How to Kill Men and Get Away With It

by Katy Brent

Blood is a shocking stain to get rid of. Even Mrs Hinch has nothing helpful on that. I once had to burn a beautiful pair of cream Max Mara slim-leg trousers because it just doesn’t come out. And nothing is worth that.

And honestly? He’s probably just a very sad man, living in his mum’s box room. In Croydon.’

‘It doesn’t matter how much ink you get, you’ll always be a mainstream cunt.’

He referred to himself as an ‘entrepreneur’. Which everyone knows is shorthand for twat.

The blood continues to pump from his body. It flows towards my shoes for a moment, transfixing me. Then I step around it and continue my walk home. Well. It’s not like I can call an ambulance, is it?

I spot a large-ish case squashed into a space next to a standalone wardrobe and grab it, noting a hopeful condom on his bedside table as I leave. Oh, to have the confidence of a very average white male.

I absolutely refuse to be around anyone who thinks they’re better than me because a) who has the time to waste hanging out with anyone you just will never get along with and b) no one is better than me.

I want to live in a world where I don’t have to keep my keys between my fingers in case I’m attacked walking home.

He doesn’t look like a monster though. But they don’t, do they? Otherwise, they’d never get the opportunity to be monsters.

I blame Hollywood for this. There’s still some notion that continually trying to win over a woman who has quite clearly expressed having no interest in you is romantic.

‘Please, please don’t kill me,’ he pleads. ‘I’ll change. I promise. I’ll give money to rape charities. I’ll give money to your friend. I’ll go to the police.’ He looks desperately at his cock, which I’m still dangling in front of him. ‘Can you put that on ice or something?’ ‘Sorry, no.’

If you think extremely average white men have a confidence they don’t deserve, imagine one with money who has been gushed over since he was about twelve.