my scent somehow pick something up, so that they then will find nothing but a trail of rotting corpses following my own. Unluckily for them, I have already found a way to mask what I consider a minute issue, by covering myself completely in fish guts and trust me, this stuff could send a skunk running for cover. My previous career working at the fish market has not only introduced my nostrils to this wretched smell, but it has also taught me how to hone my craft with a knife. You'd be surprised at how similar it is to slice open any living creature just the same as the other; that is of course, once you know where to make the right incisions.

I make the rules, and that's simply because I'm the one who invented this fun little game of life and death. Cat and mouse with cops and robbers. I hear what they say about me in the whispers of their gossips and through the airwaves on the radio in my van. Somewhat hypocritical of my clever and well thought out procedures I had made throughout this entire process. That is of course, for me to use this type of stereotypical vehicle as my sanctity of seduction, however foolish and cliche it may seem I must use it. The van does provide the only viable method to transport the unwilling cargo to my disclosed location without them disturbing anyone on the outside of it.

I see how they fear me and how determined they are to catch this said 'monster'. They wouldn't use that term if they saw the world through my mind's eyes. They should come speak to me after they have stared into the pupils of the eyes of someone losing life by the strength of their own hands. By constricting their air way around their neck and feeling the very soul of that person transfer themselves unto you. Becoming a part of you as it leaves them. I insist that anyone would dare to replicate my field of speciality, so that they too will finally come to know the true definition of euphoria as I have. Through their eyes they think we're all the same, by simply grouping us silent serial celebrities together who crave the magnificent Madness. Lumping and labeling us together as a pack of flesh hungry psychopaths.

I am an individual, seeking to vilify as many souls as I can to satisfy my twisted yearning for their power. To collect these souls and continue to control them with me forever, not only for the time being, but also in whatever universal parallel end to all these means brings me. Those seeking me best come to this realization that what I have to offer them is very different from the rest of my less careful counterparts. That is of course, if they thought they had any chance of actually catching me like they did the rest of them. What these 'monster' hunters don't realize is they can't find and lynch a Frankenstein without him having castle for the act to take place. The endless miles of anonymous highway is my home, and because of its unknown secrets I too am able to remain nameless to those looking for me indubitably. My clever and decisive plan was in the making for months as I insisted on making it perfect. After all, it had to be in order for it to come to fruition.

Which is why it struck me with great displeasure after all that careful and diligent preparation, then mixed with my deeds of colossal amounts of carnage, that they would bestow upon me a simple nickname that I immediately despised since first hearing of it's inception. I will not; however, give them the satisfaction of knowing these pretenses since I presume it is upon their design to try and insult me. 'The Highway Killer;' is to which they have labeled me. How very simplistic, obsolete, and narrow minded of them to not spark my name with a bit more of creativity and intimidation. They know nothing of my power, unlike my prey who are always forever silenced and unable to tell them any tales. Have my crimes not been frequent and severe enough? Because I can certainly up the ante if albeit the case as I see potential prey approaching... I am the mother fuckin' Soul Vilifying Vampire, and those on the prowl looking for me had soon come to realize it, lest I teach it to them now.

Prey: "Hey, thanks for pulling over and giving me a ride. God bless you! What's with the fucking rape van though, you're not some kind of psycho rapist murderer or something... Are ya?"

Predator: "HA! Hell naw' sweetheart, I'm a stage hand and I just got back from a gig. I drive the bands equipment around while their on tour. Hop on in beautiful and let's get you out of that cold."

Prey: "Thanks, you're such a gentleman. Hey! Is this Rascal Flatts on the radio? You should turn this fuckin' countray' swang up!"

Predator: "Haha! You got it babe. Say, where you heading anyways?"

Prey: "If you take a right at the next light, then you'll be able to take your next immediate right to get on a ramp. I'm just a couple miles down the highway after that..."


A voice of the very peculiar and uplifting manner penetrates your eardrums, reminding you of some kind of Sherlock Holmes or Scooby-Doo like detective mystery you were about to continue....



This place, of course, for those of you joining SATAN!vision for the first time, being the dark citadel of the midnight murder machine himself; Unknown Soldier, along with his new companion the wicked witch of the east, Hillary Clinton. The current dark lair of many dark lairs of our dastardly villain, accompanied this time by his CROOKED political crony. A dark castle with fire and brimstone and yada yada yada hell and darkness and flames and what not. Whatever you picture hell's castle and/or the Clinton household to be like and take it times 666, and that's where our mystery picks up immediately after Soldier left Warfare the Xtreme Champion. A floating camera is directing our vision by hovering in mid air, it is supported by a unique levitating device constructed out of a metal support system around it's base and an air pressure device on it's bottom to keep it afloat. This strange device is being controlled by some unknown force and takes the camera and our cognizant awareness down an abnormally deep and dark flight of stairs within the fortress.

