Take the finely grated powder and mix it with sodium chloride.
Next time Mr. Exterminator hungers for an egg frittata with smoked kippers, dash on a smidgen of minced glass and he'll be buying the farm. The glass will gradually cut and gash his digestive tract and perforate the lining of his stomach.
Bag Mr. Exterminator's head and put him in a sleeper hold. Once he's unconscious, take a permabond adhesive and carefully seal his lips and nostrils shut. Lack of air will wake him up, lack of air will kill him.
There are plenty of imaginative ways to eliminate Mr. Exterminator.
Mr. Exterminator. Memento Mori's unbranded foe. He's the one who seeks harm and tries to humiliate all of us.
"Pick an ordinary household item," she insisted. "I'll tell you an ingenious way to kill with it."
"A pencil," I said.
"Too easy. Use it's sharpened apex to impale the jugular, like you would with a keen-edged knife. The end result is an eyesore."
"A vinyl record?" I suggested.
"Easy. Break it into triangular, sharp-edged pieces and carve into the trachea."
"Where do you come up with these?" I asked. "I've been alive a very long time," she said.
"You don't really expect me to believe any of it, do you?"
"My daddy didn't believe me. At first. The following morning, all of the neighbors and their livestock were found dead, completely drained of their blood.
'Where are the fangs?' he asked.
The teeth and claws grow somewhat, but the stereotypical fangs are not a feature.
He didn't want to believe it. He locked me in the storage shed and placed mustard seeds around the door. At sundown, daddy came back with elected officials. I attacked one and ripped the muscles right from his throat. They severed the tendons at my knees. I was buried with a brick in my mouth and a branch of wild rose on my grave."
"You are very interesting," I told her.
I asked her how she imagined herself dying.
"Mr Landru, daddy's bricklayer. He gave me tuberculosis."
I was astonished by her words. The unforeseen friendship we had was blowing my mind.
"What about you?" She asked.
"What?" I lost my train of thought.
"How do you see yourself dying?"
450 people per year die from falling out of bed. On average, 24 people die annually from popped champagne corks.
Cheryl_N_cherriesPLZ shared these bizarre facts with me. The Queen of useless gospel.
"I'm probably just going to die from the searing pain and severe shock from Chesterhinde's disease."
"You're serious, aren't you?"
It's God's twisted, perverted idea of a joke. He's got a crude sense of humor.
"Gravy?" I asked to change the subject. She didn't understand my mention of meat- juice sauce. I explained. I wanted to know how to off Mr. Exterminator with homestyle beef gravy.
"Easy," she said. " Cover him in considerable portions of savory gravy, having the roux made of meat drippings. Bolt and padlock Mr. Exterminator in a small, claustrophobic room with the company of a wild, maniacal wolverine."
The girl was bewitching. She was a genius at her art.