So Who's Doing Your Dishes This Week,Pretty Boy?

The end. The fucking end. I don't need to see the whites in their eyes for me to open fire this time. No fucking names. No fucking faces. Only moving targets.
This is fucking war. And when the dust settles, I'll be the one picking up the bodies, and filling holes with wasted space. And you, motherfucker.

I hope you are still alive and kicking so I have the chance to pick up any sharp object and put it in your fucking throat. This is war.
These stories will go down in history. All I ask is to live one day longer than you so I can have the chance to spit on your fucking grave. (this song is about you)