The Devil Made Me Do It – 5 – The Angelic Assassin.


Hello humans! It has been a while. Dotty, Johnathan, and Colin are still here on stage with me, and they have been waiting, just as you have been for this next tale. Anon from our previous nightmare has joined them.

Do I speak to humans? Maybe, I am speaking to you, after all!

This tale is about another anonymous soul, a tortured being who wrote this letter and posted it to all the media sources he could think of. I could name them for you, but what would be the point? It adds nothing to the story. It is a confession, a last meaningful thing that he did. Something he thought might shake up the country and make it a better place. I doubt it will change anything; maybe I am cynical. But was it madness, or was it me? I shall let you decide.

The Angelic Assassin.

I can’t say I remember when it first started; I remember the anger, oh shit, yes, I remember the rage.

I saw it as a murder of a sort. Social cleansing of the poor and needy. I lived through it; it turned me from calm and collected into a bubbling ball of fire and fury. They had started out by tormenting the disabled. That was how I saw it; no, I am being honest, that is how I see it. It was an ocean of shite and propaganda. Wave upon wave of stories of how people were cheating the system. The right-wing shit rags lapped it all up; they would, wouldn’t they? You expect them too. It is like putting a nappy on a newborn and expecting it not to shit. It is just what they do; they can’t help themselves. To be fair, the baby shite is probably of more value to society. No, it was when the BBC and others got involved; that was when my inferno bubbled.

Angels and arseholes, or whatever it was called. Watch everyone, as we find another struggling family for you to point at and feel better. A struggling family for you to turn your nose up at. Coming up next, we join another buy to let landlord as they purchase a shithole and then rent it out for the majority of the average wage. Who is the real baddie here? Sure, people need homes to live in, but they don’t need to get fucked simultaneously. Hey new tenant, let me have seventy-five per cent of your wage; now bend over and take it like a man. Oops, sorry, I forgot the lube. The door to my burning inferno had been opened. It was hanging from the hinges, never again to be closed.

The thing about a door is, that once it is opened, you can get in, but anything can get out. That was when he got me, I think. That was when the thoughts and ideas started to manifest. That was when the devil took me hold. You think it is an excuse; maybe you are right. I know what I feel; I know what I am. I made peace with that side of my being long ago. I embraced the devil inside of me. He may have arrived unexpectedly, but I welcomed him. I was willing, and he had me, mind, body, and soul.

Then the letters and phone calls started. Writing this down, I wonder if that was his doing. I do not think it was, but can you ever be sure with the devil? The phone rang time and again. Bring-bring, bring-bring. The digital recreation of the old analogue ring bounced around my head, filling my mind with ideas. Bring-bring, kill yourself. Bring-bring, kill them all. Bring-bring, can you work? Bring-bring, why can’t you? Constant, non-stop, bringing and ringing of harassment. WHY CAN’T YOU JUST STOP!

But that is the point.

The voice whispered in my head. It, he, whatever, was right! That was the point. They wanted to cause this torture; they wanted to open the door into the mouths of madness. Work, death, ending your claim; they do not care what you do as long as they can remove you from the system. You are just a number on a spreadsheet. I am not a number; I am a free man. Oh, but you are. You are, also, neither free nor are you a name. You are just a series of letters and numbers. National Insurance number they call it. I call it a virtual tattoo that is just there to keep you part of the system. A system you can’t break free from.

But you could, my head said.

Oh, but I could. I won’t lie and say that I pushed the voice to one side; and that I treated it much like an annoying itch and tried to pretend it was not there. To think, I thought I was going mad! Ha! Blimey, to look back now. I was in control, wasn’t I? I could ignore it when I wanted, and I could listen at my time of choosing. You say madness; I say possession. Potato tomato, tomata potata.

