“I am not Mandriscoe and the debate is still on rather I am the erect son, one day it may be your choice to see if I was the erect son you thought I was so until then…. “
I plan on being the most hated person to go to hell and in order to do it I will send as many of them there as I can. My plan unfolds seldomly as I would hope and too many loud exploits can lead to a quick death. My mind flirts with martyrdom and I wonder where I’ll go in the end.
My neck stiffens from the weight of some unknown force. My irritation blanks my stares and the symbols on my palms leave my memory. In the distance I can hear the curses and my mind tries to ignore it but my body leads me in the direction of the sound. I have to come to my senses before I lose control. When I finally get near the possible “half breed” my anger has left and turned into annoyance with a slight bit of pain.
My on and off again powers do not tell me the exact moves to make at the right time. This is a scenario I hate but am use to. By just barely adjusting my face whoever this is missed my stares and I hope they forget the encounter. As a excellent athlete a light jog for me can be miles and that is what I decide to do.
As I wind down my pace near my home, I go over the facts of what I plan to do. My goal is to be hated in Hell “check” I know this is done by the constant curses, now it is only to either get there with out damning myself or to at least do it stylish enough that people think it is a good idea that’d I go. Demons and The Lord alike….
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