stl: kidney thieves, 'before i'm dead'
He did not believe in God.
He did not believe in the Devil.
As far as he was concerned, he served the duality well enough himself-- the vengeful God of the Old Testement, the conniving, vain Devil incarnate. He slew the masses who opposed him, promised immortality with his forked tongue to those who would serve him. After all, he had lived though the supposed birth of the Lord and Savior. History had written out his hand in the destruction of the innocent soul as he whispered 'Death' into Pontious Pilate's ear.
But angels, he could not find an argument against.
After all, the demon within stared back at him in the mirror. It was his wicked smile that curved the man's lips, his demented laughter that filled the room. Surely, if demons existed where God and the Devil did not, angels could not be so unbelievable; they were not hallucinations. Their wings, though feathers, were sharp as a razor's edge against his face in the shadows of the night. They haunted his every hour as such and he found himself perpetually aware of their presence, though unsure of their intent.
Angels were merciful, were they not?
Images of the Valkyrie flitted through his mind-- Odin and his diligent and loving handmaidens and the peace of Valhalla. They served the warriors, carried away the souls to a heaven no man could fathom. It was a vain fantasy for the Valkyrie would not haunt the living dead, torture the soul they sought. Still, when midnight came, his thoughts traveled to the beautiful women with the whitest of wings instead of the flaming orange and red that reached for him from every corner or the oil-rainbow of black that descended from the ceiling, calling his name.
These were the hostile angels that inhabited a world he did not believe in.
As he ran through the halls, they pursued him at a maddening rate. Would they not relent? Of course not, you silly creature! And why should they? Had he not wreaked enough havoc in his thousand year lifespan to deserve nothing less than their righteous punishment?
Through the catacombs he ran, his feet soundlessly scuffing the dusty stone.
Eternity had granted him patience, a cleverness he was positive they did not possess.
He would run through Hell to rid himself of their presence if he had to.
He would evade them.
He would win.
He was God and the Devil.