Cold, so,
So unbearably frigid,
You can feel the chill penetrating
Deep past layers of muscle tissue
Straight into thy bones, bitter frost
Enveloping you in its embrace; you
May try to avoid the blistering frigidity,
But there is no escape. None at all.

All around, as far as the eyes can see, is a blanket of
Thick, white, endless snow, obscuring the ground
Under its smothering, vast presence. One could concur,
Indeed, all is dead and lost…this be a land
Of no hope,
No future,
Visual representation of that numerical value

But the ancient trees still stand, bare, but proudly tall, and critters
Still find time to frolic with gaiety, while others
Have tucked themselves away to endure
What may appear to be the end times
In the eyes of the unfamiliar, the uninitiated.

Life hath not been vanquished.


Donned new appearances, new forms.

Pity to those who couldn’t
Make it; woe unto the unfortunate
Unable to withstand the mad howls of
A fading year’s rushing winds.

No way out, is all thy mind
Can seem to tell itself
On repeat.

Where, o’ where,
Doth the exit reside, in these
Harsh, cruel lands?

Trudging forth, it all seems so
Futile, as your body does its best to
Spread heat into every square inch of
Your being, eyes growing weary and blurred as a
Result of the vicious assault
Committed upon thee with
Great fervor, for Nature is
Often cruel, even when it’s so
Strikingly gorgeous and
Awe inspiring. Exhausted, tired, every
Bit of exposed skin stung by the burning
Pain of thousands of pointed, invisible needles,
Morphing into a deep crimson hue. Every step
Feels weighed down,
Unbearably heavy,
Senses turning numb
Whilst a blankness of
The mind overtakes.

Yes, this is all such a wondrous sight to
Behold, bear witness to…

Glory be to the picture-esque scenery,
A true monument to the
Sheer artistry Nature is capable of
With its brushstrokes and molding hands…

Preposterous, it would be, to not take
Note of the way the full moon
Bestows the only constant source
Of illumination; one
Mustn’t be hopeful
In regards to the
False hope given off by the
Rays of already dead stars that are
Impossibly far from our little abode.

Crawling still towards a
Non-existent path
That leads out of this

It begins to
Dawn on you…

What you hope for is not there.

Subsist? Survive? And how?

Via the lethally icy substance
You tread through?

Or the bits of food you were not
Programmed to detect…least of
All, here?

With no recourse left,
The snow is the last thing you
Feel as your body plummets
Right into the ground, unable to
Keep mindlessly wandering through this
Place, of which you cannot recall
How you wound up in.

Heart rate slows to stand still
As you let your heavy eyelids
Begin to fall shut, breathing becoming
More labored, more…difficult,
Lungs and throat singed, lacking moisture,
Only dry bitterness remaining, but the
Energy to cough and wheeze is
Dissipating fast.

Curious shadows begin to approach
From the edges of your field of vision.

Noises of a most disconcerting
Variety fill your ears, and you wonder
What will take you first.

It’s close…

The reaper’s scythe…

Departure is inevitably; tis coming soon.

But it will wait…

As the cessation of your life
Begins to take place, where being alive
Slowly turns to being a corpse, the
Puncture of Death’s eternal blade
Makes itself known in your back.

Jaws of what had been following
You since you entered into this space
Now indulge in the reward for their patience…

O’ it hurts, but the ability to scream
Left you long ago…



Their diseased, choked, stifled breathing sounds haunt your ears, letting you know that they are all around, out there in the thick, crimson fog. Where? One cannot say, for only the strange sounds they make alert you to their presence. Maybe if you’re lucky, you’ll catch a glimpse of them, obscured slightly by the mist. Lurking, skulking, jerking, howling…watching. Eyes as green as the noxious fumes given off by the ancient reactors, the ominous noises emanating from them reminiscent of…cackling. As if they were mocking you. Knowing you were trapped, without a way out.

Perhaps there were cruel smirks hidden under their hoods and masks, toying with you agonizingly as you tried to navigate the dark, confusing layout of this old villa. But they were, truthfully, empty husks devoid of expression and feeling. Your brain wanted to humanize them…yet they were not such. Were they ever? A menacing grin or a hardened glare would’ve less horrific than that ceaseless, many mile gaze. Piercing right through the crimson fog. And perhaps that was worst of all. The utterly mechanical, otherworldly way in which these…things…moved about. Just pure, relentless instinct. Operating on nothing else but the faint, dim remnants of neurological signals. What propelled them forth? No one could say. Certainly not them, for they’d lost any and all ability ages ago.

Creaks and groans reminded you that centuries had weathered this place, in addition to the already poor design barely holding this nightmare town together. Doing your best to not alert them, footsteps as light as could be. The gas liable to suffocate you and take you as another victim. Wise to its presence, avoiding thick concentrations of the blood-colored hue. How its oppressive presence ruled the villa with an iron fist. And the watch dogs that came with it…thrived in it, lived in it, reveled in it…only seemed to reinforce how it maliciously smothered and choked the area. Forever waiting for the chance to strike. Knowing them being here kept you from going so far.

A battle of attrition. One in which you’d cave.

Leaning your head out of openings rewarded your eyes with the far away silhouette of some grand monument to opulence, arrogance, and ignorance. Its very shape, both shadowy and clear, beckoned all towards it. Daring would-be adventurers into its cold, dead embrace. Standing proud atop the hill. A fetid body propped up as a symbol of a bygone era. Oddly enough, it wasn’t hidden away by the pervasive, rancid toxin that made your skin itch and nostrils burn. Huh.

How long had you been here?

Would you ever leave?

Leaving…that was impossible, wasn’t it? You were going to die here. Trapped. Forgotten. Alone, with the exceptions of an eerie recording of a woman singing the same mournful melody on repeat echoing in certain parts, and the indecipherable ramblings of some old, isolated kook. Who somehow realized…

You were here.

Noise rouses them. Riles them up.

Food was scarce here…


Day 1

“I found this…odd book today. Kept in the, er, religious/mysticism section of my library. Was on the prowl for something out of the ordinary, and it definitely would appear that I got my wish. Heh. Seemed pretty interesting. I decided to check it out. Take it home with me, y’know? Lady who works the front desk looked at me skeptically when her eyes caught it. Only book I’ve seen her act that way towards. She was also strangely silent towards me. Didn’t bid me the usual farewell or anything. No pleasant chit-chat. Oh well.”

Day 2

“Started thumbing through that new book. Title’s…indecipherable. Written in an alphabet I clearly can’t read. Doesn’t look like any language I’ve ever heard of. Not even Arabic. Anyway, flipped through it to gauge it. Pages are filled with whatever writing this is. Can’t read it worth a damn. Lots of interesting illustrations, though. Creatures that don’t exist, hell, can’t exist. Really detailed depictions, too. Same with some of these monuments, buildings, locations. Holy shit. Whoever penned this thing had a wild imagination. I mean, none of these settings are possible or real, surely. But goddamn…they’re so vivid. So intricately penned. I also saw…what I guess were instructions? I assume that’s what they were. Next to and placed between what looked like really…really demented rituals and sacrifices. Good god, I hope no one ever tried any of that shit.”

