Under my windshield wiper, again. Wet blood. Sharpie. Computer paper.
They're right handed, from the pen marks, the way the lines curve. That's all I have. I've asked around my circle of friends, and no one knows about any of thise.
This is getting old.
Who ever is doing this shit, you better stop before I fucking find you, or else you'll be living the rest of your short life within a tiny, pine box, a mighty dark plot, with a mightly long drop.
William
No comments:
Post a Comment