The sounds of their breathing made him hold his own breath. He could hear them moving, just a few feet in front of him. He tried hard to stay still, his muscles tense and hard. Eyes crossed his path, and his heart stopped. The great horned demon stared at him, and his lower lip quivered ever so slightly. He silently prayed to any god that would listen to deliver him from evil...

A scream echoed in the distance. It was bloodcurdling, and made all the more frightening for the strange way it moved to and fro, as if whoever was screaming was being waved back and forth, flying in the air. And perhaps they were. There was a crunch, and then the screams slowly ceased, their echoes shattering the air for moments after what could only have been the death of the screamer.

The demon looked away. Prayers were answered. Slowly, he sneaked out of his dark hiding spot, looking around at this fiery earth. If he could only reach the shotgun he had seen abandoned by the side of a rotting carcass, then perhaps he could at least stand somewhat of a chance, at least long enough to find some sort of bunker or vestige of safety.

He looked back and forth. He was too certain in his safety, and as he ran for the carcass, he did not see the horned, dog-faced demon, who had walked but a few steps away to seek out the screams. And as he ran, swiftly and lightly, toward the carcass, the dog demon lunged at him, digging its teeth deep into his sides, piercing his rib cage as it shook him like a chew toy. He screamed violently as he was swung back and forth; his blood splattered on the ground in an arcane symbol, and he was slammed in the middle.

The demon stood up, looking down. It grimaced as drool dripped down its mouth. Mouthing words he did not understand, it walked toward him, growled with all its intimidating lung-capacity, and then plunged its horns deep into his belly. It lifted him up, and he could see the back of the demon before he began to lose consciousness. He was slammed down at the middle of the symbol, and he could feel something entering his flesh as his life began to turn away. He felt burning as nerves were exposed, as blood and stomach acid mixed together. He tasted blood on the tip of his tongue, and then something strange happened. He began to hear voices like that of the demon, but they were inside his head.

It was then that he realized his flesh was no longer his, but was being consumed, utilized by a force that he could only describe as evil itself.

He woke up from the dream, sweating and uncomfortable. Sighing, he turned around in bed and felt for warmth that had not been present for ages. Still, every morning he placed a hand there, expecting something, anything. He wasn't even sure what the ritual really represented. He had never really been in love, and had spent most of his life single. But still, suddenly there was a desire to express his passion in the fullest, to give it a voice that had never previously spoke.

He shook his head, called himself a 'pathetic sap', and then proceeded to start his day.

Adam had been a misanthrope for years. He considered the masses to be the main source of his agony. And each day, even though he silently wished for a lover, he simultaneously wished to walk out of his apartment and see... nothing. Nobody. No one. Not a soul in sight, and then he would wander around, be the centre of his own universe, read what he wanted, do what he wanted, drink, eat, and...

Well, what came next on his priority list would actually be rather uneventful without someone to share in the festivities.

Needless to say, when he walked out and saw the fruition of his ideals, it came with a rather high level of indifference. He marched out, still in his bathrobe with nothing underneath, and looked at the red sky. He looked around and basked (as much as he could be said to 'bask') in the silence. He looked down at the spot that usually held his morning newspaper, and saw an absence. And so he slowly marched down the street, coffee in hand, sipping smoothly.

And then he caught his first glimpse. It was a neighbor that he had grown quite fond of in the years, one that kept to herself and only came to him when his advice or assistance was absolutely required. Or, at times when he cursed his biological weakness, when a bed needed to be warmed-- an event which he wanted the least as necessary and which his discipline kept down to a handful of times in the year. He had come the closest to loving her as he possibly ever could, and he was actually surprised at himself when he shed a shocked tear at her disfigured corpse.

He was not certain that no one was around, but he was certain that she was a disciplined, powerful woman. That was probably the reason that he showed his... annual vulnerabilities to her. And, he was loathe to admit, was probably the reason why he was secretly devoted to her every whim. It was this affection which made him take off his housecoat and throw it over her body; this affection caused him to utter the only prayer he had spoke in years, and it was this affection that made him pause for a moment.

But only a moment.

He walked calmly back to his home. He recognized the signs. His will had become the whole of his law; his will had become the law.

He had gazed into the water. He had seen flames and tears. He had cast the bones and they had arranged themselves in an unambigious signal of the end of all times. And so he had devoted himself to the advice of the dead, of the forgotten gods. The wicked things that he had to do to succeed in his specific discipline had turned him taciturn and introverted, but the benefits of preparation...

He had marched down the hallways of Inanna, and laid witness to her wicked temptations, and remained steadfast. She clung to his flesh and even now he could feel her fingertips moving across his flesh, evoking a lonesome pang and, at the same time, a grimace of disgust. And as he gazed into her black eyes, he knew that even she was frightened by the things to come.

In the beginning, the gods were free. They roamed the earth and feasted on the same flesh that they consummated. Their hedonism was more pure and vile than any fetishism of mankind's creation. And when humans were created, they were jealous-- for ours was flesh that they could neither fornicate nor masticate. Our blood was their feast, and while we were left unprotected, they fed... but one of the gods came to enjoy our company. The first storyteller walked up to the gods and told a tale of their own creation. The god (he had no name that could be pronounced by human tongue) was satiated by this tale, even though he knew it to be a complete fabrication. Nevertheless, he was flattered, and decided to protect humans. The thousand offspring of this goat-god vowed to protect us, and have... but were always hated by the original gods, who still sought to bathe in our blood.

These gods knew how to taste our flesh without physical presence. They whispered into our ear, took over our wills, and set us against each other. And as we tasted our own blood, so began a fetish of human perversity, the taste of human blood on a human tongue. Humans answered the call, ate their fellow man. And so brought about the will of the original gods; and the desires of the flesh grew to such a proportion that there could be only one inevitable outcome.