Day 3

“Couldn’t…couldn’t stop thinking about that book. Didn’t sleep too great last night. Got maybe…maybe 3 hours in total, I would say? Every time I closed my eyes, I had these…really fucked up scenes just flash in my brain. Violent, gory. Kept jumping right out of bed, not sure where I was. As a result, I was out of it at work. And my mind would not stop wandering back to that…that stuff I saw in my dream. Fuck…it felt so real. Every time I tried to shove it down or forget about it, or the contents of that book, it only intensified. My boss and coworkers looked at me weird. Must’ve appeared I was having a breakdown of some kind. Now…I’m at home. Pacing back and forth. God, for some reason…I feel like I’m being watched. Something’s right behind my back, I know there is. But every time I turn, nothing is fucking there. I swear…I swear I hear very faint cackling. I have to concentrate to hear it. But it’s there. It’s fucking there…”

Day 4

“Haven’t slept all night. Couldn’t even if I wanted to. My hands are shaking. I don’t know if it’s from the gashes in my arms or the amount of pure fucking fear. Haven’t done much in the apartment. Certainly not touched the book. Just kinda…sit down and think. Occasionally have a loud outburst. Scream. Shout. Not even anything coherent. Lights went out at some point. All the power did. It’s so dark…I’m so scared. My eyes keep focusing on that bloodied knife. For whatever reason, I feel compelled to jam it right into my jugular vein. But I fear what comes after I depart life is much worse than the torments currently troubling me. Visions of snarling, gurgling, retching…things. Beings. Shit, I don’t even know how to describe them. Just aching for my flesh. Oh god…please…I’m not the praying type. Yet…I can’t help but hope. Have a little faith. Doubt it’d do me any good, though. I know there is no god here. Tried to call friends. Family. Anyone. Didn’t work…didn’t work at all. I’m alone.”

Day 5

“Heishereheishereheishereheishereheishere…demandssacrificedemandssacrificedemandssacrifice…oh god, the pain. Arms…hurt…painted sigils on…walls. What he wanted. What he needs…heneedsheneedsheneedsheneedsmybloodmybloodmybloodmybloodmyblood…wants to taste. Smells my…fear. The cackling…the cackling. I can hear it. Cannot see him. But the pharaoh. Oh, the howling…it’s…it’s terrible. Stop…make it stop. He will not stop. Hewillnotstophewillnotstophewillnotstophewillnostop. Oh the blood…it tastes sweet. I see why he wants…needs…must offer myself. Pick up the knife. The knife…through the knife, he shall taste the flesh and the blood. Yes…”


Oh, it’s hungry.

So, so…hungry…

More, more…


It suffers from the type of hunger which never goes away. A ceaseless, agonizing, relentless, unbearable hunger that can never, ever be satiated, no matter much is shoveled into its bottomless gullet. Each hour, of each day, it roars with a horrific roar that demands an unbearable amount of material be fed to it. Sacrificed, if you will. Those who do not meet its demands are…well, never heard from again. Perhaps they became outlaws, plotting to wage war against it, hiding either in plain sight or on the outskirts beyond the reach of the monster. Maybe…maybe they just…disappeared.


What does it hunger for? Any and all things. The soil, the water, the minerals, the air, the sky itself. And it shits out distorted, warped, twisted, mangled versions of these things. Water as black as the air it breathes out from its lungs once it has begun digesting soil and what was contained in the soil, or the rock, obscuring the blue shield of our home in the process. Does the hunger cease? Don’t be silly. The hunger…never…ceases. Even if those who work for the damned thing wanted the hunger to cease, the accursed beast would still compel them to provide nutrients, sustenance. Its influence is all-consuming, ever-expanding, never-ending. Beckoning all whoever come into contact with it to serve its tyrannical interests with a demented, insane sort of selflessness. For it considers service towards its sickening ends to be virtuous. To be one of its subjects, is to be duty-bound to it…for life. A blood pact is made with it once you join up with it. You can never leave…ever.

You think it stops there, don’t you? You think that’s the end of the line?

Oh…oh you poor thing.

We’ve only just begun.

Subjects become the prey. Whoever greases the machine, is eventually bound to become swallowed by it. Churned up and crushed, grinded into bits of meat for it to enjoy, and, maybe, make something new out of it. After all, it’s always on the cutting edge. Innovation. Progress. Always inventing. Just don’t question where all this comes from. Don’t think about it. Blind yourself to the pools of blood on your hands, my dear. Forget about the maddening screams of the wailing ghosts of all the dead that float all around and grab at your ankles from below the ground. Anyway, if it doesn’t steal your flesh, then…then it’ll just steal your soul instead. If it can’t make you dead on the outside, it’ll make you dead inside. Young, old, it does not matter. Upper, lower, you become a slave to it all the same. Fucker or breeder (because those are the only two distinctions it makes between its subjects; those who fuck, and those who breed…those who make, and those who deliver), the hammer pounds upon you all the same. The gears whir their cackling, maddening whir whether you like it or not. No consent required om your end. It’d be silly to think it ever needed it…

Not to mention, all of the…victims, subjected to its insatiable whims. Packed in dozens deep. Cramped into conditions so squalid and miserable, that it makes those of the subjects seem like paradise. Never seeing the sun. Never seeing the sky. But, wait, the sun is blocked out by thick clouds of hateful, acrid smoke, and the sky is now tinged with a dingy, decrepit, dull color that makes one’s nose bleed and eyes burn. Whole families. Fathers conditioned to force themselves on what could’ve been mates, lovers, all for the sake of creating children who will later be turned into meals for the subjects, who know not where all of this comes from, and how it got onto their plates. Cut up, beaten, burned, tortured, flogged, raped…eaten. And those who partake in all this, well…they are the dead flesh walking. Zombies that talk and breathe. Their hearts stopped beating long ago…and the blood is now in their veins. Frosty, like fresh snow during a blizzard. The pupils of their eyes disappearing as they brutalize the victims in ways that are simply too tragic to describe. And…and those with roots…who come from the ground…just slaughtered en masse. Gotten rid of. Later repurposed, stoically and precisely, with chilling precision, into…into…well, useless things that will eventually be gotten rid of immediately. Their lives worth about minutes, perhaps even seconds, of attention, at most. Deprived of lives, of a chance to exist. Trampled underfoot by the marching of the iron heel. So rhythmic, so perfect…so, so disturbing…

The world becomes warped to how it desires existence itself to be. All shall be constructed as a large, concrete rectangle. This shall be the template of the future. Built upon the holy shape of the square, with constantly observed innards kept up with by frightened, starving, weary wastrels who see no other alternative to this den of putridity and nastiness. All hail the grid, all hail the foreman and the cameras he employs to make sure you keep his god alive (it is a god, it is a god, and we must kill the god…but how can we kill the god; is it even able to be killed…can we?). But the god doesn’t need us, does it? Even without our help, it’ll never be a broken god. It won’t allow itself to fall into disrepair, allow itself to go unmaintained and lose its power. See, the god is slowly gaining more and more of a foothold, and soon, the god will be here to stay. It won’t need us, or anything made of flesh, bone, blood, chlorophyll, wood, or leaves anymore. Not to keep it going. Feast? Oh, it shall definitely still feast. But it’ll invent new ways of making sure it survives, and thrives. Becoming autonomous in the process. A free machine. An unbound deity of nightmarish proportions.

