I've won Satan's lottery.

She was an alien, really - a sort of eating, pooping, tantrum machine - and he didn't understand anything about her species.

We know there's going to be nothing but pain, but we go back again and again.

The gourney, the big file drawers of the dead, the instruments of dissection - this sure looked like the morgues in the movies. Something had gone seriously wrong while she slept.

Foul and magical fumes bubbled out of the kettle, like the flatulence of a dragon on a demon-only diet.

Action based on hope just felt better than the paralysis of certainty.

They want to be tied up, I tie them up. They want to be spanked, I spank them. They want to be called names, I call them names. But try and drink a little of their blood, and they scream like babies. What about my needs?