They love our darkness, we make them heartless, and in return, they have become our martyrs.
We are the safe haven for the rebel runaway.
The number one defender.
From a throne of their bones we rule.
These fools are our fuel so we make them cool.
We are but men, and as men our greatest accomplishment is but the butchering of other men.
There is no hunting like the hunting of a man, and those who have hunted armed men long enough and liked it, never care for anything else thereafter.
One does not hunt in order to kill; on the contrary, one kills in order to have hunted. If one were to present the hunter with the death of the man as a gift he would refuse it. What he is after is having to win it, to conquer the surly brute through his own effort and skill with all the extras that this carries with it: the immersion void, the healthfulness of the exercise, the distraction from his job.
When we have finished our job you tell the angels in heaven you never seen evil so singularly personified as you did in the face of the man who killed you.
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