It isn’t the cough that carries you off. It’s the coffin they carry you off in.
We’ve spent the last century poisoning ourselves. A nuclear power plant melts down in the Ukraine. A chemical plant explodes in India. One of the largest cities of the world near-collapses under the weight of its polluted air. And in the first World War, we found ever more efficient ways to poison each other. Every side propelled countless shells, full of deadly gases – phosgene, chlorine, mustard gas – onto soldiers who could do nothing more than pray that their battered, sweaty masks would keep them alive.
And standing behind those in the trenches, the dead, who could not be poisoned, found ways to exploit these horrors. One dead man in particular, who bore the most mundane of names, learned how to internalize the poisons in the air, mud and water, and use them for his own ends.
The bearers of his legacy survive, a line of monsters who thrive on toxins, under whose pale skin lies the chemical pollutant that has done its part in the poisoning of a century.
| This is not allowed.
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