scottobear | they pay by the word, right?

Emil took the harsh, splintered, chipped, cracked stake in his filthy, grimy, putrid, stagnant, foul hand positioning it over the gray, oily, petroliferous, buttery, cold heart of the blood-thirsty, undead, freeloading, mooching fiend lying dormant within the silent, silk-lined, expensive-looking casket that lay on the dusty, sooty, smudged, grubby, smelly platform in the middle of the dark, shadowy, dark, musty catacombs surrounded by slimy, stinky, furry rats that crawled over the brittle, frail, inelastic, dry, silent bones of the poor, sorry, stupid, insipid, vapid, tedious victims of the blood-thirsty, undead fiend like pukey, squishy, pulpous, sloppy, slickened entrails pulled from the wet, fetid, rank, gross insides of some old, decayed, deteriorated, hoary, worn collection of malodorous, worsening, foul, stinking corpses.

"Take that, you icky, stupid, yucky, dumb-ass vampire!" he cried.

Big, large, huge, monstrous, mammoth sprays of crimson, red, wet, sticky, sanguineous blood fountained up as the hard, pointy, spiky, sharp stake struck home.

"Ow! Stop that!" replied the fiend, unctuously.