Pootin, hawr, he kill his dog, hawr.
You don't escape it either, that blackness in you, the cancer, the blood blooms of death, even your skin smells like decay. Believe me, I have smelled death, even a rotten deer in the woods, it's a sweet sickness, you never forget it. Guns and drums, they'll find you bloated and naked, all powerful, your Russian crown weighing heavy on your people, all your riches, it can't buy your way into Heaven, Simoniac. Demons will feast on your old, tired flesh, wait and see, it's a darkness that is coming for almost everybody, especially you, all the demons in Hell know your name.