It was a small, somewhat quaint little tea party. Everyone was dressed in their "Sunday best" as an American cliche goes. Gilted little old ladies poured gilted tea from gilted pourers into gilted cups while they discussed their gilted lives.
He summarized them as this: "Fucking scags." He said it to, under his breath.
"Pardon me," he came under the cold, ex-gilted stare of one of the ladies. He grabbed her gilted little dress by the collar and brought his face close to hers.
"I said," he said, "Fucking scags." He gave her a cute little smile.
"Why don't you die, you fucking shits. Why don't you just reach up your fucking tight little cunts and rip your hearts out through them and die. Why don't you take a giant dildo and shove it up your fucking asses until it mashes your fucking brains into a fucking pulp. Why don't you get a few gallons of dirt and water, mix it together, and have mud-wrestling matches until you fucking die of embarrassment or exhaustion, whichever comes first. Fucking cunts."
At this point, he was standing, and speaking to them all. One of them got up and began: "Why don't you -"
She was interrupted: "Sit the fuck down, you fucking waste. I'm not finished yet. Fucking SCAGS! There. Now I'm finished."
And with that, he turned around and walked away. One of the gilted ones pulled out a sawed-off shotgun. A buckshot weighing about 3 grams came from the muzzle of the gun at a somewhat high velocity. True to it's mark, the shot borrowed into his spine, through his insides with some ease, and back out his chest. Bones and flesh were scattered everywhere, but there was no blood. He had none.