Adam had watched it develop. He had done nothing to stop it, and thus blamed himself for her death. But, he silently cursed, it was worth it to see the flesh of others sprayed across the land. And he knew there was only one thing left to do.

He marched, naked, as demons flew by him. Though some flew close to him, wanting his flesh, wanting to wear his face on their own, none were brave enough to touch him that bore the sent of Inanna. And so he walked, with at least the protection of one of the thousand gods that still desired to hear the tale of their own creation.

One demon was wicked enough to cross his path. It was a little goat-child, a sartyr with a single tooth that protruded from its jaw, through its fleshy lip that connected in the perfect 'v' of a hairlip. It licked this tooth and hairlip as it rushed toward him, laughing. And, before he could react to the audacity of the goatchild, it bit him. He kicked it sharply, and it began to laugh and cry, its tongue licking its disfigured face in gentle laps that were almost endearing.

"You taste good, can I have another?"

Adam looked down at the child with a frown. "You test my patience," he said simply, beginning to move onward. And yet the demon refused to ignore him, and lunged at him again.

Adam strafed to dodge the dive, and, turning around with a quick jolt, grabbed the child by the throat, lifting it up a great deal above the ground. It began to vomit on him, and he turned his head in disgust as he squeezed the demon's throat. It began to curse in forgotten names, and Adam was disturbed to recognize some of the names.

And then he heard the scream of the father of the wretched goatchild. It screamed a deep growl that was mechanical and earth-shaking.

"The great worm shall eat your eyes," said the goatchild, laughing and lapping up its own vomit. Adam did not want to hear or see anything more from the goatchild, and so squeezed with all his might until the demon child's throat collapsed upon itself.

"Dammit," he said simply. He looked in the direction of the growl, and then in the direction he was going. He let out a single sigh, and began his journey.

He had to remind himself that he was not immortal. Obviously, the carcass of one of the great goatchildren of Belial stood as testament that no one on this earth was immortal per se, though he also knew that he had not seen the last of the hair-lip child. Still, the vomit and spit that had spilled on him from the child's ever-attractive purgation was beginning to burn. He bent down for a moment, wiping the substance off with dirt from the ground. When he looked up, he stared directly into the eyes of a snarling demon.

Knocking him backward, the demon snarled into the sky in triumph. It was happy. Even though it could not speak anything recognizable by Adam, it was understood that the demon was an enemy of the myth-makers. It looked down at him, its black beak glistening with its many teeth, saliva that was black and pungent dripping on the ground with an acidic sizzle.

Adam slipped backward. This was the culmination of his years of preparation, his years of making his soul cold. He prepared for death, but was willing to do everything in his power to survive.

The demon screeched at him as it began to walk toward him rapidly. Adam slipped back, wrapped his legs underneath the demon, and tripped him. The bird demon thrust its claws out for support, throwing one of them deep into Adam's shoulder. Adam clutched a rock and began smashing the demon's head in violently, cursing and spitting on its corpse when it finally stopped moving.

He could feel the pulse as blood slipped down his chest. He looked up, at the temple of dried mud that had erupted out of the ground, smashing through the suburban homes that were in its way. He took a deep breath and, a loud and familiar growl coming from behind him, continued onward.

Sharks had the same mentality of a demon: seek out blood. Now that he had been cut, that his skin had been penetrated, he was vulnerable. And in the new world that was being created, vulnerability in the least was something that would not only be exploited, but played with, tossed in the air like a toy...

He quickened his pace. His eyes were on the temple, and he could begin to hear the voices of the forgotten gods fighting to whisper into his ear, to enter into his head. He could hear their voices.

"Help us," one said, in a weak, human voice.

"Forget your world," said another, stronger voice.

As he marched forward, steps away from the temple where Inanna was first banished, a deep grumbling noise underneath his feet grew, and he began to lose his footing. The ground shook and, angrily, burst. Rock and dirt smashed up into the air, beating Adam's flesh and digging into his wound. And rising from the hole was the great worm-god, father of the goatchild, known to some as Belial.

Adam watched as the worm, growling and screaming, vomited up its own gore, only to swallow it back up again. For the first time in a long while, he felt a deep, painful pang in his soul that could only be fear and disappointment. He had come so far, waited so long, prepared so hard... only to finally be crushed by an angry father.

But he decided that he would not go gently.

"In the beginning," he screamed loudly, hoping to be heard over the loud growls, "there was nothing. And this nothing was lorded over by the great god Nihile." The worm looked at him, screamed a high-pitched scream. It lunged at Adam.

"And Nihile was great and terrible, but was finally conquered by Fabula, the great god of myth! And then was the word..."

Before Adam could finish, the father god swallowed him and the ground under his feet. There was moisture, and the tearing of a thousand teeth. There was acidic saliva and gore that was continually purged and reswallowed. In short, there was anything but the sweet oblivion of an easy death.

In the temple of Yog Sothoth, where Innana was kept prisoner until her hatred boiled over and ate at her cell, the father of the thousand young heard the story of his creation, and was appeased.

In the inner depths of the temple, the prisoner gods, who were still rioting and staging their escape, were crushed under the great hand of the myth-god, who marched out of his temple for the first time since he had walked in the garden of Eden, and cut through a worm. What fell out was naked and vulnerable, a newborn surrounded by cruelty and anger. And the myth-god, in anger, cut the worm into a thousand pieces, to be thrown to Inanna and her gods.

The myth-god, Fabula to some, looked down at the newborn babe, at Adam, and whispered into his ear.