Category: Insane Ramblings

Tonight’s kill count: 2.

RAGE! RAAAAAAAAAAAGE FROM THE HEAVENS! Fire and death and blood! Poison and ruin and hate! You cannot escape it. You cannot hide. I continue my hunt, and my soul burns with seething contempt. Would that my gaze could set you alight. Would that my anger burn your insides like acid. Would that I could manifest my will, and turn this world to endless fire that consumes you in the flames of my wrath. I would make this planet a cinder simply to eradicate every last one of your number. I would leave a kingdom of bitter ashes in my wake. Come, feast at the banquet of misery. Drink deeply from the cup of lamentations, and eat your fill of regret.

Tonight’s kill count: 30+

Imagine my surprise, scorpion, when I saw you daintily poised upon my wall, glowing a radioactive green under blacklight. Something was strange about you. Your back shimmered and undulated in an alien fashion. Children. Dozens upon dozens of your hideous children. A vile raiment of future horrors to poison my home.

You brought your children to this place. To the killing fields. Some three feet beneath you lay the shattered corpses of at least two of your brethren, yet you saw fit to bring your foul get here. You doomed them and yourself. Did it shock you when the poison came? A stinking, burning cloud that set the vile fruit of your loins dropping like rotten fruit from the vine. Your progeny fell like wheat before the scythe. You tried to run, perhaps at last realizing your folly, never knowing you were already dead.

Tonight’s kill count: 1.

You scurrilous fiend. Did you think your attempts to conceal yourself in leaves would be your salvation? Did you hope hiding beneath a bush would give you refuge from my reach? Mine is the arm of wrath. There is no place it cannot reach. Mine is the gaze of vengeance, and it burns wherever it touches. You die, and in so doing fuel my desire for further carnage. Mine is a furnace of rage, and the fuel is the death of your wretched kind.

Last night’s kill count: 1

Where have you all gone, scorpions? I used to be able to count on you making yourselves known nightly. Now your incursions are decidedly more sporadic. Are my fortifications that formidable, or has cowardice won the day? Do you break so easily? Come once more, my foe. Step into the grinder. Feed the fires of my malice.

Tonight’s kill count: 1

I came upon you and you simply stared at me. You made no attempt to move. To hide your putrid presence. I stared back at you, wondering if you were a fool or a madman. Did you come seeking death? You had survived my wall of poison. Crawled through the blighted hellscape of diatomaceous earth. All to find yourself here, at my mercy. You were a survivor. We were kin. I scooped you up in a jar and placed you on the wall, to tell your tale and the trials you had passed to the other scorpions.

Only kidding. I lifted my foot and sent you to hell, where you belong. Mercy is for the weak. Your brazen presumption disgusts me.

Tonight’s kill count: 1

The black harvest has commenced. Another madness season is upon us. I have abandoned honor in the pursuit of revenge. You are craven fools that cower and strike from the shadows. We are all of us locked in a lunatic struggle. I will never surrender, and you lack the mental capacity to know you are beaten. This is not war. It is slaughter. My home is a charnel ground for you. You climb over the corpses of your own kind to come here, and yet still you persist. It is folly. You are not even admirable in your persistence. Your ignorance disgusts me.

Tonight’s kill count: 1

Oh, scorpions. It has been so long since we last danced our dance of death. Did you think I had forgotten? Did you hope I had grown weak? I have been awaiting your return. I have not lapsed in my vigil. It was you who chose to hide. Who dug into the earth and told yourselves it was only a temporary grave. I have kept my hatred alight while you have hoped cold cunning might prevail. What good is the cold against an inferno? What hope has a chill against the brazen heat of my pure hate? If you had the capacity for regret I would tear you apart in front of your brothers. I would boil your families alive in the flames of my malice. Instead I leave you broken and dying among the dirt you had hoped would conceal you. I hope your corpse fares better. I wait. I hunger for your deaths. Send your kin into the rapacious maw of my seething contempt.

Tonight’s kill count: 1.

Scorpion. You tried to run. Surely you know this was folly. You were dead the moment I saw you. You persist in this lunacy. So many have died needlessly. You could come bearing an armistice in your pincers or impaled on the barb of your tail and it would matter not. These are not your lands. They shall never be your lands. I am the stone around which your tide breaks. I am immovable. Continue to smash yourself against my resolve if you will, but expect not other outcome than death by whatever numbers you are foolish enough to bring. Before you set a single chitinous leg on my property, dig yourself a grave. You will soon be occupying it.

Tonight’s kill count: 2. I thought the rains might drive more of you from your holes. These were the smallest of your ilk to date. Is this all? Children? You would send children against a butcher? Did you expect sympathy? That I might stay my hand? I am insulted. I thought my intentions were clear. My hatred writ large. I will drink the blood of your women. Your children. Your grandchildren. Their grandchildren. My thirst for vengeance cannot be slaked. I will never be sated, and consequently you shall never know peace. I will bring you ruin. You shall have a kingdom of hot ashes. Would you like a crown, your majesty? I have fashioned one from your DEAD.