fochaux:

I’ve seen the face of the devil.

It wears not dripping fangs nor eyes of flame, but a hollow smile as perfidious as the call of the sirens. The devil’s coat is sewn of the tresses of the most courageous of his victims; these matted, oily hairs the bomboniere of a frenzied thousand-year festival of scorn and anthropophagy.  At the sight of the rope worn round his unkempt neck, the devil begins his ritualistic pirouette.  Does he dance to war and wish lives of woe upon his subjects?  Does he summon Indra to flood the Earth with the blood of those that have crossed him?  In his frenzy he turns, round and round, a whirling dervish cavorting on the precipice of Hades.  The devil leaves his mark on all that defy him: three bloody gashes inflicted with three million tiny razors upon the third knuckle of the left hand; a presage of heaven, purgatory, and his own twisted lair.

Once set upon the world, the devil discerns his children with a short burst of derisive whiffs before harvesting them once and for all with a stream of hot acid released from his loins.

I’ve seen the face of the devil and I have lived to tell about it.