SMG4: PUZZLEVISION II OFF WITH YOUR HEAD!

PERFECTION WILL BE ACHIEVED

(A/N: I wonder what possessed me to write this.

The amazing cover is made by @cattowerjail on Instagram and Tumblr!! Please follow her, she is awesome!!

!!AGAIN, THIS FIC IS BLOODY AND GORY. PLEASE LISTEN TO THE WARNING!!

This is my take on the events of Mr. Puzzles's origins!! So Wattpad doesn't come after me, don't do anything that is done in this fic, it is not safe.)

The rain knocks on the glass windows of a familiar apartment. The aged wooden floor creaks. The walls and curtains stay still, everything sealed shut. The owner can't stand coming home to a wet home. It's all grey, no life or love, only loneliness and despair. Only misery. It's all empty and gloomy. Even the outside rainy world looks happier than this apartment. On the kitchen table lies an aged saw. It's only to be used to cut wood, but it will be used to cut bone with enough of the owner's determination. He has plans.

The front door is pushed open by a twenty-eight-year-old man in a lightly sprinkled suit. He pants given he had run from a nearby red, white, and blue awning of a barber shop to his apartment. His black bowler hat had protected his hair from being completely frazzled by the weeping sky. He goes to his sofa to catch his breath. He was never athletic growing up. And he doesn't care enough about it to do something about it now, there are other more important things on his barely-hung-on-a-tread indigo mind. He leans his back on the large back cushions, his arms embedding into them with his new position. His head lies on the forest green fabric as he catches his breath. His legs open as he pants more and more. After a few more seconds, he leans forward and sighs. In his broken state, he had forgotten to take off the messenger bag that was over his slender shoulder. He turns to the left, scooting close to the sofa's armrest as he leans over to turn on a vintage radio on a table next to him. Jazz immediately blasts from the old speakers. He sighs again, his white-gloved hands burying themselves into his messenger bag for a script, scanning over the black printed worlds with his delicate eyes. He searches for imperfections and is pleased to find none. The script is perfect, but he isn't. And he doesn't like that. He gets up from the couch to go to the kitchen to execute his plan. He wants to be perfect. He needs to be perfect. He has to be perfect.

On the wooden kitchen table lies a saw and an old vintage television with the words "Puzzlevision" printed on the lower part. Upon seeing the blade and television where he left it, he smiles. But as he stares, his mind gnaws that something will go wrong. What if he executes his plan and he isn't alive after it? Is risking his life by beheading himself worth it to achieve his dream of being a perfect TV show host and getting a five-star rating? Will it be worth it? He's thinking too much. He's already made it this far, he isn't backing down now of all times. Especially not now, his goal being this close. He has to be quick, otherwise he would be dead and headless for no reason. He walks towards the table, both arms grabbing the television and bringing it close to the edge of the dinner table. Afterwards, his long arm extends towards the saw. His left-hand wraps tightly around the handle as his right scrunches a handful of his hair. His breath hitches as he feels the cool and daring metal against his black-as-shadow throat. He sighs and closes his eyes as he brings the saw further onto his frail mortal flesh.

He shouldn't. No, he will. He'll do it.

He swipes the saw, and he hisses in pain, the jagged blade piercing his shadow-like skin. Blood is immediately drawn, running under his suit and onto his bare chest. The impaled skin begins to sting, a burning sensation. The jazz music sounds distorted in his mind.

Will it be worth it?

He swipes a second time, letting out a stained cry of pain. The grip on his hair tightens.

There is still time to stop. The saw hasn't hit bone yet.

He swipes a third time, biting down on his lower lip to stop screaming. He doesn't wish to alert his neighbours.

What would the outsiders say?

His eyes open, and the dark kitchen is illuminated with the glow of his pure white eyes.

Oh, what does it matter now!? His neck is bleeding already, so might as well finish the goddamn job!

He keeps swiping and swiping, doing his best to keep quiet as he digs the blade deeper into his throat. He gasps and groans. In a few seconds, the job is done. His right hand quickly raises his head and drops it to the side, making a disgusting splat sound as it hits the wooden ground. He drops the saw. His now crimson-soaked gloved hands (only his left hand is bloody) snatch the television from the table and force it where his head used to be. His former head rolls, leaving a crimson trail. It hits the leg of the table, its eyes shutting closed. The body stands before going limp and falling face-first to the ground, the impact with the wood cracking the television screen. The screen drips onto the floor, mixing with the blood. His suit is ruined beyond repair. His fingers twitch. His legs twitch. He is still. Completely.

Silence.

It is silent besides the obvious jazz music. Only for a moment though.

The television's wires embedded into his torn open neck. It travels through his body, digging itself into him. His body spazzes out, shaking, trembling, and twitching uncontrollably. His body is in pain. A longer wire sprouts out from his back and searches the floor, trying to find his former head. It does. It enters the hole where his neck used to be, forcing itself into his brain to collect data. The former head's eyes snap open in shock. The bloodied wire goes inside his back again, sending data to the television's mind. It knows how to walk and talk now.

It is silent again. Only for a moment though.

Rustling fabric as he regains his consciousness, waking up like he woke up from a nap instead of looking at Death and escaping her. His hands raise him and he looks around his barren apartment with a newfound sense of curiosity. It looks familiar, but it doesn't feel familiar. He sits up on his knees and looks at his hands. He's shocked to see his left hand covered in crimson. He notices a bloodied saw on the wood. He forgot about what happened and then everything from before rushed into his mechanical brain. He cut off his head and put a TV in its place... and he's alive? He feels a rush of joy. He's perfect... he's perfect!

He sees his former head on the ground. He doesn't care. He stands up, stumbling because of the new heavyweight that is his new head.

He will deal with everything later, wanting to see his body with his new head. He goes to his bathroom and looks at the mirror. He smiles brightly, his hands going on his metal cheeks. His television screen is cracked, and the underscreen drips down like the blood on his left hand. He starts to laugh maniacally, losing it completely.

He takes a breath in and then Puzzles exclaims. "I'm perfect!"