Infants cry in terror at his presence. Garden-gnomes connoisseurs think he is the only gnome they abhor. The devoutees believe he’s Satan’s novice. Incubi are shamefaced by him. Sciencemen think he is one rare and grotesque specimen. The more immoral he is, the more he is loved. His existence is a literal abomination.
He is the Citrus Man!
His power? Birthing minions seemingly out of nowhere. Some say they are plucked out fresh from the earth, with shrieks worse than the Mandrakes’. Some say he takes them out of their festering yet safe wardrobes.
He spews vomit and faeces on collossal quanta, burdening our heavily-plagued existence with more diseases. His minions delightfully gorge on them…for different reasons:
Some think his waste isn’t one at all. They earnestly believe it’s a delectable tonic. It’s sadly foreseeable, considering their deplorably impaired senses. Others do see it as waste. Their senses are perfectly functional. Yet, they’re still golloping it. They don’t understand others’ aversion against his filth. That’s not even the worse part.
They want him to be crowned, to be seated on the throne. His Highness, King Citrus Man. Oh, Lord. The aroma may have spread all over the earthly sphere. But, pity the ones who share a realm with him. Pity them who are smothered by his loathly residue.
Of course, others aspirants exist. Sadly, they are a diplomatic swindler, a Janus-faced healer and a sombrely unlettered sportsman. What an assortment.
Even with more honourable challengers, even if they are victorious, the Citrus Man has opened the Pandora’s box. It will take many suns to mend the world, to extinguish every single morsel of the unleashed degeneracy.
His existence is a literal abomination.