What the -blam!- did you just -blam!-ing say about me, you little bitch? I’ll have you know I graduated top of my class in the Navy Seals, and I’ve been involved in numerous secret raids on Al-Quaeda, and I have over 300 confirmed kills. I am trained in gorilla warfare and I’m the top sniper in the entire US armed forces. You are nothing to me but just another target. I will wipe you the -blam!- out with precision the likes of which has never been seen before on this Earth, mark my -blam!-ing words. You think you can get away with saying that shit to me over the Internet? Think again, -blam!-er. As we speak I am contacting my secret network of spies across the USA and your IP is being traced right now so you better prepare for the storm, maggot. The storm that wipes out the pathetic little thing you call your life. You’re -blam!-ing dead, kid. I can be anywhere, anytime, and I can kill you in over seven hundred ways, and that’s just with my bare hands. Not only am I extensively trained in unarmed combat, but I have access to the entire arsenal of the United States Marine Corps and I will use it to its full extent to wipe your miserable ass off the face of the continent, you little shit. If only you could have known what unholy retribution your little “clever” comment was about to bring down upon you, maybe you would have held your -blam!-ing tongue. But you couldn’t, you didn’t, and now you’re paying the price, you goddamn idiot. I will shit fury all over you and you will drown in it. You’re -blam!-ing dead, kiddo. I don’t give a -blam!- who you are or where you live. You can count on me to be there to bring your -blam!-ing life to a hellish end. I’ll put you in so much -blam!-ing pain that it’ll make Jesus being nailed to a cross in the desert look like a -blam!-ing back massage on a tropical island. I don’t give a -blam!- how many reps you have or how tough you are IRL, how well you can fight, or how many -blam!-ing guns you own to protect yourself. I’ll -blam!-ing show up at your house when you aren’t home. I’ll turn all the lights on in your house, leave all the water running, open your fridge door and not close it, and turn your gas stove burners on and let them waste gas. You’re going to start stressing the -blam!- out, your blood pressure will triple, and you’ll have a -blam!-ing heart attack. You’ll go to the hospital for a heart operation, and the last thing you’ll see when you’re being put under in the operating room is me hovering above you, dressed like a doctor. When you wake up after being operated on, wondering what ticking time bomb is in your chest waiting to go off. You’ll recover fully from your heart surgery. And when you walk out the front door of the hospital to go home I’ll run you over with my -blam!-ing car out of no where and kill you. I just want you to know how easily I could -blam!-ing destroy your pathetic excuse of a life, but how I’d rather go to a great -blam!-ng length to make sure your last remaining days are spent in a living, breathing -blam!-ing hell. It’s too late to save yourself, but don’t bother committing suicide either… I’ll -blam!-ing resuscitate you and kill you again myself you bitch-faced phaggot. Welcome to hell, population: you.