Papa Smurf is Six Feet Under

SMURF

he screamed. well tried to at least. but i wouldn't let him.

he could try but i muffled that little bastard so that no one could hear him scream for help. i watched dt he light leave his little beady eyes.

as i kept my hands wrapped around his tiny little throat. so tiny i could strangle him with one hand.

i watched his neck bruise under the weight of my fingers and his eyes become blood shot from the lack of air.

i carried the little bastards body into the desert. he weighs almost nothing but the smouldering heat makes it harder for me too breath. ironic.

i set his body down, his red pats and hat covered in dust and grime from the desert. his face forever in panic. i find myself flashing back to his murder. intense pleasure fills me at the prospect of him being dead. the little all knowing fucker.

i got to work on the grave. digging and digging despite the heat. sweating so hard and panting all the way through. when finally, i was finished.

a grave dug six feet under for my first victim. he will always be special whether it be he was my first or because he was a smurf. a smug little smurf. i set down my shovel and carried his body to the hole. i dropped him unceremoniously down i could here the body thus against the sand. i picked my shovel back up and started filling the hole.

it was an hour before i was finally done. i even made it look like it was never touched in the first place.

i walked back to my car covered in dirt and grime. reminding me of his little red get up he always wore. how it pleased me to see him dirty.

i eventually drove back home cleaning my shovel and taking a showering before doing my nightly routine.

i went to bed with a smile on my face that day.

and scene.