Pilot had been dead for just over 5000 years. But he still got around pretty well! It's amazing what a demon in the service of Satan can get into. Inside his ancient leather jacket, a brown rat stirred, troubled by dreams of cats no doubt. Pilot's nightmares were far worse. It's not easy to forget 300 years in the Lake of Fire. Now he sat astride a large and dangerous jet-bike, the best that 23rd century military technology could supply. The rat woke and crawled up onto his shoulder, sat and surveyed the view. Beautiful green rolling hills with azure blue skies punctured with puffy clouds of grey anti-aircraft missile explosions. It almost looked like Wales. Pilot looked at his pet rat, an animal that inspired almost universal hatred. "What will we do today?" he asked his familiar. "Kill, maim and torture?" he said, imagining that the rat had answered, as after all, a rat cant talk. "Ah, the usual so!" He pressed an immaculately manicured thumb to the starter button, and with a lion-like growl the engine started. With no ceremony or parting quip, just a fly catching smile, he flew off towards the distant gunfire, the grass and wild flowers bowing to him in his jet-stream wake. He would add his own bit of homegrown Hell to the conflict. After all, practice makes perfect, and he had been in practice for thousands of years.
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