Malingering, maligning, and miscreantational Walt Whezl loomed his cape pulled around his forearm and masking his grim and ghoulishly painted face. The hint of inverted crosses swirling towards a black hole around his eyes and nose gives a sense of impending vertigo.
Yes. Yes. Come closer children. Come away frrrroom the liiiiiight!
His voice rising to Dio-nesian climax hitting new octaves undreamed of in the realms of undeath and lamps of inverse light. His continued looming of fetid breath as his free hand offers an invitation in the form of a slow forward undulation of fingers shaped into a roiling tentacle.
Clooooser. Ever closer. Do you feel it, do feel the relentless and inescapable spiral of ceremonial gravitation? Do you feel the pull of a void without light, light without form, form without meaning as spaghettification of all you were is merged into utter darkness, meaningless and abhoooorent!?
Dash Dackson and Harry Chest, would-be heroes against the light devouring darkness, would be crusaders, swords raised high in glorious battle against foe natural and not. Upon shining white steeds, handkerchiefs doffed in the breeze of hero stride.
Walt drops his cape revealing the rest of his hideous facepaint, and rubs his hands together leeringly, As the visage of voltage illuminates with Schwarzschild radiation, the tug of reality-bending towards the gravitational infestation of Lord Colossus. Leather flexes of the darkest blackest midnight black, a perverse constellation of spikes and nails from gorget, shoulders, and wrists.
BEHOLD THE FIRES OF PALENGESIS! REBIRTH IN THE PRIMORDIAL SPASMS OF THE NEW VOID!. DRIPPING AFTERBIRTH OF UNIVERSAL UNDEATH. THREE SERPENTS OF NUCLEAR CRUCIFIXITION DRIVE THROUGH WRISTS, THE LAWS OF THE SEVENTH DEATH OF THE RIVER STYX FLOW EVER TO SAGITTARIUS A-STAR.
THE GREAT GUTTURAL CRIES OF THE UNIVERSE RISE IN DISHARMONY AND AGONY OF DISSONANT RECOGNIGATIVEFIGURATION.
AND YOU DASH DACKSON!
AND YOU HARRY CHEST!
WILL BEAR WITNESS TO THIS GREATEST AND LEAST HOLY OF REBIRTHS. THE CRIES OF SALVATION MUFFLED BY THE GREAT SPINNING WHEEL OF λόγος, META NONCOMMUTATIVE CONVERGENCE OF ENTROPY AWAITS YOU.
THERE IS NO PLACE TO HIDE,
YOUR FORM COLLAPSES AT THE POINT OF GRAVITATION AND CONSTANTS. AND YOU WEEP.
YOU WEEP AS THE VERY CORE OF DASH DACKSON AND HARRY CHEST MERGE IN UNHALLOWED ASCENDANCE TO THE STARS…
Lord Colossus’ eyes go wide, his voice drops to the cloud wall of a hurricane passing to the eye of the storm.
There is NO warmth. The light burns blackbody radiation into your bones, and your marrow rots.
There is where you will find me. I stand eternal at the singularity, I am the event horizon. I am endless and vast.
Look upon the grand inversion of time to gravity. Look upon the penumbra of light itself being sheared to non-existence.
Lord Colossus extends an open hand closing it, leather creaking under the strain. Walt Whezl in prostration as Lord Colossus strides forward a single step. The resounding and resonant thud of boot upon bare concrete. The eerily black banner pulling along with him. Lord Colossus’ voice begging to come out at the apex of red-shifted sine waves, overwhelming.
Walt Whezl scrambles to his feet, waving hands in front of Lord Colossus.
NO! My lord, they deserve not the full sermon of the astral leviathan. Unworthy I deem them! UNWORTHY OF THE TRUEST WORDS!
Unworthy of the maw that spins endlessly in the void, consuming and consummating the whole of existence until time itself is consumed, and all that lies reeking and bloating across the universe is the greatest of great NOTHINGS!
Lord Colossus’ hand clenches tighter into a fist, Whezl drops again in prostration. To avoid the blow, Colossus’ eyes go wide again. He looks down at the man prostrate before him, and a sound colder than a celestial void erupts from Lord Colossus’ a layer of haze and VHS grain begins to obscure the screen, as Lord Colossus’ laughter ruptures reality as the spinning excretion disk moves from the metaphysical into the local frame of reference, the aeon crossing gamma-ray burst of sound providing no comfort to Whezl. His voice was a thunderhead’s rumble.
So mote it be. Let them drown in lakes of light. Let them know why they fear the darkness. Let the void come into Dash Dackson and Harry Chest, and let them be ground upon the great wheel of eternity, pierced and racked. The ejecta of the plume of eternity.