Joy given by the pain bestowed upon those I crush under my thumb, tortured screams and moans are my music and illness of mind my muse
Unconventional instruments in my hands bring forth that which gives me no greater pleasure in my twisted life, I alone can make the world right through punishment of the weak minded and weak willed, those who know not the face of their pain but cry in his hands, in my hands, their blood gives me strength when I think myself wrong and sweeps doubt from all corners of my mind as I give justice for their crimes, some not yet committed. The laws of mortal man lay in the depths of my mind, insignificant in the wake of my work. I stand as a god among these peons, I am their law, their lord and their devil and yet they know neither my name nor my face as those who fall into my almighty hands never again have a voice with which to name me. I am that which takes away what they live their lowly lives for and erases all traces of what they ever stood for. Some may call me monster for that which I do but the crimes I punish come from the hands of men more monster than I. How they live with themselves before I take their puny lives I will never understand, mortals, they fall like flies in my wake but they imagine themselves to be more than insects compared to I. Only death comes of me. Mercy is nothing I know despite having it begged of me by every man I end; only wrath is brought by my instruments, why should I allot mercy onto those who have shown none in their crimes? You mean nothing to your god, whose name you have never spoken and whose face you have never seen. And does that not frighten you?