At long last, my time is imminent. No longer must I hunt hidden in shadow; no more must I be satisfied with obscurity. For the better part of fifteen years I have composed this masterpiece one instrument and measure at a time. It is a symphony of screams and the shallow rattles of last breaths, the useless pleas of the dying. Its rhythm: the soft percussion of blood droplets and tears as they fall upon carpet. Its tempo: quickening with panic as life begins to slip and spill away, and slowing with the rests between final heartbeats--stretching and sustaining into a deafening silent finale. Staccato cracks of breaking bone. A cymbal crash as your insides splash and spatter against tile. The sizzle of flesh as it sears, so very similar to the rasp of brushes against the skin of a snare.
You have fumbled around oblivious and deaf to me for long enough. My Master Work is upon you.