cut my teeth and made a killing; any

[sleaze]

I’ll worship like a dog at the shrine of your lies tell you my sins so you can sharpen your knife They’re alike, in that way. Sleaze’s fears are a hundredfold, and all of strange things he cannot explain. Things that happened but didn’t. A world where he lived and moved and prayed and prayed and prayed and died. (One of Beqanna’s simple oddities, a quest that grabbed him by the throat and showed him madness. Toys and girls and other things. It should have been precious and light and whimsical, not full of awful things, drowning, smoke, a name carved on his belly.) He fears things that do no exist on this plane of existence, and the knowledge of that does nothing to quell them. (Because he went back, once – another quest. The same beasts to face. The same aching madness crawling over his skin like cockroaches.) He knows so – too – well how it is to fear the irrational, to have the knowledge nestled in every heartbeat. He doesn’t know her fears, of course. But he can recognize a kinship with her, especially in this obvious state. Especially when she speaks. My fears are insidious inside my head. He almost laughs, which would have been terrible and likely sent her running again. Not for finding any humor in her words – lord knows he doesn’t – but because it’s like his own thoughts, echoing. “My name is Sleaze,” he says, “and I confess, I have a few fears running around in my own head, too.” He tries for flippancy, and almost makes it, but his throat closes at the last word and it chokes out, betraying the truth of it. sleaze cancer x garbage