Scorpion, do you like the accommodations I have prepared for you? I must admit, you are the first of your kind I’ve seen since I prepared my home for you. Given how you spasmed and twitched before I ever gifted you with my ministrations, I assume they had the desired effect. Welcome. Welcome to your doom. Writ large across the cinder block fence. Sprayed and pumped until the very earth has turned against you. The soil itself rejects your presence here. There is nothing for you but painful death. So welcome. Welcome one and all. I will grind you under my heel and feast on your lamentations.
Scorpion:It matters not if you come by ones or twos or dozens. The result is same. Fields ripe with your rotting dead. A harvest of corpses. Can you count the cost of endless attempts to encroach on my home? Or would the exercise merely drive you to ponder the futility of your endeavor? Are you capable of reflection, or simply biological machines meant to sacrifice yourselves as grist for my unquenchable mill? Continue, by all means. Keep your advance until the way is choked by your incalculable dead. You shall find me at the ready.
If familiarity breeds contempt, what then does that make us, scorpion? Opposite sides of a single coin? Hate fueled former brethren? Or is familiarity merely one of many things that breeds contempt? It could be other factors are at play. Your insipid scuttling on your belly. Your wretched faces. Your cowardly attempts to hide. None of it matters. A thing must always act according to its nature. It is in my nature to destroy you. To crush you utterly. It is in your nature to fall beneath my heel. To fail completely. I shall meet others of your kind again soon and see that they fulfill their destiny.
Scorpion: I must credit you. You made it farther than your more languid kin. I found you on the exterior of my home instead of the surrounding walls. Did you hope to gain ingress through the window you so frantically capered about? Did you imagine yourself capable of confronting the beast within its lair? What dreams did you nurture inside your fevered little brain? No matter. Those dreams died with you. All your struggle. All your toil. Everything in vain. The sum of your life amounts to the nothing your wretched spirit has joined with. I have unmade all that you are or ever will become. Your shattered remains are all that is left of you. A sign post to warn your kin of the fate that awaits them. Perhaps your only legacy is to serve as warning to others. Leave this place. Turn back before it is too late. These are the killing fields, and death stalks the night, black and terrible.
Scorpions: Perhaps you play the long game, hoping you can simply outlast me. Again, your plans have been thwarted. My youngest has joined the hunt, as he shares my thirst for your blood. You cannot escape your fate. You cannot wait on your aggressors to cease the hunt. Surrender means death. Retreat is your only option. Leave this place. Leave in shame and disgrace. Leave and the pain will be over. However, never let your fear wane. Never let dread of this place slip from your mind. Never seek to return, for you shall find us waiting. Nurture your terror as a flame, and feed it to your children, that it may burn ever bright, lighting your path from here.
Scorpion: You only exist so long as you remain beneath my notice. Your life is predicated upon the dereliction of my chosen duty. What a pity for you that I am resolute. That my will is unshakable. Perhaps you should appeal to me for mercy. Or direct your cries to the heavens for redemption. Neither is soon in the coming. For you there is only suffering and death. Come join me in this dance. Together we shall weave the tapestry of your doom.
Scorpion: Was the prior evening’s slaughter insufficient? Did you look upon your many dead and simply think to yourself that the pile of corpses looked forlorn? What madness drove you to climb my walls once more? In the end it does not matter. Whether you come alone or in pairs or by the dozen the result is the same. This is a place barren of hope for you. It might well be the surface of an alien and inhospitable world for all your hope of survival here. A landscape of nightmares and death. I will crush you, not because I can, but because I must.
Scorpions. It was a bountiful harvest. There were so many of you. Was it the leap day that drove you from your holes, or did you dream me weak in my state of suffering? Fools. Pain has only sharpened my hatred. Agony is a whetstone for my contempt. I may have ran a marathon, but I can always spare another step to crush you under foot. Brutalizing you has given me resolve. I would gladly cross another 26 miles to bring you death and ruin. A delivery of vengeance. A parcel of slaughter. Postage due. The cost being your very lives.
If Mina Harker lived near me she might remark, “I suppose one ought to pity anything so hunted as the scorpions.” While I may not track them from London to Transylvania, my pursuit is no less dogged. Though I may not slay them with stake and sword, my weapons are no less lethal. Like Van Helsing, I cannot rest while such abominations roam the earth unimpeded. They must be dragged, screaming, into the hells that surely await them.
Scorpions. Welcome once more to the lands of lamentation. To the domain of death. To the fetid fields fecund with your filthy fallen. Our dance has begun again. When I discovered one of you had breached my home, had struck at the heart of the eagle’s nest, I knew that soon your numbers would stir once more. I resumed my vigil. For some time, it was fruitless, but tonight… tonight… you made yourselves known. With the hellacious heat, your come. You rise from your slumber and renew your assault. Did you think I would not be ready? Did you dream I would be caught unaware? This is your Ragorak. These are the fields of Gehenna. Armageddon. I shall leave your ruined corpses as a monument to you folly. Let us clash once more. I will make a feast of your tears.