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Description
     Square by square, a miasmic pattern erupting a noisome cramp in the mind of so many black and white squares.  Across the nether-extant plane across the black void of space, there stood the Locust King under the sorcerer’s coronet decorated in the shimmering crystals crafted from the inhumane slaughtering of his victims.  Glaring southward in his mystic hate, he felt the abhorrent sensation of murder arising in his burning bones.  Nevermore will he stand down below the celestial titans that spew down on him the negligence of a son’s birthright, the power of acceptance in a world meant for self-loving and co-loving abundance, not for knaves and brigands who steal their power from bleeding babies.  The Locust King chuckled on his white square holding captive to the sobbing pawns shackled in rusted chains, bound neck to neck, in a morose gallery of pummeled prisoners.
     Opposite of the King’s throne there stood his own archenemy, the black queen from the terrestrial abode of her people’s keep, scowling sinisterly into his green and foul irises.  Concealed mysteriously behind the blanketing tapestries of her two long hair tresses falling down in circumference around her head.  Blood splatter trickling down her soft white flesh after a horrid bloodbath between the Locust King’s army of rooks and bishops and the effulgent mistress of the gatekeeper’s sanctuary.  The Queen held a derringer in each hand, blood dappling her white square from the gun’s tin barrel whilst she sighed a heavy gust of cold fog from her purple-pained lips.
     Just fucking die . . . she whispered from ear to ear.  Now deserted by her comrades and staring face-to-face with her nemesis, a last-man-standing showdown between cruelty and malice, the forthcoming actions laid engraved underneath the mirrored floor-squares, unknown to either combatant, but the final minute counting down hitherto.  Kellie held her bones stiff in a frosted deadlock of adamant patience for the parasitic warlord to make his last move.  No more teetering and tittering, the last ounce of virtuous tolerance had depleted, and a mordant requiem was at hand to be scrawled on the loser’s slated grave.
     Inside the embroidered malignancy of Apollyon’s multi-set spider eyes there was nothing, except for the twisted hellish helixes forged from centuries of scathing brutality upon the masses of disastrously tortured innocents of the Contra-Haven’s populace.  An epoch of time spent acquiring an abundance of credit in the fields of academe, labor, government, and vice; sadly, yet typically, there was no knowledge to account for any of it.  No logic, no self-control, no intelligence obtained from the progression through the social echelons, but he did achieve a copious supply of respect, manpower, and supremacy over the ones he desired acceptance from.  The King of Locusts condensed his hatred and pompous malevolence for the queen into a finely compacted soul of wrath, insinuated by his iron bastard sword, and diabolically impounded in the red-hot furnace of his cacodaemoniacal eyeballs . . .
     Infuriated phosphorescently, however equally balanced by a Junoesque aura, the illustrious queen cocked the hammer of her derringer gun and calked her jaw.  Her insides boiling with an encompassing radiation of fury about to be unleashed on the King of Locusts, haltered in this mix of time, and shut into the box of reality.  Her thumb spread the smearing blood across the derringer’s trigger guard; sustained after all these centuries through the virtue of patience, and she could dig through all the dirt and muck congested in her ribs and found a billion reasons to chalk him out of existence, enough waste and despair fell from his teeth, and now the matter was at hand; his annihilation.  In the split-second roll, she couldn’t be sure she would come out victorious, but the attempt was all that mattered.  To leave this chance to decay was a crime on her own soul and principles, and would die trying to erase the King.  To die would be foolish in his pandemic eyes, but to her would be an honor.
     Just fucking die . . .
     It scorched all reason of existence, the entire meaning of life, just completely eroded in a blink of an eye.  Her toes stapled swiftly through the crosshatched blank corners of the chessboard, zipping diagonally across the line of squares connected by the intersecting corners; with the derringers ready in her hands, she masqueraded irately in the straight-arrow velocity of a ravenous bat.  The Locust King had no time to react because already the derringer was pressed to his head.  The gun barrel crushed his temple, puncturing through his skull, and brisantly launching him off his white square, releasing his condemning chain and flying off his plate of steadfastness.
     The bloody derringer rushed through the empty space of malign despondency as the King’s eyes flourished with a lifetime of shredded memories flashing cinematically, one after the other.  The queen pulled the hair trigger and the derringer exploded an onslaught of heated metal throughout the other side of the King’s skull, and as he fell from the chessboard’s boundary line a shower of bone fragments and gangrenous fluid splattered across the universal black space.
     The Locust King drifted down through the eternal void plummeting through the windless, pitch-black dreamscape.  Lost forever, and damned to endless falling.
     The queen stood in the shower of locust fluid with one smoking derringer and stuttering lips that lashed out bestially . . .
     “Just fucking die!!!”
     So thus the halcyon Repunzel turned around and marched off into the cascading goldmine of abysmal starlight to evanesce than to wanderlust with the overbearing curses of stalking wisdom assassins . . . ~

     ~ . . . forever?