It helped; it helped a lot. There were times when the voice calmed me. Deep breaths, it would whisper. Occasions when I needed its anger. Let me free; it would charm my cortex. At times, I just needed the company. A voice that could listen and comment. It was also a charming and friendly companion for a creature said to be the demonic king. I enjoyed the time we spent together. Then, the pandemic happened. The motherload of complete and utter fuck ups.

People have claimed that the demonisation of the poor and needy over the decade has caused hundreds of thousands of excess deaths. You always get some fuckwad popping up to argue it if you post this figure. But, the figure in itself does not matter. A hundred thousand? Fifty thousand? Twelve thousand? Twelve hundred? How many are too many? How many people have to die from government policies before someone just says enough!

One hundred and eleven thousand. That is how many. That is when the voice spoke to me and gave me the idea.

Why not… It planted the thought.

It said, and then titillated my tortured brain with a plan. The laughing and joking in the houses of commons; the lacklustre and carefree approach to things. These all annoyed me, and they annoyed the devil inside of me. Suppose you take the needless deaths caused by the psychological torture and the pointless deaths caused by the pandemics’ shambolic response. In that case, I think you are well into a quarter of a million souls. How could people laugh and joke after a quarter of a million unnecessary deaths? My life, your life, any life but their own was a game to them.

Then, Who is the real evil here? Me in your head or those laughing and joking about death?

Exactly! The voice posed the question, and I had no good answer. The voice had done nothing wrong! It had helped me at times; it had been my only company. A saintly voice in my moments of need. A lone friend in my moments of insanity. And, I had been crazy; I was crazy. Oh, not bouncing off the walls and licking a snail crazy, but mad, nonetheless. But, now… Now I was seeing things clearly. People always talk in the past tense about the devil. He was an angel. I think they are wrong; he is an angel. Where were the other angels in all this? Where were the heaven-sent fuckers? Raphael, Gabriel, Uriel, etcetera etcetera. Why did they not help me? Why did they not visit these parasitic tapeworms that claimed to worship God but didn’t give a shite about the number of deaths they caused and continued to cause? Come on, angels, speak up! Let your voices be heard!


That’s right, nothing. Fuck all, the sum total of zero plus zero. In humanity’s time of need, they were quiet. Their worshippers were silent, no doubt taking their cue from those they worship. There were a quarter of a million deaths, and they were busy turning a blind eye. Fuck, they even admitted the repeat divorcee into their clan. Speak up, you fuckers. Where are your morals? The only one who cared was the devil inside my head! Ha! The only fucking angel who cared was the one you booted out. Who the fuck is the good guy here? Call yourself angels? I’ve fucking shit things that are better than you!

Buying the gun was easy. You would have thought it would have been challenging in today’s world, but it was not. I downloaded the Tor browser, jumped onto the dark web and found a marketplace. Then I bought myself a gun. Honestly, the service was superb. Far better than many experiences I have had with legitimate online sales. It seems the criminals in the world are working with more honesty than the governors. It arrived tracked the next day, as promised. And, as promised, it was well packaged and contained a complete set of bullets. I wouldn’t need them all. It was too easy, far too easy. They spend all this time trying to shut down minor things – in the grand scheme of things – and yet, I could buy a gun and have it within twenty-four hours. Priorities people!

Yes, you, Mr / Mrs / Miss / Ms Press person. This is where you come in. I am sending this as a confession and to tell people why. I need one bullet for my target; the next one will be for me. When my work is complete and I am dead, you shall be reading this, and I hope you understand the why. Was it worth taking sides politically? Letting others die in their thousands, ignoring it or marginalising it because you agreed with the politics? Ignoring the pleading cries of the poor and needy just because your political party was in power? You are supposed to be the voice of the people! You are supposed to tell the truth to power and shame them into doing the right thing! Instead, you punched down. You saw the people struggling, and you fucking slapped them. You shat from your sky-high building on the people you are meant to protect! The people you should represent.

They are lucky you can’t get to them as well.

True, my friend, they are, but we can buy other things online. Things that can be posted.

Buy the complete set.

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