I Demand Your Publication Issue a Correction about the Alleged ‘Sexual Inadequacy’ of the So-Called ‘Bad Lay Strangler.’
It’s just not a nice thing to call somebody…
If you’re reading this, congratulations, you have broken my cypher and proven yourself worthy of my message. Open your minds, editors of the City Post Tribune, for you are taking in the gospel of The Soul Collector. That’s right, I am, have always been, and should forever forward be known as “The Soul Collector” and not, as some have apparently been calling me, “The Bad Lay Strangler.”
What the heck, guys? Name-calling? What are we, elementary school students razzing each other on the bus? I mean, come on! That’s not nice. Side note: I didn’t reference children on buses as some kind of threat. I’m not trying to copycat anybody. I’m just doing some good, old-fashioned, soul collecting.
I’d call what you’re doing “yellow journalism,” but your incendiary take-down of my life’s work and the allegations you make surrounding the motivations behind it barely qualify as journalism at all. There was absolutely no reporting, fact-checking, and your subject (me) was not contacted in order to give their (my) side of the story. I’m sorry, but did the City Post Tribune start a new Fan Fiction section? If the answer is yes, how can I submit some of my never-before-published works exploring Westworld? Even if you don’t print them, you’ll know after reading that the hand that wrote these beautifully imagined tales of desire set in robot-Japan could not possibly also be the hand of a fella who is so bad at sexual intercourse he needs to wrap that hand around another person’s neck to show them he’s capable of any sort of passion at all.
To be clear, I am wrapping my hand around their necks. But it has nothing to do with not being able to lay pipe. If I have to repeat myself, I will. I am only collecting souls, I am not making up for any sort of shortcomings in the bedroom!
Your only “source” was a criminal profiler who claims to be able to see into my head and view my past memories like he’s some kind of Eternal Sunshine of the Spotless Mind man. That technology doesn’t exist. Even if it did, he wouldn’t see any mind-replays of a 30-something-year-old me kissing a terribly unlucky woman like I was smashing a doll’s face into another doll’s face and getting frustrated to the point of murderous rage when she asks me, “Have you ever done this before?” Imagine asking that question about something as normal and common as kissing on the lips to a man so deep in his 30s he’s actually 43! You can’t Spotless Mind that from my memories because you can’t erase something that isn’t there because it didn’t happen!
Allow me, for a moment, to profile your profiler. Maybe you are the one with the sexual inadequacies? Boom! Tables have been turned! Perhaps you have heard of a little thing called “projecting." Probably should know about that concept from your time learning about head stuff in mind school. You know what they say: every accusation is actually a confession. How would you even think of all this weird sex stuff if it’s not something you didn’t feel yourself? I believe another common phrase fits our situation here, and that is: I know you are, but what am I?
I told you already what am I. I’m a guy collecting souls so he can have an army of indentured servants in heaven. Yeah, that’s right. They have to be indentured servants now because you can’t even have slaves in heaven anymore because of woke. So I have to let them go after time served. The rest of eternity is theirs to do whatever they want with, which is a pretty good deal if you ask me.
In summary, I would like you to please print this letter in your newspaper so everybody knows I’m definitely not bad at sex.
Sincerely,
Ronald P. McCarthy
The Soul Collector
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