A young vicar overcome with guilt fell to his knees at the side of the Road:
"I can bear the guilt no longer!" he cried. "I cannot continue to live! I shall die here, and my name shall be forgotten among my sun-bleached bones."
IT IS GOOD FORTUNE, THEN, THAT YOU CAME ACROSS ME, grinned the mouth by the Roadside. I AM THE ARBITER OF SWIFT AND DELICIOUS DEATH, THOUGH MAY NOT IT BE PAINLESS.
"I do not deserve a painless death," moaned the vicar.
DESERVING IS A NOVELTY, said the mouth, ONE WHICH YOU DO NOT HAVE.
The vicar swallowed. "How shall you put me out of my misery?"
YOU SHALL ENTER BY CRAWLING ON YOUR STOMACH, HEADFIRST. YOU WILL FEEL THE GRIT OF SAND BENEATH YOUR HANDS AND GROVEL. UNDER THE HEAT OF THE SUN, YOU WILL RUMINATE ON YOUR PAST REGRETS AND RUINOUS SINS, AND BE AWASH IN UNSHAKEABLE DESPAIR.
Interlude: The Vicar and the Roadside Mouth (Excerpt from The Book of Entrails)YOU WILL DESCEND INTO THE MAW AND BE ENVELOPED IN DARKNESS AND FLESH, AND FEEL YOUR SKIN BURN WITH THE PRICKLE OF MY THOUSAND NEEDLE-TEETH AS I CRUSH YOU IN MY JAWS. YOUR BONES WILL SNAP, YOUR FLESH WILL TENDERIZE AND FLATTEN, AND SOON YOUR LIMBS WILL BE UNRECOGNIZABLE IF NOT GNAWED OFF; YOU WILL CONTINUE TO THINK OF THE REASONS YOU ARE HERE AND DESERVE THIS, AND YOU WILL SUFFER RIGHTEOUSLY.
YOUR NAME WILL BE SWALLOWED DOWN AND BE SUBSUMED INTO NOTHING. IT WILL BE REMEMBERED ONLY BY ME, WHO HAS TASTED YOUR SINS.
"That doesn't sound all that easy," the vicar said, shaken.
OH, BUT IT IS, replied the maw, IT IS EASIER COMPARED TO GOING ON LIVING. EASIER THAN CARRYING THAT BURDEN WHICH, AS THE YEARS GO, SHALL ONLY GROW HEAVIER AND HEAVIER. THOSE WHO SCORN YOU WILL NEVER STOP PERSISTING. THOSE YOU WOUNDED, FOREVER MARTYRED, WHISPERING VENOM INTO YOUR EAR IN EACH SILENT BREATH. WHY PERSIST?
"I know I am abominable," said the vicar.
THEN, said the maw, long tongue running over its teeth, WHAT ARE YOU WAITING FOR?
"I suppose..." the vicar wobbled, "I am afraid."
THOSE WHO SEEK DEATH OFTEN ARE.
The vicar, still on his knees, looked to the sky. "...it is getting rather late. I should start walking before the sunlight goes..."
OH? AND WHERE WOULD YOU GO, FOUL WHORESON? spat the maw.
"I am sorry. It seems that however much I fear my fate back home... I am more afraid of death."
There was a great churning as the maw growled in hunger and frustration. After a second, however, it faded back into its usual grin.
VERY WELL, it said. TOTTER ALONG YOUR LINE OF FATE A WHILE LONGER. IT MATTERS NOT IN THE END... YOU'LL REGRET NOT HAVING TAKEN YOUR CHANCE NOW.
"Maybe," said the vicar. "But how could you know, rooted to the spot as you are?"
I KNOW THE TYPE YOU ARE. YOUR GHOSTS. DEATH COMES FOR YOU EVENTUALLY, WHETHER ON THE ROAD OR IN MY STOMACH. The maw grinned.
"I'm... going to leave," stammered the vicar. He stood up shakily and began to walk away.
COME BACK ANY TIME, LITTLE VICAR. WHEN THE FLAMES OF IDEATION LICK ONCE AGAIN AT YOUR MIND.
THE ROAD LEADS TO ONE PLACE, LAD, AND IT ALWAYS LEADS BACK TO ME.