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Stan

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Jo knocked on the door, then stepped aside to stay out of sight from the peephole. The man behind the door had been expecting someone else—a blonde, much cuter, with less ink on her face.

"W-who the fuck are you?" the man stammered, surprised as he opened the door just wide enough. Before he could react, Jo kicked it hard, slamming it right into the man's face and sending him sprawling to the floor with a shattered nose.

"I'm Lucille; you don't recognize me?" Jo sneered, landing a hard kick to the man's chest, then another, and another.

"W-what… what is this? Who are you?" the man gasped, struggling for air, blood dripping down his chin.

"A warning." Jo took a look around the man's cramped apartment before grabbing a vase and smashing it against his face, shards scattering in all directions. Without hesitation, Jo tore into the rest of the room—smashing the plasma TV, shattering every piece of value he could find.

"SHUT THE FUCK UP!!!" Jo snapped as the man begged him to stop destroying his things. "SHUT THE FUCK UP!!! I'm gonna gut you alive! You hear me, you worthless piece of shit?!" Enraged, he stomped on the man's face, breaking more teeth, ignoring the man's muffled cries of pain.
Then he grabbed him by the hair and dragged him over the cold tiles, slamming his head against the kitchen floor over and over, until blood pooled beneath him. Jo finally stopped when he heard the man's eerie snoring; he laid twisted on the floor, half-dead, convulsing in a thick puddle of his own blood.

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Get so fuckin' dark in here; Come come fuck apart in here...

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