Gregory: A Short Story

Long, keen, metallic knives felt to have been perforating the entirety of my being, although predominantly piercing my heart and soul, for what felt to be an eternity’s duration of time; however, only a few, mere seconds had transpired. “Oh, Mr. Gregory,” the maniac began, resurrecting his voice with a condescending tone. “You despicable, ugly man,” he continued; and as he did so, Gregory maintained his chins high and proud position, and spat scarlet-red blood onto the stage before him, where he was, then, promptly clubbed by his escort, and again placed on his knees before their leader. My hands subsequently clutched the thighs of the still unconscious angel before me, upon this sight, with such vigor that my shoulders began to tremor; and,
Gregory’s shoulder. “This is what my intentions are for the ensuing half to full hour,” he paused, and, again, placed his left hand on his handlebar mustache in contemplation upon relinquishing his grip of the devil’s shoulder. “I want you all to witness, and pay immense attention to, what’s soon to transpire. I want you all to completely, and wholeheartedly, understand the ramifications that follow the actions taken by this man; actions, my friends, of which I’m sure you are all quite familiar with,” he paused, and swiftly scanned the room with his eyes, from left to right, as if to stare intently into the souls of each and every man who comprised his
However, as I forcibly separated myself from such thought, and noted the anger sourced within them, I realized that they were utterly useless to me. Rather, they were cancerous, acidic, and detrimental to my cause, morale, and well-being. I remained temporarily stupefied by my conscious anger; the separation from such, and the devilish grin stitched upon his bloody face until there was, once again,