Stand up for your mortician? Shit, I'm the greasy patron saint of Dimes Square's corpse-grinders. Pariah's nightmare carnival? I'm the dirt under its fingernails, the grime in its fishnets. Yeah, I'd let her peg me raw while spitting venom into the void—call it a snuff film for the terminally online. My cock's a loaded gun in Clandestino's backroom, and I'm here to bleed raw, not lip-sync some Fairytail fantasia. Mortician? More like the muse of this fucked-up inferno.