Somewhat isolated in on the boat they learned closer to him mocking and scorning him; yes, the madness of truth and reality that fell upon him was devastating, as, by their putrid stench-spell, manifested scorn, triumphant revenge—call it what you will—it drifted back and forth, inch by inch filling each and every ounce of space around his person. Not a perfect stench, just revolting enough to be paralyzing.

“What did you expect?” Boomed a voice, gaunt and ill-willed, even Ephialtes was shaken by the moment.

‘Guilt,’ he felt guilt; he provoked life, poked fun at it, beyond the point of retreat, as if there would be no price to pay. The smell continued, nondescript, yet it could desiccate a corpse to dust, should it remain suspended in air long enough. Yes, out of the imp’s mouths come the worms of hell, the infinite smells, pantheist still.

He stood up to leave the boat, so the enraged pong, its stunning weariness could seep away from him, out to and into the gulf, out, and out like a slave to the lungs. The imps, who would were laughing the hardest gave off a urine covered mist over h im. Then he disembarked.