Escape? Is that an option? Maybe now. Here and now, potentially. Hopefully (gah, hope, such a funny…funny thing…heh…). While it’s not entirely too late. But the window is closing, fast. Evade, outwit, distract. Get out while you still can. Or fight, fight however possible. No matter how small, no matter how fruitless. Buck against it, swing your fist, scream at it, damage it. Just do it, in whichever way you come across or think about, even. You will weaken the grip it has on you, loosen the mental and maybe even physical chains that bind you. Refuse, resist. Nothing will change, but freedom, liberation, will start to become known to you. Do what thou wilt, because that is the opposite of its law. Not its law. Never was. Do what it wills, yes.


Ah, this…

It’s all thanks to you.

What? This is what you wanted…right?

Pay your dues to the devil you have created.

Yes, penance is not cheap…is it?

Can you hear it groaning for more? Aching for more? More, more it needs…


Give it more…

Everything…even you, yes, you…


Do your duty…

Be good…be…



I can hear it gnawing,
Always chewing away, jaws
Ceaselessly crushing, the endless
Repetitious sounds of its swallowing,
Driving me insane, unable to stop
The march forward, the endless ticking
Reminiscent of soldiers marching
On their way to a city they deem
Worthy of decimation!

The steady rhythm seeks to drive me
Into a frenzy, egging me on as it
Demands total control over my entire
Life, from the moment I eat, to the
Amount of time I get to sleep, or even
What day and hour I am no longer
Allowed to breathe!

No longer in control of
How, what, or why, only
Commanded by the numbers upon
A wretched face that
Is thrilled to see me die!

Pushing me to the brink, I
Cannot even think!

No solace, no relief, I’m left with no escape!


Wordlessly, he affirmed to these twins, and himself, that he would carry on. For their sake, and his own. Because…why not? What else was he going to do? Sure, it wasn’t apt to be perceived as glamorous by most (everything that is seen by most as glamorous, is in all actuality, disgusting, pitiful, nauseous, corrupt, and worthy of the most virulent, accusatory, seething contempt), but they were more than enough for him. Then again, there was actually a certain loftiness, a certain grandiosity, in this new undertaking. He would be, in essence, a father. Keeping them safe, guiding them through this terrifying and wondrous world; that would be his new mission, from here on out. The guiding light that would serve to motivate his legs to walk forward more and more.

Vowing, silently, within his heart, Bruce promised to never make the same mistakes that his own father had made. Like Charlie, he would not be. These two would be properly cared for and loved. Shown affection, reminded that they were not merely potential soldiers, potential killing machines. Their wills would not be negated for his own whims and desires. If they wished to live like him, so be it. Yet, if they did not, then judge, he would not. Nor force them. And they would not tormented, berated, and borderline abused (it would seem that he was finally starting to realize, in recent weeks, that he’d been looking on Charlie raising him, that part of his upbringing, with heavily rose-tinted glasses). Certainly, Bruce would never, ever, under any circumstances, resort to killing them, or attempting to, anyway. For any reason.

Bruce hadn’t really raised anything before. Truly brought a being up from juvenility to adulthood or what have you; such an endeavor had never been undertaken in his lifetime. Never had the desire sprang up within him, come to think of it. However, he now knew that what he went through, was no way to rear a child. Even Charlie, throughout his life, acknowledged this, and despite Bruce (admittedly, in a half-hearted manner, now looking back on it all) trying to reassure his father that he’d done a good job…there was no denying that Bruce’s early life had been wrought with trauma, hardship, strife, and (relatively) unnecessary suffering.

And the young man had been all the worse off for it…

No, things would be different for these pups.

Did he know anything about being a father? Not exactly. As far as examples go, he was given the most mixed one in existence.

Goddamnit, he’d still try. These pups deserved that much. His highest efforts.

Oddly enough, the fact that it was a human being he was to consume, in that rundown, structurally unsound shack, did not produce much anxiety within himself. Wholly undisturbed by the fact, he cut the corpse down, flung it over his shoulder, and carried it into the shack for him and his new friends to enjoy by a bright, dancing, seductive gathering of flames and sparks and cinders. To this day, he wasn’t sure why that was the case, his lack of perturbation towards the indulging of human remains. Could it have been as simple as his hunger, his demanding appetite, screaming out for something edible, roaring feverishly deep within at the presence of a potential series of meals? Maybe the sheer lack of energy made it thoroughly impossible to care? Perhaps the thought of sharing a meal with another sentient lifeform sparked some joy within that heart of his, that weary, war-torn soul, gripping in a white-knuckled manner to the last vestiges of life? Or…or…just a thought, but…this could’ve been his ultimate revenge against a species that had wronged him greatly, in his eyes? A dabbling in that most forbidden practice, as a way of slandering a race, a breed, a creature, which he had started out with a rather disdainful opinion of, and found himself, now, wanting to see extinguished from the face of the Earth?

Either way, with his newfound companions, he cooked and prepared said flesh as best as he could. It turned out quite well, which was a shock to himself. Meat was never a meal, in any form, he’d indulged in, as mentioned a little while ago. For his first time ever…making it, the results were quite edible. Dare he say, delicious. And the little furry critters now under his care certainly shared those sentiments.

Never again had his teeth, his jaws, his tongue, indulged in, swallowed down, digested, chewed and mashed and broken down, chunks of flesh.

From here on out, that stomach of his would know the nutrients and proteins nestled within fat, muscle tissue, blood, sinew, ligaments, and the flavor exuded by the bone, no more from that point forth.

