Blakjac

A ghastly old procurer of rare digital mimeographic duplicators, and shape-shifting magician of necromancy; admittedly obsessed with astral plane manipulation, and late-night walks through Hell in search of a perfect cheeseburger. Whelped and suckled by the bitch of Mephisto, I expect nothing less than deathly adoration by those corrupted, pathetic, nihilistic fools aghast in mortal prose. Those chastised by the grave and affectionately known as the zombie children of Mistress Lilith whose chaotic elegance inspires a forsaken devotion afoul with the cold, dark, lonesome tranquility of a solitary soul prison. Where, in silent ceremony, one is locked, bound, gagged and tortured by the final fleeting despair of a thousand instant deaths occurring simultaneously while hanging upside down chained to a ghost trolley full of sacrificial ghouls floating above a sunny, hillside park overrun by cackling children of the damned both stillborn and soul-shackled in writhing enslavement to a seething Lich Lord exercising the embodiment of hellish hatred and profane perfection.