by Brant Danay
After he had smoked the entire Tantradox, piece by bloody piece, the Necrodelic's eyes fluttered shut and he fell into a deeply meditative and psychedelic trance. He remembered the battles that had taken place on the now-destroyed garden planet of Elasvai, and contemplated the myriad battles yet to come. He philosophized about the singularity of his dark soul, the oneness of evil he had attained over billions of incarnations, which could neither be reduced nor sundered into smaller portions. He reflected upon the drug of vengeance, the black euphoria he had felt upon slaying the Tantradox, the bloody orgasm of revenge and the tantalizing games of combat leading up to it, a dark nirvana which rivaled the intoxication of betrayal he had felt upon the aceldamas of Grystiawa after incinerating Spidratha. They were each two aspects of a greater drug, the all-encompassing oversoul of necrodelia, which was his path to the salvation of the Jh'a'vyraa. Chariah now walked that long path of samsara victoriously, his crimson eyes blazing with triumph, his black brain saturated with evil, and his dark soul surging with confidence, for he was the most powerful demon the cosmos had ever spawned, the scourge of the galaxies, the genocider of a decillion races, the slayer of both space and time, the alpha male of the universe, and in his mind he had already become the Messiah of Death.
The End
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