He didn't really remember what happened.

Sure, he remembered what he did and why he did it, but he didn't actually remember doing any of it. It hadn't felt real. It had felt like some sort of twisted daydream, or a blissful, beautiful nightmare. It felt like he made up the memories; that he only thought he remembered doing anything at all because he wanted to have done it. He wanted to kill his fellow trolls.

No, he wanted to kill his motherfucking inferiors.

The lowbloods were not worthy of living, especially if they weren't going to bow to someone as elite as he was. Granted, the blue blood could have lived longer, but what was the point? He was going to kill them all at some point, so why wait? Why motherfucking wait to fulfill his destiny? The peasant troll got to die at the same time as his beloved, childish moirail. Perhaps it was better for them that way.

If only it really felt like he'd done it. Then he could properly bask in his glory.

There was plenty of physical evidence to prove his actions. The bodies, the blood, the arrows and the clubs. The scratches on his face that were still bleeding and were telling everyone that he was high above them, and he was coming to teach them their place. And that place was the motherfucking grave.

Karkat had told him he'd gone crazy. Was he crazy? Maybe. But clowns are supposed to be crazy so they can put on a damn good show, and he was coming to run the whole fucking circus.

God damn this felt good. The feeling of absolute power over everything and everyone around you, and the feeling of watching the all the disgusting lowbloods die at your near godly hand was beautiful. And it was funny. Everything was funny. It was funny watching them grow more and more terrified of him each time he honked. It was funny reading Karkat's messages as he flipped the fuck out over the news of his best friend's seemingly unstable mental state. It was funny knowing that all the other trolls were now out to stop him from doing what his ancestors did sweeps ago.

As if they could. He should let the lowbloods come to him for their deaths. He was so powerful he almost couldn't be bothered to fetch them himself.

Almost.

The feeling of detachment came back as he picked up one of his clubs, smeared with olive blood. He chose two accessories, one from each victim, and wore them as trophies as he left the room. The halls of the meteor felt like they had begun to spin around him as he hunted the other trolls. He was coming for them. With a blood stained club, a scratched up face and a mind that finally realized its purpose in the world, he was coming for them.

Honk honk motherfuckers.

Time to join the dark circus.

~~~~~~~Homestuck~~~~

Wow, this was really short. Definitely a lot shorter than what I usually write (not that I've written much of anything other than papers in ages). And I'm not totally satisfied with it. Hell, it's quarter to one in the morning and I was misspelling almost every other word, so it might not even make sense. But a one-shot about Gamzee's inner insane thoughts has just been begging to be written for months now, so here it is. It's set between when he kills Equius and Nepeta and when he has the first showdown with Eridan and Vriska. I might end up editing and reuploading it when I get the chance. But until then, stay chill motherfuckers ;)