Life had been a series of cheap, rundown hotel and motel rooms. Befitting a predator; pedophile, sex trafficker, pornographer, abuser, who never saw his own ending coming, face down, midway between the toilet and bed.
Etiolated claws reach for him, ripped labrum stretching in a rictus of evil. The thing has his aspects, twisted into the visage that truly lies beneath his own dying skin.
“Come,” the cadaveric creature whispers hoarsely.
His blackened soul yells, screams, begs, but Death ignores his pleadings as it scoops him up, carrying him towards the hideous tear in the black-and-blue bruise of sky. As it rises, obliteration enlightens him, bringing its hideous aperture close to his decaying ormer.
There’s a putrid stench caressing his front-piece, stinking of gin, bologna and cheese and cigarillos. The breath of his own death.
The Old Blog in the Desert 
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