Hello, Alexander. How many people have breathed their last breath as a result of your hands?
Post. Script.: Your good friend Simon is in the hospital. He has puh-neumonia. I figured you would like to know. I believe he is, ah, in the recovery stage, as it were. Pooh, I says.
He takes a moment, a very blunt question.
“If you- if you put it like that, it just sounds bad. But if your safety was being threatened by devils and ones controlled by them, you’d have…you would have defended yourself, right? I know god has forgiven me so, none of your stupid dumbass opinions matter to me in the end. Sorry.
Wait, what is post script…”
He squints and reads further.
“Uhm, what the fuck?- I mean. I don’t care. I don’t. If that was true. Which it’s not. Simon is taking a break from work, that’s it. That’s why I haven’t seen him yesterday. Yeah. Sorry. Yeah. In fact, I’ll go to the museum right now! He’s definitely there, and I’ll show you how wrong you are. Stupid, trying to make me upset, do you have a brain or what? Definitely not if you think I care. I don’t. I do not care….”