The businesscard

I have to admit that I sometimes struggled to restrain myself from splitting his head open with an axe.
His voice so irritating, his face so perfecttly inmaculate. I couldnt stand the sight of it.
One day... onde day...
One day I would make my wishes come true, see him sheding blood, his guts splattered on the floor, his eyes pleading, asking for forgiveness, for mercy, for a swift death.
But none of that would do, no mercy for the perfect, no acceptance for the weak, no tolerance for the hypocrites.
A perfect painting would I paint with his punny blood, pathetic fools work he would seem once his pure body lay sprain on the floor, his pulsing veins still fulfilling their unpaid duty, his heart pounding his life away, poor poor powerless being, left alone to die like a pooch on the street.
I ponder if he would look pretty on my pink wall if I were able to compose with his precious body a work of art.
Thoughts aside I cant help but feel belittled by his display of power, treating everybody else as no more but a slave, there are no coworkers, just slaves ranked higher in his personal power hierarchy.
The white of the paper is probably perfect, not a single stain.
The font carefully chosen.
The ink merged with the paper as if a wizards work had been involved, not a single speck of imperfection displayed.
And the texture of the paper... one could run his finger a thousand times and still get somewhat aroused by it.
And he would not say where he had gotten hold of such a masterpiece, that he would not tell to anyone as he said himself.
Oh, but he would...
He jocked about the value of it by proclaiming that even if his life were at stake, no one would find out where he gotten hold of it.
I would find out if what you say is true, I swore to myself I would.
Sooner or later, but i would...