Rooted deep on Mars,
Mountainous behemoth hold,
Stay my beacon home.
About the Creator
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Bacon
Satan, laughing, spreads his wings. He launches into an atmosphere riddled with smoke, soot, and ash. He feels the radiation from a thousand fallen nukes. For humanity, it’s certain death. For him, it’s like bathing in a sauna. He laughs again at the thought.
By C. Rommial Butlera day ago in Fiction
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