Return the slab!~
or suffer my curse!~

Cold as the lone guardian of greed, as they used to say. He was laying on a decrepit hospital bed, alone and limply rebelling against the approaching death, and his fear and vain defiance were the signals for this last assault of the thing that makes the people march in the shadow. It invaded his bed and covered his whole body, smothering him with, ironically, the same force that made him fight for years for better or worse. This was the last straw, and soon the cold, dirty, golden tendrils had dug deeper than the tubes in his arms, and his already cold body turned to a stone-like matter.

“Am I going to Hell?” his mind whimpered in defeat, begging for a shred of mercy as he stared at the ceiling through the gauze-like tatters the entity was wrapping around his eyesight. This wasn't fully conscious anymore and was bringing back ideas that werent't even from his own distant childhood. Impassible, the entity gave no response. Most likely, it didn't have any to give. Surely the question was foolish but it didn't matter anymore, nothing was there to care, and in an instant he wouldn't be there to care either. It wasn't Hell. Past the endless golden desert where he was thrust by the powerful yellow arm of the thing, which he flew over in a very short instant, there was nothing.