The Antichrist stood hunched over at the urinal watching the impatient stream of golden fluid rush anxiously at the stained, off-white wall, hit it violently, and slide down groggily into the exit, never to disturb anyone again. With a single leather-clad finger, he flicked, and then pushed the reluctant buttons into their restrictive holes. He turned and stalked to the mirror, which was smudged and bespeckled to the extent that someone could probably hide a hippopotamous in the reflection. Glaring at his unkempt and unshaven visage, he dipped the barest minimum of the tips of his fingers into the periphery of the ice-cold deluge of tap-water, feeling it bite at his fingertips like a crazed, half-starved piranha. Running his fingers through his greasy, spiked hair, he looked deep into his own blood-red eyes.
The eyes were not the intimidating, entirely red eyeballs of Japanese cartoon villians and daemons, but were possessed of a strangely blood-red iris, and blood-red rims. The rims were a natural product of excessive amounts of foreign substances and too little sleep. Far too little. Stifling a yawn, the Antichrist brushed past a diminutive, bespectacled man in a crisp white shirt and equally crisp brown trousers who seemed to be doing his utmost, which included squeezing against the offensively filthy walls, just to avoid that brush.
But he was the Antichrist. And, stalking out into the chilled freshness of a new night in his chunky black boots, he really didn't give a damn.
With a laziness that seemed to come naturally, he fished for something in his pockets, pulled out a semi-disintegrated food wrapper, allowed the night breeze to relieve him of his burden, and then proceeded to produce a deformed pack of cigarettes and a dull, tarnished lighter that evidently preferred the company of mould and grime to clean water. The Antichrist deftly flicked the lighter open and lit it, all in one smooth movement, an obviously practiced move, probably alone somewhere in front of a mirror, too. Narrowing his eyes to slits the size of a cats when it yawns, he took a long drag, made the flame sputter, fade, and go out, swore irritatedly, and repeated the process. After a third infuriating attempt, he finally managed to get the end of the bent fag to glow bright, a beacon in the increasingly colder and darker night air. At least no-one had seen his embarrassing first two failures. What would they think? He, the Antichrist, had to try three whole times to light up one pathetic cigarette. How the fuck was his incredible competence going to bring the world to it's knees? Sometimes, he himself wondered at that. But it was of no consequence. When the time came, he'd know what to do. Somehow.
He watched as the wisps of smoke curled around his fingers, exuding an extremely contagious aura of lethargy, and this time he could not stifle his yawn. His mouth opened wide, exposing twin rows of what should have been teeth, but looked far more like cream-coloured jellybeans. Presumably, the aroma was rather unattractive as well, considering that he hadn't set toothbrush or paste near them over the past few.... he didn't even know what kind of time frame he was existing in.
Not that it mattered. He was the Antichrist, and time was nothing to him. Except when he really had to go. Which he didn't have to right now, but when he did, it did. Matter. Time mattered when he had to go even though that was not something that was applicable in the present situation or time.
With his subconcious mind taking control, his legs took him steadily step by step down the dark, wet street, as his mind began to wander down other avenues, where even daemons thought twice before daring to tread. Visions of the birth of a new world of fire and brimstone, amid the destruction of order and civilisation, diffused thoroughly through his mind. Swarms of daemons, the Legions of Lucifer, the Armies of Chaos, ran riot through the asphyxiated streets of all the major cities across the globe. New York in flames, Tokyo rended apart, building by steadfast building. Paris, Rome, Beijing, all reduced to rubble by the devastating arms of Hell. By the will of the Antichrist. A smile spread like disease across his aristocratically charming features, etching lines in his sylvan complexion, painting a visage of wicked pleasure.
The Antichrist's reverie was rudely shattered as a crystal glass on a dank dungeon floor when his leg sank to knee level in what he had assumed to be a puddle, but turned out to be a pothole. Cursing vilely, he extracted his limb and inspected its condition. His jeans were soaked up beyond his knee, and his funky grunge boots were filled to the brim with filthy water that was probably breeding all manner of disease-carrying creatures. Which was okay, because spreading disease and decay was part and parcel of his job, which he enjoyed, but he hated walking around in soggy boots. Their squelch irritated him, disrupted his concentration, and they made his toes stick together. With a sigh quickly followed by a curse, a procedure not unfamiliar to him, the Antichrist leaned back against a conveniently located lamppost and started to undo his boots.
Gripping the laces carelessly between his fingers, he tugged violently on them. A satisfying slithering sound reached up to his ears as they slid viciously through metal rings worn smooth, and, closing his eyes, the Antichrist could see the serpents in his mind, dragging their scaled forms slowly across the surface of this world, rearing up to snap at the heavens, jaws dripping with deadly venom.
Sobering back to reality, the Antichrist reopened his blood-drenched eyes, and returned his reptilian gaze to his still wet boot. Which was still on his rather uncomfortable, and definitely wet, foot. With a jerk that almost lost him his balance, he yanked the boot off and inverted it with all the grace of a two-ton monster truck. A thread of water trickled to the ground from his boot, and quickly slowed to a steady drip of murky pearls. The beads of water hit the ground with violent suddenness, shattering abruptly into liquid shards of dull crystal, one by one by one. Such a short existence. Mortality was an issue that rarely bothered the Antichrist, but right now it was irritating him that the drops of water formed and disappeared so quickly that his eyes couldn't capture them in motion.
Shaking irrelevant circles of thought from his head, the Antichrist vehemently shoved his damp foot into his even more damp boot. It popped in with a muffledsquelch, and he let the imbalancing effect shift his body to slam the sole onto the cold hard sidewalk, leaving his body crouched, coiled like a spring, a threat of violence radiating from him. And then he relaxed. With a sigh, he decided that damp was better than wet, and anyways, it would be too much trouble to dry the boot any further. Turning his head, he fixed his gaze towards eternity andcontinued his directionless foray down the empty, littered street.