Description
     Square by square, a miasmic pattern erupting a noisome cramp in the mind of so many black and white squares.  Across the nether-extant plane across the black void of space, there stood the Locust King under the sorcerer’s coronet decorated in the shimmering crystals crafted from the inhumane slaughtering of his victims.  Glaring southward in his mystic hate, he felt the abhorrent sensation of murder arising in his burning bones.  Nevermore will he stand down below the celestial titans that spew down on him the negligence of a son’s birthright, the power of acceptance in a world meant for self-loving and co-loving abundance, not for knaves and brigands who steal their power from bleeding babies.  The Locust King chuckled on his white square holding captive to the sobbing pawns shackled in rusted chains, bound neck to neck, in a morose gallery of pummeled prisoners.
     Opposite of the King’s throne there stood his own archenemy, the black queen from the terrestrial abode of her people’s keep, scowling sinisterly into his green and foul irises.  Concealed mysteriously behind the blanketing tapestries of her two long hair tresses falling down in circumference around her head.  Blood splatter trickling down her soft white flesh after a horrid bloodbath between the Locust King’s army of rooks and bishops and the effulgent mistress of the gatekeeper’s sanctuary.  The Queen held a derringer in each hand, blood dappling her white square from the gun’s tin barrel whilst she sighed a heavy gust of cold fog from her purple-pained lips.
     Just fucking die . . . she whispered from ear to ear.  Now deserted by her comrades and staring face-to-face with her nemesis, a last-man-standing showdown between cruelty and malice, the forthcoming actions laid engraved underneath the mirrored floor-squares, unknown to either combatant, but the final minute counting down hitherto.  Kellie held her bones stiff in a frosted deadlock of adamant patience for the parasitic warlord to make his last move.  No more teetering and tittering, the last ounce of virtuous tolerance had depleted, and a mordant requiem was at hand to be scrawled on the loser’s slated grave.
     Inside the embroidered malignancy of Apollyon’s multi-set spider eyes there was nothing, except for the twisted hellish helixes forged from centuries of scathing brutality upon the masses of disastrously tortured innocents of the Contra-Haven’s populace.  An epoch of time spent acquiring an abundance of credit in the fields of academe, labor, government, and vice; sadly, yet typically, there was no knowledge to account for any of it.  No logic, no self-control, no intelligence obtained from the progression through the social echelons, but he did achieve a copious supply of respect, manpower, and supremacy over the ones he desired acceptance from.  The King of Locusts condensed his hatred and pompous malevolence for the queen into a finely compacted soul of wrath, insinuated by his iron bastard sword, and diabolically impounded in the red-hot furnace of his cacodaemoniacal eyeballs . . .
     Infuriated phosphorescently, however equally balanced by a Junoesque aura, the illustrious queen cocked the hammer of her derringer gun and calked her jaw.  Her insides boiling with an encompassing radiation of fury about to be unleashed on the King of Locusts, haltered in this mix of time, and shut into the box of reality.  Her thumb spread the smearing blood across the derringer’s trigger guard; sustained after all these centuries through the virtue of patience, and she could dig through all the dirt and muck congested in her ribs and found a billion reasons to chalk him out of existence, enough waste and despair fell from his teeth, and now the matter was at hand; his annihilation.  In the split-second roll, she couldn’t be sure she would come out victorious, but the attempt was all that mattered.  To leave this chance to decay was a crime on her own soul and principles, and would die trying to erase the King.  To die would be foolish in his pandemic eyes, but to her would be an honor.
     Just fucking die . . .
     It scorched all reason of existence, the entire meaning of life, just completely eroded in a blink of an eye.  Her toes stapled swiftly through the crosshatched blank corners of the chessboard, zipping diagonally across the line of squares connected by the intersecting corners; with the derringers ready in her hands, she masqueraded irately in the straight-arrow velocity of a ravenous bat.  The Locust King had no time to react because already the derringer was pressed to his head.  The gun barrel crushed his temple, puncturing through his skull, and brisantly launching him off his white square, releasing his condemning chain and flying off his plate of steadfastness.
     The bloody derringer rushed through the empty space of malign despondency as the King’s eyes flourished with a lifetime of shredded memories flashing cinematically, one after the other.  The queen pulled the hair trigger and the derringer exploded an onslaught of heated metal throughout the other side of the King’s skull, and as he fell from the chessboard’s boundary line a shower of bone fragments and gangrenous fluid splattered across the universal black space.
     The Locust King drifted down through the eternal void plummeting through the windless, pitch-black dreamscape.  Lost forever, and damned to endless falling.
     The queen stood in the shower of locust fluid with one smoking derringer and stuttering lips that lashed out bestially . . .
     “Just fucking die!!!”
     So thus the halcyon Repunzel turned around and marched off into the cascading goldmine of abysmal starlight to evanesce than to wanderlust with the overbearing curses of stalking wisdom assassins . . . ~

     ~ . . . forever?