I AM NOT ONE OF YOU.
At least that’s what you’ll tell yourself.
You’ll say I’m a monster. A sicko. A deranged killer.
But I am no monster, I am no sicko, and I am not deranged.
I am simply a man who happens to enjoy murdering people in the most violent of ways.
So don’t bother reading this if you have a weak stomach, get easily offended, or are simply not interested in the best way to dispose of a dead body.
(It’s pigs, by the way. They eat ANYTHING.)
My name is Gerald Brittle. I am a serial killer. And this is my memoir.
(Warning: This novel contains graphic violence – reader discretion is advised.)
