Bitch, quit hiding behind all your summoned monsters and your elemental prince and fallen solar friends and your globe of blades and come and face me! Scared? I, the most powerful of the Children of Bhaal, Lord of Murder, shall be your end this day! Do you hear me? I’ve had more than enough of you. This ends here.

Ow! Hey, that’s mean! You’ll pay for that, just as soon as I’ve finished guzzling all sixteen potions of healing I have right here. You have got to be the sorriest foe I’ve faced thus far, you gigantic strumpet! You’re pathetic.

You’re not even an interesting villain. What, blind lust for power? Is that all you’ve got? Sure, Jon Irenicus was a bit of a crybaby, but at least he had motivations other than an “I Heart Murder” license plate. At least while I was chasing him across, through, and literally under all of goddamned Faerun I could occupy myself with contemplating how, beneath his snobby British mad scientist exterior, he was really an emo MySpace kid with pictures of the elven Queen taped to the inside of his locker.

Whereas you had nothing but your stupid twist. “Oh, I’m Melissan and I guide you to each Bhaalspawn you have to kill and I’m real nice, but then it turns out I’m going to slay you and steal your essence.” As if we all didn’t know you were a fucking bitch from the beginning!

Oh my god! You killed all my friends, you filthy whore! Quick, resurrect them! Minsc! Jaheira! Imoen! Haer’Dalis! Well, okay, maybe not Haer’Dalis, but I’ll still get you for killing him. It’s the principle of the thing.

What kind of a name is Melissan, anyway? All it is is Melissa with a goddamned random consonant on the end of it. What is that, supposed to strike fear into my very soul? And don’t think that putting it back to Amelyssan the Blackhearted changes anything. We’re always going to remember that you sucked at choosing aliases.

Melissan Joan Hart, fucking Priestess of Murder.

I don’t care if you are a Deathstalker and Bhaal’s formerly most trusted servant. Your history is probably so lame that Bioware didn’t even bother to make it up for you, and you’ve lived your whole life in the shadow of people who were born to be better than you at the one thing you’re good at: killing. That’s right, my Dad is the owner and CEO of Murder Ltd., and I’m his bratty kid that lounges by the pool and gets bitchin’ cars for my birthday, and you’re nothing but his fucking secretary. Chew on that while you’re ripping my intestines out from my eye sockets, you fat cow!

Ouch! Dammit! Dammit! Dammit!