Who was he?

With that big face, hiding arrogance. With a past locked in a black box, chained in shackles of insecurity and fear.

He had soft hands and a cruel heart. Mercilessly, yet patiently, he would take what he wanted. He would use subtle, slow, sly methods to pry out his gold. It had to be perfect, or he would chuck it hard. Or he would just keep it to burn in the furnace of his mincing words.

He liked watching things burn. In a different way. His furnace wasn’t that of a fire. It was that of a venom shooting through veins, like a slow burn that stung every being of your soul and turned it blue. He liked to watch things writhe in pain. He liked to hurt. It fuelled his ego. It made him stronger.

Who was he?

With that innocent smile, hiding things you would never imagine he knew. About you. With that quiet demeanour, silently deciphering your every move.

He came armed with apparent, charming honesty. He said he had nothing to hide.

But the windows of his soul had thick drapes. Did he have a soul?

Lifeless eyes. The only time they emoted was when he travelled through the mist of lust. There would be a momentary haze and the clouds would clear faster than Hermes descending upon the world.

Who was he?

With that mind cultivated of evil. He raised a snake in his heart. A scorpion slept in his mouth. His heart bottled poison. He plotted destruction. He planned torture.

He wanted to destroy color. He wanted to contort smiles into painful shrieks. He wanted them to wail, to impale. But he would not let them perish. He preferred insanity to death.

Who was he?

He was the Booba Valentino of Morrocco. He was the Rasputin of Russia. He was the Greek Peitho.