I was a fan of the mighty explosion since I could remember and I ran certainly to its every holler and shriek. Why, when I was 6, my hands and fingers where constructed of a fine mix of gunpowder and sulfur. No one ever wanted to shake hands with me. Though I'm not sad, nor do I feel abandoned by the world. You see friend, a cry, a whimper and a hoot; they're all meat and potatoes to me. I'm no victim. I victimize the victimizers.

And when my smiles become apparent?

Back to my victory record, where was I? Yes, I recall now. I was a child specialist at creating chaos, yes, now you've got me smiling again. I would do nice sorts of awful things with my spare time every chance I had. I was a private heroin among people who knew of me through friends. Well, to be quite honest, the only friend I ever had was a mutual love of terror with those who sympathized with my ways. Let me take you back and explain. Sit for while. There are wine and crackers in the cupboard.

It all started when I caught an evil smile and a bad deed on the same day. There was Mr. Donovan, he ran a little furniture and boutique shop and took the role of a prominent figurehead for what was a small community, devised of mostly traders and merchants who were up and about each and every day selling worthless trinkets and bent candleholders made of dirty brass.

Freedom makes me thirst?