Dear Murderous Cockweasel,
Congratulations! You are an asshole.
You must be enjoying Dark Souls 2, with its exciting new fiction and hearty, vivacious PvP multiplayer. You must be! The exuberance with which you killed me as I stood idle at the Heide’s Tower bonfire proves this. As it proves your worth as a person – yes, you, carrying your ridiculous, giant-ass oh-so-obviously-compensating-for-your-pencil-junk Final Fantasy sword. Because it takes a true player (dare I say, playa) to kill someone WHO ISN’T THERE.
I was not moving. I was standing perfectly still, you beetle-fucking spunkdumpster. And you saw this as an opportunity to hack me into pieces with that absurd
Squall Leonheart (Cloud Strife -ed.Dix) sword of yours. I was completely immobile. I did not react in any way to your sudden and unwelcome arrival on the scene. Surely you knew this, despite the myriad inadequacies of your brain, despite the likelihood that most of your concentration is devoted at any given time to reflection on the evident shortcomings of a certain condom, misguidedly selected years ago by your father on the ill-mooned night that the world was profaned by the act of your conception. Surely even the vast, slow movements that pass for thought in the Funyun-ruined anus that is your mind – you toad-licking flapdragon – took note of the fact that I WAS AWAY FROM MY CONTROLLER.
Did it occur to you to wonder where I was? Maybe I was saving a baby from a burning building, or from the jaws of a loose hippopotamus. Or maybe I was just transferring my unmentionables from the washing machine to the dryer. Regardless, did it occur to you to think of my needs? Did it cross your tiny, excrement-smeared comprehension that I had left 64,900 souls on the docks in No-Man’s Wharf, and was looking forward to collecting them? It did not! Because you are a canker blossom, a cancerous defacer of God’s creation.
So good on you, you mealy, fish-stroking, terrifyingly stupid half-excuse for a knob goblin. Well done! Enemy ahead and therefore hurrah for beating to a pulp in short fine work! You killed a defenseless camper. Not a camper as in “that person is camping the loot/spawn point/whatever,” a camper as in a person at a camp fire, performing the act of camping (out), as in “let’s go camping.”
Most people are useless, but few have a measurable impact on the world. You are an exception, you rot-annealed gunghole. Had your clearly crack-addled mother exposed you at birth rather than allowing you to grow up and leave your plague-glistening red boil on the flesh of humanity, the whole of creation would have been demonstrably improved. Instead, the species has to bear the corpse sucking, mung-spattered dumptruckery that is your family kudzu. Of all the crusty turdstreaks, of all the pus-reeking measles life has vomited forth from its infected bladder of woe, you are surely the prize.
Your existence defiles humanity. I hope you die in a fire.
Also: you owe me 64,900 souls.
Steerpike (the idling knight you killed with your stupid look-at-my-tiny-dick megasword)