The heavens are in flames. The sky is infused with a blood-red luminance. Charcoal-black strato-nimbus clouds float heavily across the ether. An ancient warhorse balances precariously on the point of an upright, mile-long rusted needle watching the earth and it's guilty inhabitants below. At the same time, it is poised and waiting eagerly to infect the infidels with its sick armory of death. The dusk's cruel, biting wind injects its nitrate breath into the mammoth contraption and an ominous groan escapes its deep bowels. Hanging from its bellicose belly, it carries a wicked wicker basket laced with the thorns from the highly poisonous xytheron plant. It utilizes this apparatus to effortlessly deliver to its calculating master the worked-on brains of its most-deserving victims. Having the ability to induce an inhumane form of mental vivisection, the monstrous machine extracts fresh confessions from its captured prey. It spreads these wretched winnowing voices over its its cold, steel hide like rancid butter over three-day-old burnt toast: the pumpernickel variety. It pumps visceral slavery like a nine-nickel bullet point ejected from a spent chamber of an Italian-issued Beretta blue-band pistol.
This beast of death has jaws. The heavy lacerating jaws of the Great White shark. Only difference is that its jagged teeth are made of heat-treated titanium. A cobalt-irridium core lines its thick black enamel. Gums as ugly and vile as masticated tar form a tortuous seal around its gaping mouth.
The warhorse is a mind-melting machine of a magnitude much greater than the angriest of earthquakes. Currently it is processing nightmares for the forlorn. Faster than the blink of an eye, its circuitry fires up the enslaved cerebral tissue to a deep-fried supersonic roast. Only the spent crust of human brain anatomy remains: a withered hippocampus, a wilted caudate nucleus and a schism where a festered corpus callosum once was.
Nothing escapes its icy, telescopic foresight. It penetrates the immediate future like a constipated syringe to the left ventricle of the heart of a blind cyclops. However, it has enemies. As protons are pushed over the event horizon as exhaust, little children rise up like pop-tarts to battle its bulge. A big booming bulge built hell-high on its bloated back. Brick for brick, it is one bad mother! Accordingly, babies babbling incessantly bake for weeks in its built-in bread-basket. But first it lulls them into a deep sleep. Deeper than the darkest bathypelagic vortex of primordial ooze, it ferments the babies into a cerebral mud of sorts. This is the glue for integrating spent brain tissue into terror tantrum injections: a going-away gift to The Incriminated after collective-conscience processing.
Nothing but the maniacal mayhem of the children can ever hope to infiltrate the workings of the warhorse. Babies and the blasted souls of sinners are one thing but children are another. They are the bane of the beast. May the children never conquer the demonic inquisitor for all time. It's what I, the comptroller, pray for as I don my iron wool-knit socks every morning over my cankerous claws-for-feet. Come, my wonderful warhorse. Let us harvest!
This beast of death has jaws. The heavy lacerating jaws of the Great White shark. Only difference is that its jagged teeth are made of heat-treated titanium. A cobalt-irridium core lines its thick black enamel. Gums as ugly and vile as masticated tar form a tortuous seal around its gaping mouth.
The warhorse is a mind-melting machine of a magnitude much greater than the angriest of earthquakes. Currently it is processing nightmares for the forlorn. Faster than the blink of an eye, its circuitry fires up the enslaved cerebral tissue to a deep-fried supersonic roast. Only the spent crust of human brain anatomy remains: a withered hippocampus, a wilted caudate nucleus and a schism where a festered corpus callosum once was.
Nothing escapes its icy, telescopic foresight. It penetrates the immediate future like a constipated syringe to the left ventricle of the heart of a blind cyclops. However, it has enemies. As protons are pushed over the event horizon as exhaust, little children rise up like pop-tarts to battle its bulge. A big booming bulge built hell-high on its bloated back. Brick for brick, it is one bad mother! Accordingly, babies babbling incessantly bake for weeks in its built-in bread-basket. But first it lulls them into a deep sleep. Deeper than the darkest bathypelagic vortex of primordial ooze, it ferments the babies into a cerebral mud of sorts. This is the glue for integrating spent brain tissue into terror tantrum injections: a going-away gift to The Incriminated after collective-conscience processing.
Nothing but the maniacal mayhem of the children can ever hope to infiltrate the workings of the warhorse. Babies and the blasted souls of sinners are one thing but children are another. They are the bane of the beast. May the children never conquer the demonic inquisitor for all time. It's what I, the comptroller, pray for as I don my iron wool-knit socks every morning over my cankerous claws-for-feet. Come, my wonderful warhorse. Let us harvest!
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