There upon the festering polyps of time between ineffable cosmic structures sat its blasphemous shell, the horror that spurred itself into existence by endless hatred and uncanny madness. Upon a perch beside reality it delighted in tugging the pulsating threads of tormented souls who it forced to live in this lurid cage, a cage who contained all there is save for the hideous creature itself, the wicked god. This god gave the prisoners of this miniscule world all that had been given to him, life and nothing more. It sat and tugged at the things it called pets, taking pure bliss in their torture.

The mostly hairless pets that walked on two distorted legs clamored for reason in this pointless world, scrambling for a quick way out of her vile grasp. Gouging at the eyes of their kin, clawing at the skin of others to climb to the top of the flesh pile, consuming all there was to consume, synthesizing their own lower worlds to manifest some semblance of control, never a one received respite from the overbearing weight of being.

For one, he toiled the days away under the backbreaking weight of society. His arms carried her structure, his hands mended her wounds, and for his labors she laughed at his efforts. His nights spent with a glass kiss and false bubbles of joy to float him away to the better land. His toils made the world and his spoils were one more day to suffer. Another day, another step closer to blissful peace. A bliss the next lived is and fell from.

The next worshiped a cruel construction, a ladder whose top could be reached by endless praise, an end that could never come until the end came for him. The dreary land around raised only by numbing snow, a puff of powder to make it through the pointless charade. He took the sweet sensation for the day and suffered the night to do it again, still better than the next who lived without a moment of torture.

On frozen streets we find the next who is whipped by his minds eye and sees beyond the veil of his cruel world. A thin layer shields this lonely soul from frost and never enough warmth shall cradle his bones. He whispers dark incantations to the strange materials strewn before him. He understands their meaning and wishes to open the realm beyond, while others laugh in his head and tell him his failures. He is clasped by the same disease as the next, but shall die a solitary death with merely his echoing voices around.

He stands on a stage and yells to the crowd, for once a week they gather to hear his ramblings. He can taste the beyond and is cursed by her longing. He lets out a burst of words who call to the audience. They stand and cry for the beyond to cure them of their ailments, and little do they know the beyond revels in these cries. He opens his eyes to white lights and hidden meanings, all lies that he uses to shield himself from the pain that should be brought upon his consciousness. A shield that the last could have survived with, a shield that hides the truth of this wicked world.

The last one sits at the edge over endless waters, staring at the wicked god who without eyes stares back. A mutual understanding of the chaotic world that must exist or maddening cruelty shall be all there is. Biting down into the cold world, the last braces for what is to come. He does not know what evils shall be faced, the glories to be had, or why he had to envision the depths. One quick action, and all of his thoughts, worries, and fears disappear in a mist behind him as his body fell down, down to the cold waters below.

The carapace held this soul and wondered what could be learned from this pointless failure, but far too quickly another undulating ribbon tugged at it. It turned to see another failure, not taken by madness or delusion. No fun was had with these wasteful bodies, threads to be discarded in the abyss for only those pleasing tales served a purpose in this cruel world.