All that is required for evil to prevail is for good men to do nothing.
Fuchsia, a child of hell, a product of hate and malice, an offspring of the wicked, had ascended all expectations, and reached the finale of the Nexus of Worlds tournament. Truly, the gods wept at the sight. The demon was meant to be decapitated by a fearsome swordsman, eaten by an eerie arachnid, but instead, realities had imploded and sent him straight to the final match. Before the eyes of a man who's legend stretched far past the dimensional boundaries of the multiverse. Andrew Jackson.
Every denizen of hell with a basic education, provided so neatly by the Wicked man, knew about the heinous deeds of the fabled president. He who had sent so many mangled souls to the pits that they had to dig another row just to make space. He who had then inspired an entire continent to live up to his ideals, to become better people, robbing them of the opportunity of descending into the everlasting fires upon their untimely passing. He who had kicked every single infernal agent pushed against him as a result back to the darkness. Fucking Andrew Jackson. When he finally went down, he gone and went to heaven. This time around, things would be different. Fuchsia had an obligation to all the shitty bastard that came before him. An obligation to make sure that asshole went down. Down to the pits. Everyone knew that kind of deed would earn him a solid rank up straight to the top. Fuchsia the duke? Had a nice ring to it. He would finally be able to leave his child body behind. He checked his equipment. The spidersperm from his previous fight was gone, good. His Hellzooka remained fully functionable and active, his dagger had been returned to his hip, and the two skullnades rested on his rear, attached to his belt.
Fuchsia leaned forward, eyes narrowed on the prize. The wind caressed his black curly hair, his undeveloped horns left unmoved. He smiled widely, his sharp teeth glistening in the sun. Saliva poured out of his mouth, out of the pure ecstasy of anticipation, and onto the dry muddy ground of the rodeo-themed arena he and Andrew was to fight in. There was a man on a horse between the two, swaying the banner of the American nation and singing the country's national anthem along with the president. Fuchsia joined in, loudly.
"Oh, say! can't you see? This a man's final fight!
What so proudly he hailed, was a nation long dreaming;
Whose broad stripes and bright stars, is as dead as the night,
Oh the rampage I'll bring, Will be gallantly screaming.
And my rocket's red glare, skullnades bursting in air,
Come die by my might, then your corpse I will tear:
Oh, say! Will your blood-stained defeated body wave
In the land of which I see, On the stone of your grave?"
The rider, disturbed by Fuchsia's bastardation of the classic, rode away into the horizon. "Fuck freedom." the demon said. A rocket came screaming after the boy, and blew him, his horse, and the american flag, into tiny little pieces of oppressional symbolism. Fuchsia turned towards the president, stared at him. His body language shouting "what are you going to do about it?" - It was the silence before a storm.