It never fails to amaze me how the stupid little Runners will sit around writing blogs when their lives are fucking in danger. Morons.
Anyway. The name's Nat. My title is not important. I'm a Hunter, the only respectable thing to be, really. All these fucking pansy ass trackers and shit? Useless. Only cowards and weaklings can't make their own fucking kills.
Because, honestly, who wouldn't want to make their own kills? There is nothing in the fucking world better than chasing some asshole down, scaring the everloving shit out of them, and feeling the blade slice into their skin. The warm wetness of a mark's blood flowing in a beautiful crimson spray. It's the finest pleasure life has to offer. Watching the look in the eyes of a man who knows he's about to die... watching the light leave them and his body jerk, then go limp. Oh, it's fucking brilliant.
That's why I signed on, of course. I've been killing for a while, men and those unworthy, weak women who thought they needed them, but I have to say, having a fucking organization like this is pretty damn sweet. I get paid for my efforts, they help cover things up with the cops, and I have to say, it's fucking hilarious that when I turn in the fucking paperwork at the end of the day my boss rewards me with coffee and a muffin.
I have to say, he's not fucking bad. For a man. Men are by nature inferior, ruled by their passions and too fucking sex crazed to think straight. Useless, posturing fools, the lot of them. Their only use is for killing, and they are so very fun to kill.
Fun. Unlike blogging. I think I'm going to go kill a couple guys to make up for this miserable waste of my fucking time. Here's your post, boss, so fuck this, fuck you, and fuck anyone who's reading this.