A dyslectic satanist accidentally sells his soul in exchange for sacrificing their remaining lifespan is added to the trial of a great deal more respect if other races of the world's best photographer, Gassy Larry.

Do the forces of wind and nature balk at the power of the soul? The spirit is like a great tree which takes a picture of itself, and stamps the image onto its hide. The tree which stands solid in iconography of itself, not to mention, stands to the wind.

I am the world's best photographer, Gassy Larry. It must be known, and it is true. I have taken trees like the great Anandra and the western photographer, Ramsey. I shoot the sky aboard an apparent UFO and the world is at my knees. There is one prize I've never won. The Great Satan Award for Photographic Excellence. I've just never sacrificed my soul to Great Satan himself, and therefore I'm not eligible.

I shoot the celery, I shoot the fridge. I call it Metro Western-Eastern Collide. I win an award. But one award I have always looked for in my cabinet, and never has my hosts placed there, other than the Great Satan Award for Photographic Excellence. I am told I need to start with an altar.

I take a closet out and put inside two icons for my worship, the goat's-head beings of wax and a drawing of a pentagram. This is where the ritual will occur. After 3 days' prayer, I awaken. I'm in a corner of the room, far from the altar which has a dim fire lit in it.

I am a lizard man, I think. A lizard man! Why would I be cursed to this fate, in my lifetime? To learn of it, even! Why must I know? Why, and a thousand why's, why me, why her, why not her, etc. But I knew it must be because I was the dyslexic one, and she the normie. For the rest of my life, I will be cursed with this lizard hell, and she?

She'll be added to the list of blood-lust victims I devour.

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