The demon stands over the narrator in an empty tomb and places a hand on his head.
Let me tell you a story.
It was a stormy night in Libya at the Zaire river. I watched as the rain poured on the unforgiving land tossing and turning in the destruction and chaos.
I waded in the marsh as I listened to the sound of the tearing wind and the rushing water as it moved past me. The trees and grass ripped in the breeze.
I stared longingly at a rock formation which had the word DESOLATION engraved in it. I noticed that upon that rock stood a man dressed head to toe in a Roman toga. He was tall and statuette in figure. I hid from him in the lilies and watched him with intent.
He sat down upon the rock with his head in his hand and watched the terror around him. He didn't flinch at the sight of chaos, but merely trembled where he sat.