Paté (short for Patricia) Dogabortion (short for Dogabortionpaté) was an
evil woman who deserved every moment of pain in her life, and whose moments
of happiness, one hopes, were sufficiently fleeting to count for naught, yet
sufficiently real to add deep transparency to her moments of pain. All who
met her immediately hated her and wished her ill, especially those who came
to understand her and be better than all the others. On a scale of one to
ten with one being the least evil person in the world and nine being the
most evil person in the world apart from Paté Dogabortion, she would have
been a ten. Now that's evil; with numbers (wordnumbers) who needs actual
proof of evil? Who needs actual proof of evil? Not me, not anyone who
matters, not anyone who doesn't matter. Evil is as evil does. There's evil
and there's evil, and that's evil. I know evil when I see it, and that's
evil. Evil. She's evil. She was evil, and now she's dead. She was evil, she
is dead. It's almost worth there being an afterlife just so she can continue
to be evil. We have numbers (wordnumbers).
On one occasion, a neighbour child kicked a ball into her garden; she ate
the ball. She ate the neighbour child. Murder doesn't exist without a body,
disappearance can't be a crime without the noble art of magicianising
suffering. Disappearance without reappearance can be a crime. She produced
the neighbour child without producing a legally indefensible body: the
neighbour child's mother received a small box packed to the brim with mushy
faeces labelled "Your child", a smaller box as full of mushy faeces labelled
"Your child's ball" and a final, smaller still, just as full, box labelled
"Your child's balls". I'd never allow that sort of defence in my legal
system, but I don't make the laws around here: I'm a non-executive vice
chairman, purely for show and to encourage investment from rich, immoral
companies tiring of tobacco and guns, and seeking to get a slice of the
fresh law-making industry.
Paté (still short for Patricia) Dogabortion (now short for
Dogabortionpaté-Cuntweasel following a brief, but beautifully unhappy
marriage to Shaved Cuntweasel, whom she also ate) wasn't just limited to
proving her evil by eating a neighbour child (and her late husband): she
also ate policemen. With a neighbour child (and a late husband)
disappearing, maybe murdered, maybe innocently digested, the police (whom,
it has been agreed by all parties, will be fucked, provided the word 'the'
severs all ties with its paramilitary wing, the letter 'a') will
investigate. Knock knock. Who's there? The police. The police who? The
police that you're going to eat in a minute. Three shitfilled boxes: the
first labelled "The policemen", the second, full of gaiety and frolicity,
within a shit milieu, labelled "The policemen's ball", the third,
impressively large, labelled "The policemen's balls".
Targeted airstrikes proved to be her downfall. Diplomacy failed when two
boxes full of shit made their way - with a little help from stamps and
addresses - to someone powerful (two boxes, no balls: women can be
diplomats, but not children or policemen). Paté Dogabortion (not short for
anything anymore. Enough's enough) explained to her diplomat, prior to
eating her, that she wasn't a metaphor, she was just an evil person who
liked to eat people. It might have been enough to save her from targeted
airstrikes had she not eaten the diplomat, but she was the most evil person
in the world (a ten), and just had to eat the diplomat because that was what
she did.
The moral of the story is this: if you must be the most evil person in the
world and eat all who exist, make sure you eat the pilots, bombmakers,
buttonpressers before the diplomats if you wish to live. If you don't wish
to live, just do what feels right for you.