Get a load of this. Sam says I have a fixation with blood! A fixation! Lousy fucker! Where's he get off? I mean, blood is the fluid circulated by the heart through the vertebrate vascular system, carrying oxygen and nutrients throughout the body and waste materials to excretory channels. Everybody knows that! It consists of blood plasma in which are suspended red blood cells (erythrocytes), white cells (leucocytes), and platelets. It's not "weird" to know this! And when you cut some fucker's nose off, it squirts and squirts all over the fuckin' place. I mean it's everywhere. Seriously, it could take you a week to clean this shit up. I'm sorry, I don't call that a fixation. That's just knowing your job. The fact that I know that hemoglobin is an iron-carrying protein that makes the blood red and transports oxygen around the body, helps me jump up and down on a punk's face. Sure, maybe knowing leukocytes are part of the body's defense mechanism isn't going to help me skin some dumbfuck - but it certainly isn't going to hinder me either, now is it? That's not a fixation, SAM! Sam! Listen to me when I'm talkin' to you, you deaf motherfucker!!! Oh. I'm writing this.

No time today, diary! Torturing a cop! Will tell you all about later! Wish me luck! (S.A.T.B. - sorry about the blood.)

Sam's buggin' the shit out of me about being too violent. Listen to this, diary: We were driving down some fuckin' road last week, on our way to a dump off. Sorry, diary, I forgot you don't know all the hitman slang. A dump off means "to dump off." As in dead people bodies. Yeah, we had seven stiffs in the trunk (I've always been good at packing for vacations) and a corpse under the floor mats. So then Sam brings up the fact that it's my fault that we have all these homicides to deal with. Which is gonna make us late for a date with a couple of hosebags. Him and his fuckin' facts. The fact is, the whole thing was a simple goddam accident! I was in a truck stop bathroom, trying to piss. Eight miles before this, my dick was telling me "I gotta piss!" So I get onboard and say "Yeah, I do gotta piss!" It's the whole reason we stopped at the fuckin' truck stop! Now I'm not pissing. There's nothin' coming out. I feel like drinkin' the urinal water just to urge it along. My dick isn't pissing! So that's when I get tough. I say to my dick "Look, faggot. You been bitchin' at me for eight miles. You are going to piss!" Nothing. Not a trickle. It's treatin' me like a half a fag here. So I pull out my other gun. I say "You got balls, buddy. But not for long, you don't do some squirtin' pretty fuckin' soon!" Nothing. I'm like a fruit wearin' makeup here. So I start shooting. I don't know, maybe I didn't really want to hit my dick in the first place (cuz after all, it is my dick), but the next thing I know there's eight dead dudes in the men's room. All of 'em were either pissing or shitting. So you see, diary, it was totally an accident. I think Sam has blame issues.

Woke up in a cold sweat. I keep having this dream. I'm playing board games from the 1970's. And I'm playing against some invisible friend who's pissin' me the fuck off. So I shoot him. The fucker. Whoever he was. And I'm playing some game where you have to catch a mouse. "Catch the Mouse", I think it's called. And I really wanted this little bastard mouse. But for some reason I wasn't just shooting it. Fuckin' crazy, right? Me, not shooting a mouse? It's fuckin' preposterous. Instead, I set up this dumbass trap with a rickety staircase and I don't know what the fuck else. I end up catching him and that's the end of the game - whoop-de-fuckin-doo. Then I'm watching some orgy, but that's not the weird part. After the orgy, I'm walkin' around in some red room. Red curtains everywhere. And there's some doppelganger of me and some fuck called Bob. And they're talkin' about my soul or some fuckin' thing. So, I shot 'em. Assholes.

My fuckin' shrink says it would be good for me to write stuff down. So, that's why I'm scribblin'. Now, the fact that I have a shrink in the first place is another story altogether! It's all because of my partner, Sam. That fuck. No, he's cool. He's just a little...you know...a fuck. Anyways, he said I should "talk to an analyst to control my super-temper, just like on the Sopranos." The Sopranos, the Sopranos! I'm sick to death of the fuckin' Sopranos! The killing stuff is alright, but all the shit about hitmen tryin' to find out mentally why they're killin'? I hate it. It's too mental, y'know? Like "Bob Newhart", that fuckin' show. When I'm fuckin' some dude up, y'know what I'm thinkin' about? Fuckin' him up! And a thousand other punks just like him! Anyways, Sam says it's a cool thing to do so I'm givin' it the ol' middle school try. Well, time to go, diary! I've got somebody I have to shoot! Later.

Harvey's blog will be here on Monday. Check back then!