As he drained the can, cider coated has inner segment and lugubriosity flowed through his stubs into the cyberworld at large. He tried to hold the words back, but by now he knew that was a lost cause.
The words wanted to flow. His opinions concerning which words should flow didn’t matter one whit anymore. They never did. The words would flow. All he could do was get out of the way before they entirely overwhelmed him.
The words, he thought, the bloody words.
Moloch. Gollum. Taters.
The words shot through him like hunger.
They had their own flow, their own power. They were just symbols, true, but they were powerful ones, steadfast on their ever-strange transmission.
The Moloch grunted as he snuffled his snout through the shavings on the floor. The shavings made his snout twitch and his ears twiggle, with a scratch he just HAD to itch.
He knew that no myth was wholesale fable and that no writing was just words alone, but he didn’t know what else these words were. He never did. They were in fact not his words. If he could stop them, he would. But.
“A sacrifice is demanded!” the Moloch shrieked. “A very costly sacrifice.”
He had long since stopped speculating about the source of the words. He tried not even to read them, but they were inescapable. They ravaged through his soul like fire.
“Give us your failing nation!” the Moloch roared. “Give us your humanity.”
He looked out the window and saw a swath of protesters. And then he heard the guns start to fire.
The Moloch smiled a smile and showed teeth that rendered the Earth open.