Interestingly enough…something did change. A spiritual occurrence, of a…peculiar kind. T’was hard to name it, hard to put a finger on it, so as to grasp it and examine it. Study it. Certainly something of an adversarial variety, gifted from a place beyond anything even he, in all of his experiences…could hope to imagine. Nor was it subtle. Seems as if some kind of different, hidden nature, some buried potential that he had been eager to get for so long, had been unlocked within him, allowed to burst forth and surge in his veins, in his blood, freely and excessively. An uncontrolled wildfire searing every inch of his internal structure, setting his soul ablaze in a manner that was, despite the way that description may sound…extremely pleasant. It could be seen in the darkening of his bright, shiny blue orb, singular and lonely, lying in his skull, a nod towards something…other. As though whatever he were composed of wasn’t the material of mere mankind. Not a swift, readily apparent shift in the coloration, in that eye of his. Yet, to the keen observer (of which there were none around, aside from the chipper pups currently laying on either side of him, occasionally staring at him in a perceptive manner, as if they knew…something was up), the difference was staggering, and a bit…disconcerting. Seeing such lovely ocular organs turn blacker and blacker.

The key to all of this, of course, lay in the consumption of a human being.

Now, why him?

He’d come across many a cannibal in his life. For reasons he wasn’t entirely sure of (besides his great aversion to the consumption of flesh), the act always disgusted him. But, of the cannibals he often ran into, there was no doubt some other element there that made it beyond vile. Example: many of them made sure it turned sexual. Applied fetishistic logic to it, sprouting burgeoning erections as their teeth gnashed through skin and down to bones. Usually accompanied by sick violation and defilement of the person in question.

Could be the numinosity carried within. His ties to…something else. Of course, he’d only ever taken it purely on unshakeable faith, an unwavering belief. Whether he knew for sure or not, whether it was even truly there or not, that did not matter. This was not the most pertinent aspect of it all. And everyone else who he was raised alongside, was aware of this fact, his…his difference. Able to apprehend the unnamable that made him uncommon. Perhaps, some had theorized, he’d been born out of somewhere else. Here, he did not belong. In this realm, he was not truly a member. More of a long-term guest. They were knowledgeable of his true nature, and their own, those who he often accompanied or was accompanied by. But there’s never been any proof that could be detected by the profane ways of the more ordinary and more asleep. That’s not to say that it wasn’t there. It absolutely was. Even the dullards, who were absolutely in the majority, got the hint. Bruce, in addition to those who Bruce associated with, and chose to associate with him in kind, were no ordinary men and women, no mere mortals. Well, in a sense, anyway. He, as well as they, certainly possessed a kind of mortality (this, despite the tales weaved by mythmakers on all sides, was irrefutable and unquestionable). Yet, in comparison to the numerous, the many, the…all too human, shall we say, there was a gap. One that was always every widening, to the point of potentially being insurmountable. Many, many times, during countless days and nights, he could distinctly recall feeling the ever-present chasm that formed between him and his kindred, and those who were…mundane. “Everyone else”, as Charlie would say. Never again able to join them (if he ever had that potential to begin with), even if it was only an acausal thing, and not something physically present in the material world.

Even among crowds of the ordinary, he was simply…not there.

Appearance-wise, he may’ve been virtually indistinguishable from your everyday member of mankind, but, as the saying goes, appearances can be deceiving.

We all know this…

In the beginning, the great Mother had set to
Vitalizing and animating all things.

Flora and fauna, by Her hand, were given parts of
Her flesh and spirit, shaped by a deep and gracious love.

Soil, wind, water, minerals, fire, night and day, for they art also true,
Were blessed with Her soul and essence as well, proven by
The expressions gifted to our world by winter, summer, fall, and spring.

Aye, this creation is a part of Her, and Her, a part of it, but not, exactly, above,
No, not the right term to use; nevertheless, it is not all of her, for there is still much
Of Her that is beyond this world, this universe; so much that soars into infinity like a dove.

Disharmony was not present, for all was balanced, and all was free,
Living in accordance with its own True Will.

Order and chaos, discord and form, neither fluctuated and sank into excess, you see,
And there was no concept of struggle for mere struggling sake,
Greed and overconsumption seen as detriments, for then the Mother would be killed.

And why, pray tell, would anything want their Mother to perish?

She is the source of life, the wellspring from which the tree drinks and grows.

Birth and rebirth would not be without Her; non-existent would be life and death’s great throes.

To server the ties to the over soul, to cut away that which binds everything,
From most complex to charmingly simple, to Her,
Would be tantamount to suicide; ergo, She is, consciously or unconsciously, cherished.

One day, a new being
Was soon fashioned by Her hands.

A pestilential monster that
Would take over and dominate all
Of the lands.

Atop two legs and two feet it stood,
Gazing upon all with a hard look.

Fiendish things they were,
Thus species of wicked crooks.

Perhaps it was Her only mistake,
It goes by the name of “Man”.

After a period of what Bruce had assumed to be several days (he counted six nights), he decided to venture. Having exhausted the remains of the body, as well as a cache of various edible plant items (a bit stale and rotten, many of them were, but not past the point of no return; besides, given the fact that he’d just ate a human carcass…one could imagine his gullet was probably fashioned out of iron), and plenty of aged meat for his two furry comrades to devour, along with enough water to hydrate this trio of admittedly mangy scroungers, the inevitability of having to leave this shoddily constructed den slowly became a reality he’d have to contend with. Oh well. This…”break”, if it could accurately be called that…from all of the carnage and raging entropy that plagued his existence, was a welcome one. For once in his life, he’d managed to acquire healthy, sizeable amounts of rest. Granted, his body was wracked with exhaustion and near-lethal physical trauma, making his biological instincts mandate, more or less, sleep, yet if that’s what it took to get a string of nights where his mind didn’t wake him up after grotesque images flashed through it over and over, or being interrupted by outside interferences hell bent on either turning him into Swiss cheese, a tasty snack, or decorations on a decrepit wall, he would gladly take it. And even now, peering out of the doorway, into the pale, uninviting abyss that was the snowy plains of Oregon, every part of him, every single fiber and cell of his physical anatomy, felt sluggish. Perhaps revolting and rebelling against what Bruce would, once again, command his body once more to do, to endure, to act upon, to be subjugated to. Weak and way out of his element, did he feel to such an immense degree. Sure, he might’ve been tiptoeing on the very brink of death, but the idea of his state being “pathetic” still rang true in his head.

Trudging out into the unknown, eyes wandering about, a lost, vacant gaze plastered on his face, wearily scanning for anything that could be deemed a threat, his two companions now at his side, he realized a bit late that he saw…something…

Feet stopping dead in the snow, he figured that there should be a heightening of fear and worry going on in his veins, alerting him to a danger that he couldn’t even begin to fathom. Screaming at him to back away, turn in a different direction, hope and pray to whatever deity he adhered to for a chance at surviving unscathed. What he was looking at should’ve surely driven him to madness, no doubt. Even though he was already quite well off his rocker.

But…none of that happened…

Just…just didn’t kick into high gear.

What…what was it?

