“You know me, fuck-hole?”

Hate.

“But you've never literally-out-your-own-eyes seen me before... but, okay well, and you have, and it's ambiguous – not in the flesh then, not right in front of you – but you've seen me via... I'm famous then?”

HATE. Insane hate like it wasn't playing this game anymore.

He asked a few dummy questions, purely rhetorical, got only the exact same barrier of hate in response. The door wasn't playing anymore.

“So you know me? You know me, demon? Yeah. Well, I don't. – But I think you know me for killing fucks like you. Demon fucks that have no business living.”

Hate.

“Well,” and he thought this, “you are what you do.” The side sword sung off the Demon Killer's back and with two hands behind he plunged it once, twice, thrice in the first black eye of the massive pink hate-filled door that despised him; back, and in, again – and back and in again.

“Fuck you, dirty door.”

Gushing spouts of blood straight from both eyes showered him as he plunged again and again his sword in those eyes; he was – plunging, kicking the door, now, stabbing it in its front and its cheeks; not caring that the spouts of blood showered him; not caring that he was completely covered in it now – not caring even who he was...

He was the Demon Killer.

And these things were pathological; these things had some really weird ideas about humanity – he didn't know nothing but he knew that; these things had some really weird ideas about maybe just killing everybody out of some weird utilitarian worldview, fine.

And he didn't know how he knew this, but he was ancient – but probably not immortal because he'd just been erased, and his body grew – was growing – tired in fact the more he stabbed and kicked and plunged his sword over and over again into the exposed facial organs of the door. There was also the fact that – his attribute told him anyway; no he was not immortal. But he was ancient, and anyway – he'd trust his instincts because, frankly, they were obviously supernatural.

The Demon Killer stood breathing, panting, hard breathing and panting in front of the now dead door that was no longer a hate-filled consciousness, clearly a demon – or replaced by a demon or something. – If that thing had ever been anything other than consciously just a dirty demon, possessed by a demon, it wasn't any longer.

Was the thing.

He knew demons, apparently, when he saw them; also he had no bones about dramatically and ostentatiously hacking demons up into their various parts. Because, quite obviously, and – fuck demons. He hadn't done – nothing to that door and it immediately just – it hated him.