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Today we had to revise a purposly dumb biography our teacher made.
A bunch of people had some...interesting revisions...
In other words the whole thing was kinda random
My stomach was killing me at the time, so mine was pretty stupid.
This is basically what I wrote:

25 years of pain and agony.
And tonight would be the nigth of his avengance.
His sharp claws ready to kill,
his gruesome face twisted in a meniacle smile.
An outcast,
he was.
And his parents had long ago left him to die in the cold, cruel world.
Alone in the world,
left to think these thoughts.
What did he ever do to them?
His thoughts then and there had only triggered his anger,
at the only two people he had ever known.
And he was determined that tonight would be the night.
And he would find them by midnight,
unsuspecting and sleeping.
And there he would be,
silently cackling in victory.
And he would go for the kill without a second thought.
He would click the gun and put it against his victim's head,
and pull the trigger,
and he would finally be satisfied.
Oh the sweet irony!
Of him having any feelings for anyone at all,
except for the only feeling he would ever know.
Hatred.
Loathing.
Anger.
The only feelings he would ever truly know.
And tonight,
the feeling of killing has come into that catagory.

Becoming more wanting.
The need to see the dripping of blood,
screaming and shreiks of pain.
The constant pleas of mercey that were always ignored by him,
the final moments of living,
and then no more.
And there he would stand
in the middle of each room,
surrounded and drenched in blood,
with that always same crazed look on his face.
With that same twisted menialcle smile.

And with a smug look on his face,
he would leave the room.
Leaving his victims alone in the dark and cold,
just like he had,
for 25 very long years.