Skulking about in the fog, looking like some kind of ghostly apparition, resembling more of a paranoia-induced hallucination than a physical being proper (though rest assure, whatever he saw was indeed…very real), the details were nonetheless unmistakably apparent.

Black fur, shaggy and unkempt, matted and overgrown, claws like knives upon its giant forepaws, antlers growing out of the skull it had for a head, a hunched over form that, if stood fully upright, might’ve well measured…maybe 12 feet talk, and fangs lining its upper and lower jaw, with eye sockets empty, hollow…similar to black holes in space, deep voids where there was no light.

It paused its eerie trotting…

And then turned its head ever so slightly, to look back at him.


The uniformity. It’s maddening. It’s all one can see for miles upon miles. Rectangular cuts that form rectangular shapes. Followed by rectangular cuts that form rectangular shapes. Straight, geometrically precise lines, and nothing else. Perfectly rigid, exceedingly…proper. Mathematically, it’s all so delightfully accurate. But your mind…your mind craves something else. Makes your very soul nauseous and sick. You’re afraid to look anywhere. Everywhere is just that stoic, stern, impersonal regimentation.

Goodness, it all sends a shiver down your spine. Your blood turns into ice in your veins, goosebumps forming along your arms. Eyes darting nervously in all directions. Palms moistened by sweat. Is no one else seeing this? The corridors upon corridors of clinical exactness. All blurring together. Which street is that? What building did you pass? You can’t tell. It all runs together in your vision. All so cut and dry, cut and dry. Did humans even make this?

Looming ever so large, everything around serves to remind you of your infinitesimal existence. The utter insignificance of you. To the people around you, and even to yourself. Swallowed into a kind of…void. A black hole, where any sort of light is ruthlessly drawn in and torn apart, before being gulped down, like a gluttonous man chewing ravenously on steak. Brutalist, so vulgarly brutalist. Possessed with a kind of haunting cleanliness. Yet, it’s all so dirty. Christ, what is that awful smell? It reeks of rot and decay. Perhaps it is humanity’s soul, trapped and dying in this maze of square paths and a hate for all that once was.

Desolation and despair seems to be the order of the day. It teems with human life, yet if it weren’t for that, it’d be a concrete desert. A jungle without an ecosystem. Uninhabited. Inanimate. The very construction of this place seems antithetical to life itself. Quite in opposition to fostering the flourishing of any life. One could argue, indeed, that it does, given the plethora of humans locked within its grid, its four walls, which we never seem quite free from, but while it may breed more of the killers, it also kills the killers themselves. Mortality rates through the roof for infants. Gunshots aimed at either the heads of others or their own heads. Starvation and dehydration. Let it be known, this is a giant factory of death, a concentration camp.

The deeper you go into it, the more you immerse yourself in its levels, the more nightmarish it becomes. Possessed by some sort of devilish character that no one else will admit to. Rotten, you shall become. Dirtier and dirtier, the foul stench clinging to you like the jaws of a wolf to a lone bison. Its taint spreads like wildfire, or a virus, and burrows deep into the depths of anyone brought into its fray. Poisoning them, wrecking their insides. Gnawing away at their innards, scooping out whatever sense of life they might’ve had. A vampire, draining the life of everyone in its vicinity, in order to feed itself. And it is always, always hungry, ravenous, gluttonous, in its endless appetite. Most of them unaware that the venom has seeped in, poisoned their veins.

Emotion? You dare speak or think of emotion here? Nay, you shake your head in dismay. There is none. You can see it in the faces of the passerbys. Blank expressions, with hollow eyes and exposed lines. Reanimated by the false stimuli that the is constantly pumped into their bodies and minds. Jolted by electrifying impulses, to bring about a rush of serotonin and dopamine. Force a smile, even though they’re all empty inside. Whatever they feel, isn’t real.

It can all be boiled down to simple chemical reactions. That’s it. Jolts of the flesh and mind, when reacting to something it’s been trained to salivate at. Pursuing the lotus, whatever form it takes. Wealth, wealth, the sacred cow of our age. Always reminded of it at every turn.

Let it be known, this is not wealth.

The monster knows this.

All the faces blur together. Who is who? What is their name? Don’t know, and you don’t even really care. You see so many of them. Your ability to feel for them dwindles into nothing. Especially since whenever they acknowledge your existence, it’s always a pale imitation of some kind of feeling. It disgusts you, how much you talk like them. Look like them. Feel like them. Act like them. But you haven’t a choice. Well, you do. A slow death, or a quick one.

Complaints arise that people are lost. The morale and the psychological condition of all those around are falling by the wayside. The loss of customs and traditions. The decay of various manufactured values and needs and wants. Descending into the pits of Hell. Various people are scapegoated. For good reason, since there are quite a few to blame. But they’re symptoms of the bigger problem, naturally. Yet, no one wants to address the underlying issue.

Watched, watched all the time. Watchers everywhere. Eyes on every street corner. No privacy, none. Private space? What private space? You’re not safe. Subconsciously, you know you aren’t. It panics you sometimes. Drives you into anxious fits and tumultuous slumbers. Unable to sleep, tossing and turning as everything seems to be closing in on you. Where does it stop? Where does it end? How long can it go on?

It’s enough to make you scream in agony and fear.

Peace and quiet. That’s all you want. Peace and quiet. But you don’t get it. There’s ceaseless noise. An unending stream of loud, invasive volumes. Every piece of wretched machinery belches pure hate out of its throat. Constantly interrupting your train of thought. What were you even thinking about? Oh, nothing. It’s not important. The blueprint for Auschwitz and Dachau said it wasn’t, so, you shrug your shoulders in a dejected manner, shake your head, sighing heavily.

As a result, rest never truly comes. You wondered if you’ve ever really slept. Or been awake, for that matter. Just drifting, floating in the empty void. Are you even real? Is any of this even real? Silly question. Of course it isn’t. It’s all a bad joke. A terrible ruse. Some devious prank played by some foolish men in bygone times.

You want to give in to all the methods that make you want to forget.

But you don’t want to lose yourself.

On the other hand, what is your “self?”?

Could you even know?

Do you even want to?

So, you crave rest. Naturally. You crave the absence of noise. But, ironically, the absence of noise affords you no relief, either, does it? You’ve been conditioned to find a strange comfort in the constant churning of the always present hallways you find yourself stuck within. In the absence of it, you grow anxious. Antsy. Disturbed. In a certain sense, you associate it with death. Insomnia takes you either way.

On the other hand, who’s to say you aren’t already dead? Were you ever really alive?

Your body moves along like a machine, but inside, you’re aware that something is deeply wrong with the very soul you possess.

