I can’t. I’m locked in place. I can’t move at all. When I try to move my eyes away from the screen, from the image of a bald-headed man with pitch-black skin that’s mottled and charred, my head screams with pain that I can’t begin to describe. The world behind him shifts and changes again, turning into a thousand black spirals that expand into miniature vortexes that dot the vast expanse of a grey, dead space. It’s as if he’s looking directly at me, and, this time, the sentence that flashes upon the screen echoes into my thoughts; the dark prophet says to me, “It’s only a matter of time. Inside of man lurks a soul that can turn black or gold at the slightest touch. I am the pusher; I am the changer; I am the speaker of the next world to come, one etched in black dread.”
I smell s**t. A wo
