I am a good, Christian man. I am a lamb of God, not a ram of sin. All of my life, my mother always repeated the same phrase.
"Why would God give us hands if only to make them dirty." She would say this with no emotion, other than the occasional scowl. We weren't close, you see, but at least all will be well when we, God's people, are together in heaven.
I grew up with my mother, and a slew of heathen stepfathers. My real father was a good man, however he was a Catholic, whilst my mother was a Lutheran, so the horns of God's love would often clash. One night, while I was asleep, I had woken up to hear a crash. I rose from my slumber to find my father dead on the kitchen floor, a knife sticking out of his back, and a puddle of his own blood surrounding. As any rational human would do, I began to panic at first, but my mother calmed me down.
"God allows those who are worthy to live, and those who aren't, must be sent to, well..." she reasoned, and who was I to argue?
She was correct, my father worshiped an unholy man, and he could not live to risk the sanctity and very holy essence of our humble abode, but how could God take my father, surely he was worthy of God's love!
My dear old mother did not take very kindly to being questioned, and she also didn't appreciate to the Lord and his work being questioned. Scars are forever, and so are mother's lessons. On that day, she taught me what God is. Throughout the rest of my childhood and subsequent adolescence, my mother was overtaken with guilt. She coined that phrase I told you earlier.
"Why would God give us hands if only to make them dirty?" She tried to find love, she really did, but I couldn't let her fall into Satan's trap. I would always stay up late at night, seeing them. Watching them.
Every quick fling and prostitute, every pornography tape, I saw it. So, I took our old kitchen knife and did the work of our Lord and Savior, and surely enough, mother would find out. We would dip the lifeless, bloody corpses into the vat of acid together, and mother would remain emotionless. I would try jokes, or try and make it into our little game, but she wouldn't go for it. She was the rigid type.
Well, soon enough, I would be off to college, but I declined to go. The Lord's work needed to be done ASAP, so I headed off into town, taking a cheap little hovel near the downtown Lutheran Church, and I found work there as a janitor, so I'd always be with Him. After a year or two, life with God was great, but one day, these two men walked into the house of God.
These two men were different. Immediately assuming the worst, I began some digging on both of the men. I soon traced their homes to be at, 16 N. Chester Lane. For a few weeks, I began snooping near their residence, hoping to find some confirmation of the horrible truth that I would soon discover to be true. They were faggots.
I tried to be "tolerant" at first, but I soon found it difficult. Those two - two fags sitting in the house of our Lord! Our Savior! So I approached them after mass. I told them everything. Of how I knew of their unholy union as Male and Male. They did not assume much until I brought out the rusty, bloodstained knife. They pleaded for their lives; one even risking himself for the other one's life, but I could not allow it. They were not God's people, and must have been ended.
After doing what must be done, I soon took their bodies to their hovel. I placed the knife in one of their bodily wounds, positioned his hand around it, and put the other face down. I did what must be done. I
I am a good Christian man, doing God's work.