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They came with the storm.
Pestilence, his crown perched upon his brow. War, with his steel blade held high. Famine, a scythe and scales at hand. And Death, blighted Death, his dark wings folded at his back, a torch of bilious smoke tight in his grip.
“They tried to shoot me in Toronto, gut me in Winnipeg, bleed me out in Buffalo, and strangle me in Montreal. They tried to do all that and more in so many other towns with names I doubt you’d recognize because you fickle humans never bother to look beyond yourselves.”
After I put Pestilence’s crown on my head (motherfucking queen right here),
“As far as gender goes,” he continues, “only the feeble human mind could imagine a superior being, then have the audacity to shape that being in their own image—and to give it a gender.”
“I felt God’s hand move me to spare you,” he says.
“I’ve stood in ancient bazaars, I’ve walked through city centers, I’ve lingered in castles and alleyways and everything in between. I’ve stayed in a thousand different houses, and I’ve kissed the brow of countless humans, and I’ve lain with each one.
“I came to earth and I touched and the world knew terror.”
“I am Pestilence, and my memory is longer than recorded history—it is even longer than man. I came before him, and dear Sara, I will outlive his end.”
whiney
