A week or so later, I set off at night. Drove down to Skid Row. I had taken precautions, had tinted my license plate, dressed in all black and disguised my face with makeup, wore a stocking cap and kept a loaded handgun in my coat pocket.
I stopped my car when I spotted a homeless man, sleeping rough on an empty side street.
I got out carrying a gas cannister and smelled a distinct odor of piss as I crept towards him on my tippy toes. I mechanically emptied the cannister, pouring the noxious liquid over him, then set the cannister down on the pavement. As he grumbled and shook awake, I lit and dropped a paper matchbook onto him, and I gasped in amazement as he combusted.
Cancel Culture | Kim Cancer He flailed his limbs, writhing on the sidewalk, making flame angels and screaming in measured, high-pitched squeals as he, the old, bearded Ernest Hemingway looking homeless man, was hugged into a cocoon of fire.
My penis became big. Looking about, there was no one close, so I reached into my pants, and smelling at the astringent odor of burning hair and flesh. Watching the beauty of the hot dancing flames, I licked my lips and pulled on my cock and came into my X-Men boxers after only a few strokes, I was so excited!
Then I grabbed up the cannister, ran back to my Benz and peeled out, riding off feeling like a god!
This became my modus operandi. Sneak down to Skid Row in the cloak of night, find lone homeless, douse and burn them, and masturbate as they flopped, screamed, burned, and expired.
Twice the homeless stumbled up to their feet and took off running. One ran away, turned a corner. I do not know where he went. The other ran rather fast; way faster than I would expect of a bum. He got almost halfway down the street before he crumpled and faceplanted to the pavement.
It was a laugh riot, too, watching the bum, in flames, running away, slapping at himself, and eventually falling to the ground, flapping the last bit of life from his arms like a duck that had been shot.