Even fewer would have delight in it.
A crouched blonde analyzes traces of an apparition, an abandoned edifice on the outskirts of Washington that none would dare to investigate, missing people sighted around, clad in white, dragging chains. It seemed as the work of some kind of lich, at the very least it was what Qaleroth told him as he continuously bragged about past triumphs against those "necrophilia maniacs". Imagery of disgustingly rotten limbs torn apart and an undistinguishable scent of corpses soon overwrote his senses, a mild nuisance by now, still bringing him to a near-puking stage as a thunderous guffaw rebounded the walls of his cranium, distracting his focus. "Could you not? This 'lich' is already a fucking pain in the ass to track, it'd make my work a thousand times easier if you kept your fetishes to yourself and let me not be caught by surprise like the last time." An audible sigh - only to his ears - filled the air, a shared sentiment of monotony quickly scattering through his body. You know what, kid? This fucking sucks. I can think of three different monuments that I'd have a blast setting fire to instead of doi-
The skies rumbled, the screams of desperation coming from the distance finding shelter on the ears of one who couldn't care less... And one who couldn't hope for a better excuse. Nevermind. You finish it later, Meli, my darling, it's my turn on the wheel. An abrupt flash of light, a recognizable perfume of roasted evidence, yells of chained souls uttered in suffering flooded the man's mind, the sinfun flames of Hell garnishing his melting skin until there was nothing left but a skull engulfed in fire. Not even the clothing was similar anymore, his jacket turned into the trademark leathery cover of his hellish counterpart, spikes adornishing his over-the-top appearance. Steps reluctantly moved away from the case, a single motorcycle roared throughout the streets prior to halting precisely as he came out of the door.
In the blink of an eye, he was gone.
Meliodas couldn't make out what happened. The desperation upon witnessing spandex-wearing corpses massacred, the fearful eyes quiescently cheering for those heroic figures, everything from that scene fed the demon with energy. The dripping blood out of Stalin-on-steroids fists gave away which side did what. At first, Meliodas was but a mere observer, aching body and feeble mind constantly provoked by the familiar within himself. Until, of course, the "villain" vanished from sight. The maleficent presence, however, didn't quite dimish. He would have squinted had his face not burned away. How did they pull it off? Qaleroth had absolutely no idea. A mischiveous piece of technology indeed. He spread his tendrils over Meliodas' defensive mental wall, a simper, hypothetically, on his lips. Ganging up on one man, how unjust of the paragons of justice, wouldn't you say? Uneasiness filled Schultz's mind, his vision blurred, almost as if he was drifting away. Noises barely reached him now. The world faded away alongside his worries.
"Ah, finally." A wicked voice mumbled, hands playfully toying with the flames above the cranium. Such a symphonic turmoil, tasty to the eyes. Meliodas' presence entirely obliterated from the rider's mind, Qaleroth could ultimately run rampant as he longed for. He lunged forward, no longer a hint of humanity on anything he did. He would land exactly where they shrunk the momentaneous subject of his delight, a wall of flames bursting from the asphalt as temperature rose to unbearable levels at his whim. A blend of deafening agony screams and strident laughter filled the air.