Taste the Devil

"Sounds lose their significance in a thunderstorm, my friend."

The waters were gruesome. Night after night, the fog reeked of salt, sweat, and death. To twenty-three year old fog-signal keeper Michael Jackson... salt, sweat, and death were merely drops of ink in the vast ocean. He found immense pleasure in the idea that darker secrets remained. Night after night, the aura loomed above him, and with each inhale... he swore could almost taste it.

He sought to taste it.