I should hire some back-alley, voodoo priestess to curse you with paralysis then pay an out of work tailor to string you up like a marionette. I could hide in the rafters and as the curtains opened I would finally be the one to pull your strings. The children would gather, laugh, hoot and holler as I paraded you around. The harlot now led by the ignoble buffoon.
They'd love you, I'm sure of it. Ever the little actress, always the self-aware performer. They would marvel at how real you looked and shudder in terror at your haunting brown eyes. When I was done toying with you, my doll, my love, I would drag you to the top of the Brooklyn Bridge. From there we would give our final show. Fin! Finito! Our finale! I'd cut the strings and watch you spin into the hood of a Toyota. Alas, I know I'd follow you down, for even in death I cannot escape you.
Image taken from: http://scaweblog.gmu.edu/?m=200812