|
|
|
|
 | |  |
| Good afternoon ma'am. I represent Lynch Mob '02. I'm here to perform a lynching on your son. | |
 | |  |
|
 |
|
|
|
|
|
|
| | |
| Your son. The fat disgusting piece of lard that deserves to die in an absolutely horrific manner. Preferably over a period of days, if time permits. | |
| | |
|
 |
| | |
| Maybe I know him... Why don't you come upstairs and jog my memory, big boy. | |
| | |
|
|
|
|
|
|
|
| | |
| Uh, no. I rather have a glass rod shoved up my dick and shattered. You know what, I think I'll just let myself in to murder your son, then I'll be out of your hair, you disgusting, old crackwhore. | |
| | |
|
|
| | |
| Your loss handsome. The sack of shit is in the basement. | |
| | |
|
|
|
