Murdersocks: Chapter 3: In which murder gets old

Murderous days and murderous nights passed with increasingly monotonous murderosity.  It was becoming less and less enjoyable as time passed and my village decreased in unmurderedness.  It had gotten so thoroughly murdered that my guilt over my small part in it had evolved into boredom.  I just wanted to sell some more bread.
I decided to remove myself to a murderous tent in the mountains.   If I were only worried about my own self, making myself a mountainy man was probably unnecessary.  My Sock-driven deeds had been witnessed frequently already by that point, but no one stayed unmurdered long enough to share their murderous news.
I was really hiding the rest of the world from me.  Or at least that was my intent.
The problem was that this mountain had many other mountainy men and mountainy women already living there mountainously.  They looked so happy before I murdered them that I couldn’t help wishing the Murdersocks would leave me alone.
Of course, I knew that I couldn’t just hand them to someone or I might end up murdered myself.  Some might say that being murdered was what I deserved, but this was all clearly not my fault.  The Socks and the Socks alone were to blame for all the murderous murderosity that had been ocurring lately.  What they deserved, of course, was to be buried deep beneath some remote place where their sockily murderous influence could not reach the living.  However, a little voice in my feet told me they wouldn’t allow that.
My next thought was that maybe I could take them off and deliver them to someone else via that group of crows that kept following me.  I didn’t think that would be a problem.
As you’ve probably guessed by now, I was wrong.  So wrong was I that not only were the Socks not deliverable by carrier-crows, but they were not even removable from my feet.  They were not attached to me per se, but irremovable nonetheless.
I sat down on the stump that my tent was constructed over, and crossed my legs.  I noticed that the socks were more red than ever and were even more comfortable than they were on the first day, despite never having been washed.  Still, as I knew was necessary, I removed my baker’s-clogs and then started to pull them off.  I couldn’t though.  My muscles seized and refused to carry out the assignment my brain had given them.
The little voice came back.  It spoke, not in words, but in pure murderous thought.  What it communicated was that I was no longer in control.  I had believed myself to be doing as I chose (besides the murder) in these last weeks, but the Socks were making every decision.  The discovery of the mountainy populace was therefore no accident, but a well thought-out act of murderity.
This horrible realization left me in despair.  That night, I slept in my tent, much as any other night, but I did not dream of puppies and candy as I usually do.  I dreamt of the first day.

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