Packed like sardines in a can. Best way to describe this situation, isn’t it? How utterly trapped you are, being pressed upon by all sides, thanks to the ever-increasing mass. It terrifies you. Frightens you. Surrounded by strangers as sick and loathsome as yourself. Can’t breathe. You feel as if you might choke. Always the lingering sensation of some invisible hand pressing against your throat, squeezing and gripping, crushing your windpipe. And you see shadows that aren’t really there. Yet, who’s to say they aren’t? There’s always a pale look about you. A nervous gleam in your eyes. An ache in your chest that sometimes cripples you.

It’s all a powder keg. Waiting to blow. Sooner or later, it’s going to shatter into pieces. A glass house, trembling as the breezes of time swiftly blow by.

You wonder…


And so, he comes back home.

Or, well, what’s left of it.

On the map, it says it’s home. By all accounts, the unease stirring in his gullet shouldn’t make sense. Signs point in various direction, all saying they lead here. A most sacred patch, near and dear to his heart. This is where he belongs, his sanctuary. This is his, wholly his. Isn’t it?

But…it’s changed. A lot. Too much. Much too much. Not by its own volition, in the ways it is prone to; through artificial means. The kind that “doomsayers”, as the ignorant deem them, liked to warn about. Vicious, cruel, savage things he’d been cautioned to keep at bay, even dismantle, in various enlightening texts he’s absorbed.

Eyes peeled wide open, face steeped deep in concentration, searching, gazing, for something, arms folded, he peers, straining himself to find…something.

What was he looking for?


That’s it.


But, hmm, where was it?

He…he could’ve sworn it had been right here.

No, instead, it was a truly grotesque sight. A small plaza, fitted with everything a modern man and woman needs. Shops decked with neon lights, conjoined together like Siamese twins, until all of them merged into one giant monument of concrete, windows plastered with papers advertising this or that, saying the food was fresh (liars), or that you couldn’t get this cheaper than anywhere else (everyone says that), maybe a for-hire sign (debase myself? Ha, you were wrong). Mounted atop a huge asphalt slab, packed with motor vehicles, faceless and soulless decadents clamoring out of them. Why? Who knows. Who cares. Nothing worth mentioning. Nothing worth noting. Hardly anything anyone ever does is so. Billboards erected, like giant, permanently erect phalluses, the eternal hard-on that draws in the lustful stragglers, always eager and needy for…something. What are they searching for? It’s unknown, both by them, and those who are not them. The top, the head, ever climaxing, so bright in comparison to the dullness of the shaft. Always trying to assuage each other. Unfortunately, both pits are so deep, so bottomless. How long have they been there, those pits? Ever since the lurking biped started roaming the landscape.

Surely, he must look so odd.

Given the stares and gazes of uncertainty, perhaps even scorn, his suspicions are concerned.

Seemingly out of nowhere, a strong urge to decimate them wells up within his gullet. A bestial, animalistic need to rend them apart. Tear them to pieces. Tear “their property” to pieces. Come to think of it, they’d probably be worried more about the latter, than the former. And this is the free world. So free, it can’t even picture the ball-and-chain attached to its neck. Clench and unclench, clench and unclench. Hands balling into tight fists, then unfurling again like frightened armadillos. Or geysers struck with pitch black gold. The only outward expression of that rage. Otherwise, his fury was tranquil. Well-hidden. Stuffed deep down inside. We are civilized, better than that dingy, mangy world. Don’t give in to the impulses, nay, for then you shall rediscover yourself. What you are. And what you are, we cannot leash. Or cloak.

Oh, the stench. The stench. It was awful. Reeked of foul waste and industrial dross. Discarded material from choking, dark, unholy mills. Dens of depravity spewing forth garbage.

Ugly, too. Absolutely offensive to his sight. Corrupt beyond repair. They twisted and mangled perfectly fine land for this? For this? This…this is their monument of greatness? Aye, it is true. So accomplished, they think themselves to be. Why? Because of this. This…thing.

Would such an outburst change much? Hell no.

Yet, would it bring him much satisfaction? Absolutely.

Perhaps a lifetime’s worth. So, so invigorating.

The man had to wonder, did that old hero that stayed out in Montana…did he feel the same fire, the same embers licking at his soul, sparking a rush of primal excitement to course through his veins, as he made his stand?

A sane Satan against a gibbering Jehova.

Rejoicing in turning these churches into heaping husks.

That poor old German fellow. Yahweh, Christ, was sadly not dead.

Some kind of diabolical shapeshifting had occurred, that’s all.

God’s a sorry excuse for a deity if He lets this slide. Then again, this is God. Transferred into them, via the wretched Luther (thank you, o wise German spirits). The talking, breathing, blood-and-bone machines, that, from what he hears, is God. And, also, though not as explicitly proclaimed, the…eyesores, as he designates these constructions that hefty, cigar-chomping, genetic failures call upon drunken philistines to manifest, via a green hypnotism…these are also known to be God. Even if it is not outright said…

Fools, all of them. In all of their stupidity, what would they know of God? In all of their idolatry, all of their massacring of God itself (herself, actually), quite literally…raping her (proudly, angrily, arrogantly, they got off on it, lived for it, in the most literal manner)…how could they know?

Aha, see, there it was. Yes, they knew not God, but their concocted demiurge. Foul, fiendish creature that is known as Marduk.

He knew God intimately.

God was encountered whenever he laid in the grass, gazed at the stars, leaned against an old, sturdy tree, saw a coyote chasing a rabbit, a duck raising its young, witnessing the sprouting of roses, getting lost in the clear waters of a pristine lake, as well as the fish swimming around in it, basking in the flow of the sun, and feeling and tasting the pitter-patter of rain drops upon his skin. He knew God to be beautiful, sublime, a grand artist with a taste for beauty, creator of a colorful, vibrant, lush world, filled with wondrous beings, and places where these beings dwelled.

God…God didn’t have a hand in this drab, dull, nightmarish, conformist shit heap. She couldn’t have. Nay, this was not her handiwork. Square monoliths, with rotting interiors, a sterilized, soulless den, that nevertheless, was always dirty. You walk in, and feel the need to shower once you’ve gotten out.

It’d be perfectly fair, he thought.

Desecration for desecration.

Ruin their god. Ruin the god that they have been told they are.

Blood for blood, Ruth for Ruth,
Eye for eye, tooth for tooth.

Sighing, he realized he’d been here for too long. Made himself more of a stranger than he’d already felt. Stepping forth, across the street, past the plaza, resisting the urge to look at the other human beings, ducking and lowering his eyes or head whenever an individual’s field of vision fixated on him. Barely anything came out of his mouth. If a greeting came his way, he merely nodded, gave an awkward smile, and kept on his way. Plodding along the highway. One foot after the other, making continuous contact with the concrete.

