Headless Bourgeoisie

listen man, never mind who this is. we've got your wife. yea, your better half, your partner in life. you'll find her volvo abandoned at the mall. her credit cards are in the trunk. we don't want that junk. we want the money, and we want it in cash. cause there are ten sticks of dynamit stuck together with duct tape. they're wrapped around her new perm, strapped around her little face. so don't do anything funny, man, don't do anything smart, or we'll blow up her head. listen man, we've got your son. yea, your one and only heir. the scion of your loins, the chosen one. we picked him up off the playing field. you'll get his short pants by priority mail. we need some cash to finance our political aims. put it in your work-out bag and leave it at the gym. cause there are ten sticks of dynamite stuck together with duct tape. they're wrapped around his little skull just to stop the constant snivelling. and if we don't hear from you by tomorrow, we'll blow up his head. we've got your daughter, that's right. daddys' little girl, the light of your life. and all we want is every penny you've saved. empty out your retirement fund and put it in an old suitcase. how do you know we've got her. we'll send you her little pinkie. you can shove it up your ass and call it stinky. cause there are ten sticks of dynamite wrapped around her golden locks. and only you have the power to make this stop. and if we don't get everything we want, we'll blow up her head. forget it man, we're coming after you. we have no political beliefs. we don't want your fucking money. there's just one thing that motivated us. we hate your fucking guts. there are ten sticks of dynamite waiting for you. they'll cover your eyes, they'll muffle your ears. they'll shut your fucking mouth. they'll blow up your head.