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“There were different hells. Some were small, no larger than suitcases, and within were crammed tens of thousands of beings, crushed together in a horrible vortex of claustrophobia. There were hells in all shapes, some triangular, some in the shape of clovers. Mazelike, hells within hells, a chaos of stairways and tunnels. There were a seemingly infinite number of them, stacked up, jammed together.

He trods through fiery crimson, past lakes of pain and jungles of sharp shards and spines; now wades through streams of blood and rivers of pus, the banks of which were thick with strands of stringlike worms and thickets of maggots. The captain transformed, jaws huge, bristling with aciform fangs and dripping death, slavering blood. His moustaches long shaggy tendrils and his belly, protruding from the jacket of his uniform, a second gaping maw. The sinners, the bad priests, the rich, line up before him: and with a huge sledgehammer he pounds in their skulls, drinks their brains like oysters, rips out their intestines and gorges himself. Some, terrified, manage to scurry away, and these he pursues with an immense meat cleaver, scarcely smaller than himself, which he sends swinging into their backs, splitting his victims down the middle.”

– Brendan Connell, “The Life of Captain Gareth Caernarvon”


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