The Satan Slayer – Fiction

The year? It’s One Twelve, a burn in Hells deep, turn in the red unrested readied sea swells, that burning smell? …That would be me; where am I heading? Pray tell, Hell! Survival, my only battery against rivals, time can slow, in my mind I am finding and fighting wars I have never fought, will or before. Scars of a once stretched life perch over my smoky skin, most by the demons, some done by the dumb me, the sane I was in, such horrors. I have become sharpened by my past, I’ll cut through Satan’s odorous suffocation, a harrowing harpoon, a face-full, floodgates of undone insults, on the cusp, once taken, everybody’s hearts stop pulsating, add him to the pile of my undertakings; now, back to the desert of fire tornados circulating.