Crawling round on his back through the wet dust.  Tongue hanging out   Flicking.  Like it's a different animal.  Not like he is, not like he's an upturned snake, but like the tongue itself is.  Like it's something caught in his oesophagus.  Or some kind of growth from the throat.  Evolved tissue crawling out from inside the gullet.  God's thrown Dawkins a curveball (and proved Fred wrong at the same time).  Load click press pull.  Pieces of his astounded brain hold on to the skull 'I don't want to leave, I don't want to go, I can change I can change.'
I have invented a gun that fires loaded cigarettes into people's mouths.  The humane hunter doesn't have a gun, he follows his prey for their lifetime until they keel over dead.  Vultures get it.  They know what's going on.  They know more than we do that death is growing in everyone, a ubiquitous time-bomb.  The only creature I have sympathy for is the suicidal vulture.  He can watch predators and suicides but nowhere in his instinct is he able to do it.  The only violence they know is posthumous.  
The suicidal quadro-paraplegic has the suicidal vulture for company.  Apathy is their Sesame Street word of the week.  
Eyeballs concertina as my inner beauty explodes out the urethra, shotgun blast, reload, chk chk.  Crack them in the head they fall, I shoot all my victims while they're belly-down vulnerable.  

Take a breath, have a drink.  This is Part Two.  Chaos has retired the way lust retires from love.  It moves on and I'm sure it has already found someone new who can occupy its time.  Am I jealous of the mad or am I talking about lust?