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He was not a nice boy. He was the kind of boy who bit the heads off of gingerbread men just to see their still motionless bodies sitting there on the cookie sheet. He didn't even like the taste, he would just bite the heads off gingerbread men and then spit them into the toilet. That's the way he liked things - headless bodies, but no heads.

He would start by licking off their eyes, gagging in disgust as the sugar stimulated his tastebuds. Then he would scratch off the little pink smiles. He knew they were mocking him, but he would make them stop. He could hear their pitiful little whimpers in the back of his mind as his mouth encircled the circle of dough that formed their heads, and he let out a small squeal of delight each time his teeth clamped down to snap their fragile little necks.

That was his one joy in life, removing those little cookie heads. He would sit in dark, empty rooms for hours just staring at headless gingerbread men. Until one day when there were no more gingerbread men with heads. His mother refused to make them until he ate the bodies of the millions of others she had baked. That's when he began to bite the left arm off of all gingerbread men.