the dancings of yesteryear

Napoleon V looked out over the abyss, over all of his creation. A rictus of a smile warped his scarred visage, his pulse and breathing quickened, his eyes furtively darting up and down the alley to see if he was being watched, he knew he was being watched, someone was always watching – and he ejaculated over the blood soaked corpse of the stray dog, finishing the desecration. He cleaned up slowly, deliberately, with a causal indifference and then, with an air of wicked confidence, moved back into the jostling crowds that wanted nothing to do with him, that he could never fully escape.

(and besides, it was a newspaper)

&c.

"The road to Hell is paved with good intentions, the skulls of small children, and petrified cobblestones. The road to Heaven is an unpaved switchback up a nearly sheer rock face difficult to traverse without the assistance of a pack mule or mountain goat." - Isaac Aronson, Ramblings with Bacchus and Enoch