Voices speak of things he couldn’t even care to remember. He wished, oh he wished, to grasp their throats. Shut them up. T’was hardly worthy of recollection. Half-baked humorous remarks told amidst testosterone-riddled youths. Mates trying to woo one another. Conversations on devices, a beggar or two lingering, hoping for reprieve, brats annoying their tired mothers, and tired mothers annoying insolent, petulant brats. Silly, inane arguments. Some of them spoke fondly, in relation to the words of the…preachers, who gladly enslaved themselves and brought to life this new god. Others prattled on about their lives. The chit-chat blurred together into one singular story. Indistinguishable. Lost in a sea of perfect sameness. Who were they? He didn’t know. And neither did they, for that matter. Eyes vacant, devoid of emotion. Breathe, talk, walk, yes, they did all that…well enough. Yet, did they truly live? Were they even capable?

Of course, the peace wouldn’t come, even if their windpipes were shut. Oh no.

Because there was another menace, hurtling right past him, multiples every second. Practically blinding his eyes as the sun began to set (what little he could see of it, anyway; blot out the sun, why don’t ya!). Did the roads ever rest? Did the pavement ever sleep? It certainly should. For his sake, not for the pavement’s. Fuck the pavement.

Hurtling towards death, he liked to think of this travel. Humanity loved death, craved it. Mankind wanted to die. Wanted to kill itself. Come on; what was all this for, if not to satisfy that suicidal drive? In a literal sense, they were hurtling towards death, yes. Or, at least, the risk of it. On the other hand, there was a subtler meaning to such a statement. Faster and faster, towards their own demise, at the hands of progress, of wanting, no, needing…to go forward, always. Ceaselessly. Endlessly.

Well, if they wanted bloodshed and carnage, bloodshed and carnage they could have. Pleading, begging, crying, for their blood to be spilled, flowing out of their veins, onto the ground. Someday, their wishes would be granted. Thy death they demanded? Thy death they’d receive, in full. No questions asked. Might take some time, but soon, the end, their dream, their ideal, on a silver platter, fresh and steaming hot, would it be served.

Besides, they hated the Mother? Good, the mother hated them back. Soon, they’d know it. Maybe not now (although a sizeable chunk are starting to suspect this may be the case; and the children, the brave outlaws that are still authentically connected to her, and wish to be, revolt, as best as they can, every day), but in the near future, it’d be burned into their skulls. Stamped with the label: “HATED”. Rejected, because they chose to reject first. Abandoned, because they chose to abandon first. Sever the connection, and you shall no longer be a child of the Mother. You decided you didn’t want her. It should be unsurprising she no longer wants you.

Treading along the way, his eyes would focus on a corpse. Animal, not human. Humans are worth more, he’s always been told. Yeah? Worth more than what? The creatures they senselessly murder, so they can get to their jobs they hate, or their homes they spend more time out of, than inside? Feed their ever-growing numbers, and ever-growing bodies? Rape the Mother, God, more and more? Tie her up? Drill her real good, over and over? Be blind to Truth, intoxicated instead by lies? Kill each other, for reasons so baffling, he wanted to laugh in their faces? Prostrate at the alter of an Israeli communist agitator, who, if he were around today, should deserve to be strapped to the hood of a truck, and paraded around like a war trophy, whilst lashed endlessly? Did that prove their worth? What were they worth more than? Shit, they weren’t the bullets spent every day in their never ending quest to kill themselves.

A sigh left his throat, though it wasn’t heard. Stopping for a moment, tilting his head as his eyes fixated on it. Splayed out, tongue lolling out, eyes bulging, limbs flung in every which way, maggots digging around in what was no doubt a fresh body.

Sweet thing, you didn’t deserve this. You deserved better.

Time to get a move on. Don’t mourn the dead, or you’ll be deemed crazy. Sent to an asylum, locked away, shocked, beaten, poked, prodded, mentally rearranged to their liking.

He wasn’t crazy. All of them were. Not him. He was sane. A sane Satan.

Fuck. It was hard to think. Couldn’t think. Couldn’t. Needed to hear his own thoughts. Too many distractions. All this noise. Noise, noise, noise. That’s all there was. Just noise. Goddamnit, he’d need some sort of Zen-like concentration to tune out, to turn it into blank, white static. Or someplace like home. That reminded him of home.



There it was.

Familiar territory.

Snarling, growling, like some kind enraged beast, he ran deep into a large patch of woods. A dense, thick forest on the side of the highway.

Tears blinded his vision, but not tears of pain. Jagged edges and thorns and other such things tore at him, made his skin bleed. Lesser folks would’ve been annoyed, angered. Him? Never. He took this as a welcoming back. Yes, he cried tears of joy. He was home. Hurrah, hurrah. He was home, free at last.

Collapsing to the ground in a heap, having founded a large, open patch, breathing and shaking from all of the adrenaline, a smile finally began to creep onto his face.

Think. He could finally…think.


Always was there, always will be.

Omnipotent, omniscient,
Stretching as far as thy eyes
Can see.

Everywhere and nowhere.

From whence hath it descended?

Out of what depths, did it crawl?

The formless, somehow manifested
In the guise of a form. Ceaselessly gnawing,
A mouth that goes for light years,
Monstrous and yawning. Pray tell,
What came first? The hate which spawned it,
Or that it manifested out of its endless scorn?

Such answers, are lost to us.

Mysteries of a kind man
Was not meant to know.

Unless he craved his utter ruin.

And thus, the folly
Of man. Craving
Even what is
Detrimental to his existence.

Lacking in care and foresight,
Blissfully unaware there would be
Opportunistic horrors ready,
Salivating at the opening of
The floodgate,
Welcoming whatever
Comes through with open

Man, o’, man,
Arrogant and idiotic,
You unknowingly opened thy wrists,
Holding it up eagerly
For thirsty mouths,
Presenting thy blood, precious
Liquid spilling down their throats.

Too late…

You let it enter; let go of your hope…

It walks amidst us,
Stalking, always in the shadows,
Peering from the corners
Of our vision.
The blurred outer regions
Where reality and fantasy
Start to meld together into an unrecognizable mess.

That sound you heard…


Was it the wind?

You tell yourself it is,
And yet, you’re not so sure…

Hairs stand up
Along thy spine. Uncertainty pervades your mind,
Feeling uncountable eyes staring.
The gaze refuses to avert. It makes you
Whimper and whine.

Enchanted whispers caress the outer
Recesses of your ears.

A wide, mad grin promises
Endless delights
(To itself),
Whilst the uncanny sight
Confirms your worst fears.

Still, standing, waiting…

Yet, there is a less
Aspect of it.

More shadowy than when
It stays hidden away, cloaked in a
Shroud of pitch black,
Observing as we rush
Eagerly to our doom.

Dressed so dapper,
Seeming to be the type
That chomps thick cigars
And rents out struggling flappers,
Having made a home
Of his fancy new roller,
Debauchery behind closed doors,
Smiles and kind words
For the ignorant public all over.

