Beneath my skin there is a demon.  He laughs at you.

He thinks your little efforts are a joke.  What are you doing, fooling about in his wretched game?  Playing in a world you that, quite frankly, you shouldn't be playing in.  Are you bored, is that it?  Is your life so meaningless, that you single out the time spent with me to revolve your thoughts and motives about this?  Oh, you know you're playing.  Don't claim ignorance.  Don’t try to be coy.  Idiot.  Beneath these smiles and cordial words, we both know the tables have been set, the pieces aligned in orderly fashion, the cards waiting to be dealt.  But I am the dealer.  I am the player.  I effortlessly garb the skeletal mask in that customary sacrament, where my demon paces about the deep crimson fire.  I can touch it.  I have touched it.

Why do you bother… hm… why do I ask?  It’s obvious.  Unlike my demon, yours thirsts for pain, for mayhem, but most of all, for consideration.  Every head turned causes it to swell in girth to unproportional values.  It screeches in aggravation and thrashes, destroying all it can.

How sad.  If I gave a shit, I would offer a tear.  But I am one of the heads turned.  This inferno is mine.  And mine alone.  I will reap the benefits.  I will conquer.  I will create a legend.  And I will rip off your clawing, clinging limbs as I move forward.  No guilt.

So BACK OFF.