I studied my work on the sleeping man, out like a fucking log on the stone floor. The Compassion of the Martyr was simple luck, found in the pits of the most sideways spirituality in existence. There was no logic behind it. The Deistic Realm of Perdition was one that could not be escaped. The souls that entered were incinerated – never to exist again.
The only thing achieved by forcing a pious man to die with a heathen was killing off a pious man. His death served no purpose – he could neither be a guide out of the cursed realm, nor enter the blessed one himself.
It was an act of self-righteous hubris – a gratification so immediate that even the worst of the hedonists would tut in disapproval and shame.
