I love how small he is, how easily I can pin him down with one hand while his useless little limbs flail helplessly beneath me. His wrists snap with a crisp pop when I twist them too far, his high-pitched screams music to my ears as I lift him by the throat just to watch his tiny feet kick at nothing before slamming him back down hard enough to crack ribs. The scalper glides through his skin like paper, peeling him open inch by inch while he jerks and whimpers, his broken fingers twitching pathetically as if they could still stop me. He's so compact, so perfectly sized for destruction, like a doll made to be torn apart, and when I finally drive the blade in deep his insignificant little body barely even bleeds enough to stain the floor. Every gasp, every shuddering breath is a delight because he knows now what he always was: nothing but a plaything for someone stronger, a joke finally getting the punchline he deserves.