There Are No Endings

Heart of a Lunatic

I’ve always had a certain fondness for the idea of Hell, for its poetic inversion of sins commited in life in Dante’s inferno and it’s clever masquerade as heaven in the Twilight Zone. For it’s cunning prince and it’s motley denizens. It’s war loving, hoof footed brute and it’s clever, slick as shit salesman. Not to mention all the other minor variations, the hell without a devil, with the strange order of pain worshipers that blossomed out of Barker’s mind, the eternal prison sentence in tales like Ghostrider or Drive Angry. I don’t really discriminate. Hell is, in most imaginings, a fascinating place.

My hell is a bit like our world because, well, I think our reality makes a good model. The biggest difference? You can’t stay dead when your body is just materialized soul, a powerhouse beyond measure in and of itself. It puts itself back together like your body…

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