The planet was surprising close, practically a walk down the galactic street.

When I arrived, I saw many amazing things. Almost everything was alive, from the buildings to parts of the every ground I stood on. Many of the aliens were mostly stationary, moving slightly every now and then, but if they were doing anything else, my human eyes were blind to it. Some inhabitants, however, moved quickly, leaping from place to place at speeds that were sometime difficult to track.

The whole time, none of them made a sound. I'm guessing that they communicate telepathically. Another possibility is that they use pheromones or something similar, because there were a lot of interesting smells that seemed to change frequently.

It was quite an amazing place. But I had my orders.

I was to cut down anything in my path. I was to snuff out any life I came across. I was to slaughter everyone, young and old, male, female, or whatever genders they had.

And I did it with joy.

Some like to use easier methods of killing. Poisons, fire, chemicals. But I prefer to do things the old fashioned way, slicing through my enemies with a simple, gas powered blade spinning at a few hundred RPM. Flesh might as well be butter with this thing. If I run out of fuel, it's no biggie, I have an even simpler blade, a mere machete, for backup, in case I run into anything on my way back to my supply base. But I'm an efficient killer, so that is rarely needed.

These aliens were fools. Not a single one fought back, as if a plea for mercy would melt my heart. Perhaps they were hoping that the sight of their pathetic, helpless bodies would stay my hand? Idiots, they know nothing of human cruelty, a cruelty I fully embrace with a weapon in my hand and a smile on my face.

They fell in droves, dying quicker than almost anything else I have killed. Their greenish blood and fluids splattered on my arms and armor, on my face and glasses, and on my bloodstained hands. But I don't care. The blood of an enemy is a badge of glory, not something dirty to be wiped off. The poinsoners come back exactly as they left, with gas masks and gloves. I come back covered in blood and gore, proof that I leap directly into the fight with no reservations, no thought of my own will-being, of anything other than the thrill of the hunt, and the rush of the kill.

Not that that was needed for this fight. The aliens practically lined up for me. But no matter, it was still fun.

So, my friends, today, I carried out a massacre on a helpless alien city.

Or I was tripping balls while weed-whacking the front yard. I don't really remember