Our decent increases in speed as seconds in time progresses, until the monotonous pattern of black brick steps and white brick walls become a whipping circle, and develops into a sight of nothing but a mess of colors, similar to being spun around to intentionally get dizzy. We finally reach the bottom with an abrupt stop which does leave the senses in a bit of a spin. After you're able to finally pull them together, we bare witness to what appears to be a hospital or strange laboratory. All kinds of random human looking people, along with what we can assume to be various alien races; are all wearing stethoscopes around their necks, aprons around their waist, giant light bulb contraptions on their foreheads, and/or holding up rubber gloves.

These random surgeons or scientists from different planets, are carrying lidless gallon milk cartons full of blood as they wander aimlessly around this basement dungeon scenario playing itself out before your eyes. Most of them covered in said blood from head to foot due to their overflowing nature. It would also appear, that they are all in somewhat of a disorganized and chaotic hurry as they keep crashing into one another and spilling gallons of blood all over the place. We follow them into what appears to be their focus of entry, because although they seem quite a bit haphazard in their directions of movement, it also appears that all of them are attracted to a certain doorway not far from where we landed in this basement.

The irregular creatures fight and squirm to gain entry to this doorway like a pack of ants trying to be the first to get to the queen. The camera slides between a pair of blood carrying drones fighting for entrance through the door, and then into a room where sitting on top of an operating table is our treacherous confidant, Unknown Soldier. Surrounding him are flocks of these blood providing zombies, along with his manager Greggo and Hillary Clinton. Soldier is laying on an operating table unconscious with his eyes closed and arms crossed over his body; as both Greggo and Mrs. Clinton hover over him, staring awkwardly close with their eyes almost touching the skin against Soldier's naked physique. Hillary even pulls out a magnifying glass to closely examine his balls. She is startled and tossed aback when suddenly....

(04-30-2016, 01:17 AM)Peter Fn Gilmour Said: Suck my dick soldier!!

Soldier leaps in the air in disarray as if he had just been hit with a defibrillator and screams.

Unknown Soldier: "It burns! Make it stop, it burns!

Soldier immediately drops back down to the table and re-assumes his near dead like position as before.

Hillary Clinton: "What the hell happened to him on Warfare, Greggo? I was too busy trying to cover up all my lies to the FBI all week to watch the show. Did he hurt himself?"

Greggo: "Heez' took a nasty fall from the scaffolding trying to help Peter in his Hart Title match, and it looked like a tragedy of the Owen Hart variety. In fact, that sads and pathetic little bitch Scully that he landed on, has a minor concussion in his vagina and won't be able to help Chris MacBeth defend the tag titlez this upcoming Warfare. After that, I brought him straights here so I could molest, er, I mean fix him..."


Greego is interrupted by a startling jolt of energy inside Soldier that this time nearly sends him up to the ceiling.

Unknown Soldier: "My ears! My fucking ears are bleeding! Quickly, I need more goats blood!"

The blood carrying slaves scramble at his request and proceed to continue feeding Hillary and Greggo milk carton after milk carton full of goats blood, to which they proceed to dump in mass quantities all over the top of Soldier's entire body. After Greggo and the future democratic nominee for president of the United States finish applying what they believe to be a sufficient amount of goats blood, they then change their healing methods and instead proceed to start massaging the blood deep into his skin. Kneading and pressing the dark black matter deeply into his pores with definitive pressure like a baker pounding flour into dough.

Greggo: "Peter wasn't even thanksful for his helps, and now here we are tending to his injuries from this nasty fall while his 'supposed' friend Peter is probably taking out his Hart title loss anger by beating up some poor innocentz peoples at the airport or dance club. Most likely in the Loth Angelez or New York area."


This time Soldier's shock is accompanied by his hair standing on its end, including his long blonde hair shooting straight up like a Beetlejuice haircut, in fact very conducive to as if he had just been electrocuted.

Hillary Clinton: "Do you hear that echo? What the hell is that?"

Greggo: "Thatz just Peter Gilmour somewheres in the whole wide universe screaming at someones to suck his dick."

Hillary Clinton: "Why?"

Greggo: "Apparently, if you keep screaming the most pathetic and unoriginal insult at everyone over and over again it becomes funny in an almost sad and pathetic sort of way."

Unknown Soldier: "Help me! Cover my ears, it's the only way to stop the pain!"

Greggo: "He must have landed directly on top of his ears in that long fall. How unfortunate and mathematically most likely way to land after a fall of that magnitude."

Greggo pulls out his long and decrepit dick from out of his pants and sticks it into one of the full milk jugs full of goat's blood. After dipping his defiling stick in the red plasma, it quickly becomes erect. The dripping liquid falls off Greggo's manly member as he makes his way with his stiff pointer towards Soldier's left ear canal. He looks towards Hillary and shrugs at her with a cocked eyebrow in his stare, looking both confused and aghast at the same time by her lack of cooperation.

Greggo: "You heard'em Hill-dog."

Hillary begins unzipping her pants and then removes them, but just as she begins removing her panties the camera cuts out and the feed is dead.