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Deus Ex Machina
is a latin phrase.

But I wonder if I'm

Machinus Ex Deo?

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The Butcher of Klants Ghetto had finally been killed. Finally, after all these years, of killing and torturing people indiscriminately and scoffing at their family's utterance of vengence, He bought the farm. His own arrogance had been his downfall. Death is too good for this waste of human flesh. The rest of his life should've been filled with pain and misery. Just so he could feel his victim's pain. But the Grim Reaper felt that the time had come for this sonofabitch.
The fatman's corpse sprawled about with ever growing pool of blood in the back of the kitchen area of his "hole-in-a-wall" restaurant of his. Stupid bastard, couldn't cook for shit and couldn't manage for shit. He was gigantic turd in toilet bowl of life. It wasn't the fact that he died that amazed me, it was how he died. Judging from reports, two shotgun blast (probably from an sawed off.) waylaid him. Not in the center of the chest, mind you.
Wound one came into left pectoral and Wound two came into the left of the center of the chest. But the piece de la resistance was the .25 bullet in his head.  That had amazed me.
If they had been patient, he would've died in two or three minutes from the chest wounds.
But the .25 bullet did it's job and did it well. Nestled inside his head was the bullet.
The whole thing felt personal.