Did I say less nefarious?

A charming grin,
Coupled with a
Deranged look
In his eyes. Hear him
Whisper the words you want
To hear as the world
Slowly dies. Surely, he shall
Reward thou, graciously,
With what thy asked for,
In all manner of exactness. Of course,
Costing a fair price. Little do we
Realize how expensive it is,
And it becomes too late; we must
Now roll the dice.

Innocuous at first,
But then the whole
Thing becomes boring,
So he starts to…spice things up.

Can’t help but seek amusement from the
Primitive apes squabbling beneath his gaze.

For you see, the world is his altar.

And he is the idol that shall be praised for all time.

Yes, their god, their…savior.

More and more insane he starts to become.

He’s at the helm now, oh yes,
But he’s not intending to
Pilot the train responsibly
Along its course.

Nay, his desire is to crash it,
Then watch it burn away whatever was left.

Brother against brother,
Son against father,
Daughter against mother.

Loud bangs ring out in the night
Out of the barrels of firearms,
Yells erupt from throats,
Frigid steel piercing warm flesh,
Wrists and throats ripped wide open
So that walls may be painted a decrepit crimson color,
Lines of sight falling
Upon what should’ve never
Been bared witness to, thus
Responsible untold amounts
Of synapses breaking,
Manic laughter bursting out in
Erratic, unnerving bursts, causing witnesses
To gaze in horror,
Canines and molars sinking into the
Skin of their neighbors, friends, and family,
Relishing in the taste of the most
Forbidden of delicacies, and
In the background, there are
Those overtaken by
Perverse desires and strange lusts,
Captained by twisted souls
Stuck within rotten bodies,
Rutting against whatever and whoever
Happens to be available, grunts and
Growls of a most inhuman variety
Leaving their lips.

There he is, standing there,
With that same wicked grin,
Sporting that unmistakable gleam
In his void-like eyes.

Hadn’t took any effort at all.

For something like him, it was…child’s play.

Smiling as he thought of his all-encompassing, blind-idiot father.

Wouldn’t be the first time, nor the last.

Look at it; so wonderful.

Quite pleased by the sight of gore
Messily strewn all about.

Price, price, he kept mentioning that word.

Continuously mentioning that it’d get higher,
That the toll would increase.

Kooky, they must’ve
Perceived his warnings to
Be, craving their wants
More and more.

Such passionate givers they were.

Gave everything,



No matter; their blood, their souls,
Yes, they’d all be his in the end…

Pieces of a decorative nature for this altar of his…

Alas, the seeds of decay and ruin have been planted.

Go ahead, let go of any and all hope.


Don’t think. None of that.

Well, it’s not like you could. But, here, use this to stunt whatever budding potential may’ve been present that might help you to do so.

Everything hurts, doesn’t it?

You want relief, yeah?

It’s all too much, surely. You want an escape. An out. You don’t want to face it, or deal with it. Dealing with it causes pain. Thinking, feeling, that torments the mind and rends the heart. All the abuse, oh, you can’t take it. You need painkillers to take away the welts and scars. That way, it’ll be easier to endure the master’s whip. Otherwise, you’d crack, and take the whip from the master, and whip the ever loving shit out of him, instead. Payback for all those cuts on your flesh. Thanks to these, you will want to avoid that fight. Getting whipped won’t hurt as much. Hell, you may come to enjoy It, even, under certain…additives. Or, it might potentially motivate you more, rather than demoralizing you.

Oh dear, we can’t have that, can we? You thinking and feeling; why, you might decide all this isn’t for you.

I know just the thing.

Go on, eat the lotus. Take it.

Oh yes, let those needles, let that smoke, let that pipe, let that line, whisk you away to lands so pleasant and pleasurable, dearest friend. Ignore the unimaginable terror looming just beyond the sunny horizon.

It’ll be all better.

What is it?

Does that really matter?

Look, all of your idols did it, and still do it. Those friends of yours? They indulge as well. Don’t you want to be more fun, more interesting? Have stories to tell? Get rid of the awkwardness and dullness of your life?

You’d get a good fuck out of it, maybe. I know a few that did. It’s real easy. Especially when you’re in a den. What’s a den? You’ll find out soon enough.

Better yet, don’t you want to take away all of the hurt, the pain? The nagging pain? And don’t you want to fit in better, while still maintaining what’s required of you, perhaps even going above and beyond? So negative, you are. Just think of it as a boost, to help you jump through those hoops, whenever you can’t by yourself.

Earning success is a nigh impossibility without it. Vigorous and strong souls can do it, but you are neither, I assume. You’re weak. Consider this…help.

Stop whenever you wish. There’s no obligation you’re making to it.

Hmm, it would appear that your personal relationships are in tatters.

Seems your soul got ripped out, or put through the ringer. You aren’t you anymore. If there is anything left of you, something that hasn’t been eaten up, or locked away, it can’t be present. The disease, it lives in you. A parasite, puppeteering its host. Your body, your mind, have now become expressions of its will, its personality. Say goodbye to yourself.

Everyone left, because all that’s left is a void where everything that gets sucked in, dies. Slowly, painfully. Seems they don’t want to see you die. Could’ve been the result of you lashing out, and so they decided to cut you out, leave you to fester. I don’t blame them. Although, for me, I need you around for different reasons. I need you to keep coming back.

Can’t have it both ways. Them, or it. You made your choice.

Do you even care?

Can you even comprehend your decisions, your actions?

You tried so hard to make it your bitch. No, you said, I will not be your slave. I will make you work for me.

Silly, that’s not how it works. You thought you could just sell your soul to the devil, and get it back? Poor bastard, you’re even dumber than you look.

It took everything from you. It will keep taking everything from you.

Speaking of how you look, wow, you really worse for wear. Plastic skin, rotting teeth, sunken cheeks, bloodshot eyes, hair as brittle as old clay. Have you ate? Can you even muster up an appetite? Of course not. You live off of this. Everything else just cuts into your chase for this, no? Your friends, family, hobbies, house, food, water, that’s a distraction from this. Because you need this. Nothing else satisfies. Only this. That’s it. You need more. Never enough. Always more. More, and more. I can give you more. I’ll always give you more. In fact, I encourage you to come to me, to give you more. At this point, I’m your only friend now, because I can give you more. This, this is all you want. Say it, you know it’s true. Bound to it. Chained like a convict to a prison cell. Oh yes, and I’m your warden. You’re mine. You’re its. Everything you are, is not yours anymore.

Rotting, rotting away.

Buried deep inside of a shell, you’ll never again see the light of the day.

Lay on the concrete, stuffing yourself full, a dreary husk.

Close your eyes, my friend; let yourself drift away into dusk.

Another one gone away, another statistic, another number.

None the wiser are they, to I; I make a living off of their blunders.