" I jam the knife into his eye. Bone crackles and blood sprays. I use the knife to twist his face away from me: a bloodstain on this livery could be fatal, on my way out. He flops like a salmon that's found unexpected land beneath an upstream leap. This is only his body's last unconscious attempt to live; it goes hand-in-hand with the release of his bowels and bladder. He shits and pisses all over himself and his satin-weave sheets - another one of those primordial reflexes, a futile dodge to make his meat unappetizing to the predator.
Screw it. I'm not hungry anyway. "

― Matthew Woodring Stover , Heroes Die (The Acts of Caine, #1)