You have an irresistible urge to murder beautiful women, though your motives are fuzzy at best, frankly incomprehensible at worst.

You’re convinced that the Mittel-European boarding school your asshole parents sent you to is nursing a terrible secret.

When approached by the police in connection with a murder you just witnessed, you think it prudent to conduct your own separate investigation.

Sometimes, you call upon your insect friends to aid you in your enquiries.

You take pride in your ability to sound like you’re having an orgasm while being hacked to death by a serial killer.

You live alone, but you wear extravagantly racy nightwear around the house because you’re fucking worth it.

You have a thing for hands… and gloves especially.

You find it hard to relax with the pounding prog-rock score that follows you around in seemingly the most banal of moments.

Your mysterious aversion to double-glazing turns tragic when a hairy-armed assailant reaches through the window and strangles you to death.

You have an instinctive mistrust of lifts.

You are to geysering sprays of arterial blood what Jackson Pollock was to paint.

You’d crawl through barbed wire to leave a beautiful corpse on an exquisitely tiled floor.

You like to watch people, but sometimes you forget you’re being watched too.

The thought of going to Ikea makes you feel physically ill.

You’d never really noticed before, but now you think about it, a lot of your friends have died from decapitation.

If you find one more dead body hiding behind your curtain, you’re going to fucking explode.

That window that just blew open? You think it was a witch’s spirit entering the house.

Your taste in interior decor is perhaps best described as FW Murnau tripping out in Elton John’s velvet-wallpapered rococo nightmare.

Your favourite colour is all of them.