I used to imagine a fat little demon squatting astride his bald head, one pustulous arse cheek resting on each shoulder, short grubby fingers grabbing at the controls and making him do those evil things.
Until I realised it was all him, just a man meting out the daily cruelties man is capable of.
And the little red demons were clustered about his feet, looking up admiringly. Here was something to aspire to, a thing that called itself man.
My only consolation is that one day he will be theirs, and they will return all they have learnt, through eternity.
Author bio: John Xero writes. A lot. He’s trying to write long, but the short still calls to him, the shortest most of all. He should blog (xeroverse.com), he should tweet (@xeroverse), but he rarely does.
Man is part of 101 Fiction issue 8.
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