ACT I: THE BIRTH OF EVIL

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wicked breathed of tarnish air, hell-filled lungs charged of acid flavor. tongue of sinful delight slithered between leathery lips as beads of crimson fell to the muddied floor. a whimper broke the night’s silence as the shriek of a raven’s cry gave song to death. divine damnation, he swung his crown low. a whisper into the ear of his dove, a honeyed tongue of all the delights he would take of her. 

spine. liver. lungs. heart. he would savor them, relish in the sweet flavor of fear. 

she trembled, and he felt a fire to his loins. 

broken was she, contorted into a mess of shattered bones and tattered flesh. the aroma was delectable, silva pooling from the corner of his chapped lips. “shhh,” he purred into the milky softness of her scarlet stained ear. a nibble to her jaw, a kiss to her neck, the crack of bones to send birds soaring into moonless sky. 

she was the first. she was his favorite.

what remained was of bone and tear blemished soil. 

the harvester awakened. 



ACT II: DEATH KNOCKING

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his stomach curdled like sour milk, flies hovering over the odor of death. it clung to him, cape of execution. a world of color smeared red; ecstasy. 

paws of polluted smog stalked their way through softwood, his eyes bloodshot with unwearied drive. the stench of mother’s milk drew him near, whelp flesh sugared like candied confection. he exhaled fumes of sour vapor, breath rank with expired life. 

and in his jaunt did he obtain desire. a new playground of infinite prey. 

swollen gaze outstretched the realm beneath him. pests infected his new sought grounds, and he was plague to rid them. 

like a virus he would spread, seeping into pores and lifeblood. he would taint them with slaughter. swine to be dined upon, he would feast. 



ACT III: HIS ARRIVAL

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hellhound in flesh, he moved with the weight of corruption bound in chains. he drug the burden of a dozen souls behind him, their screams ringing in his ears. a symphony of wretched cries sounded of melodic delight. an orchestra of feverish passion. he hummed to their wails, his voice nails scratching against a fractured chalkboard. 

he slowed, the pages of his novel yet unwritten. 

he would turn parchment to bone, white to wine. his story had just begun, and the names of his victims were to be etched into the pages of his tale. 

he would be of shadow, hunting in the pleasure of night. he would be of a reaper’s revenge, here to collect the debt. 

he would be of sickening bile, here to terminate the spirits of righteousness. 

death had arrived.