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This devil of mine is no different from yours. The bastard is still sitting alongside the holy buffet of nomads, with a hail mary on his cufflinks, hallelujah in his breath and integrity on his collar. Acting all high and mighty, like the spectre of fascism. Bite me.
I danced with the devil knowingly, that just a chip on my shoulder is not enough to put an end to his bargain. He will have me in due time of eschaton. Carnage will groove on my grave, with necrophages and ogroids all over the city. The dark night of curse will rise, fuming the fugitives of saffron shadows. The phantom hounds of alchemy will drag every single coward out of their burrow. The snowflakes will never get more ironic than that eventide. On thay day, the dema will fall to the blurry-faced rebels. And only then, the moloch will get his beheading to eternal malediction.