Cirrhosis of the Soul

The old man shuffled under the weight of false contrition.
Glassy eyes, black and fleeting, flicked up for a moment searching for
a sign of acceptance, hoping for warmth. Shoes like scraped chalk,
yellow stinking breath, shaggy bearded growths flecked with grey from
between the cracks. The figure was a mess. A creature to be
pitied...but the danger still lurked, hidden, covered by layers of age
and filfth, but still present. You could sense it, a sudden metallic
taste in the mouth, the feeling of rising bile.

It
sat down with all the grace and triumph of an aged prize fighter. It's
eyes darkly fixed, flickered with malice and pride. It's progeny had
returned. It was still important. Still in control. The puppet master
had not lost it's strings.