a Potion to slowly and bitterly destroy the soul of man, a Venom that would complete its bane without notice - until too late to stop the toxin in its advance.

Long did the blackest Hellspawn think of contagions to fulfill their Masters request, until halted by the Dread One himself.

"Trouble not with this problem further - for man himself has found a plague far greater than what we could ever call into being."

Their amazement was not to be concealed. "What woe can mere man himself call forth, that could stop us from our task? "

The dead Master raised his hand and showed them an aspect of a man - old before his time - clutching his hands in twisted agonies, his face ravaged by murderous tears, back bent with the weight of his miseries.

"Indeed" - came the many awed replies. "Tell us, O Lord - what is the nature of this Sordid Ill man has created? We must know how man could be so afflicted without our curse upon him."

His Lord laughed - a laugh steeled in furnaces of anger and smote on anvils of ringing hate.

"Hear then, the words of his noxious draught - conjured by none but himself."

And the Hellspawn heard this mournful cadence over and over - words ripped from the man's Being itself, each a sepulcher of wretchedness:

If only I had - so long ago - if only I had ...

now too late - too late ...

John J. Graziano