A preeminent being exists, forthwith dubbed Douglas. Douglas is a totalitarian, and his schemes likely spurned Machiavelli into a Faustian bargain ultimately producing that keen edged rubbish of despotic devilry: The Prince. Contrasted with such disreputable fellows as Mr. Hyde, or Dr. Frankenstein, or even Count Dracula, well, Douglas is found several levels beneath these monstrosities in Dante's infernal recollection, deeper even than Judas. Monster is too saintly a description for his ilk.
He's the son of Cain, and the anger of old is ever within him. He sits within, the fiery sanguine glow of the walls is dim, and grotesque shadows dance along the walls. The shadows are specters of something too awful for contemplation, an impossible savagery of chaos, and they match not the strange creatures apportioned along the walls in steel cages. And these creatures, too, might melt the courage from the bravest of man. Claws and protruding spines; rotting and jagged toothsome creatures with countless eyes and caustic saliva dripping from their mouths; obscene colors that assaulted the eyes: sulfur, blood-red, acid-green, void-black; and sitting over it all was Douglas, hands steepled beneath his chin, just watching as I exited the hallway into the mangled menagerie.
My heart quailed there, though my sins gave me strength I knew not.
Well, that declined quickly into a gruesome illustration. And such a beautiful evening produced this? I assure myself, no such darkness curtails my peace on this fine day. It was not sunny, not quite, though sun often graced our splendid sky. Beams of sunlight sent shafts of angular light between the clouds, dark, soaked cotton swabs of the sky. I read, I played, I rested, I planned, and little schemed was not left undone today. Accomplishment soon gets its just reward: sleep. I'm swaddled with glee, and still Douglas and the nightmarish chamber was wrought. Happy Wednesday. I should sleep before anything even more dastardly is produced.
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