by David J. Wing

The Minotaur, desperate to crush us under cloven hoofs, charged. Even here, in the seventh you could smell, over the sulphur and the pain – the need, the abject passion for violence. Smoke bellowed from those nostrils, red and thick, filling the air like a mist. Muscles, hidden under grotesque hair flexed and fought. Those horns, protruding feet beyond face thrust and narrowly missed. Virgil’s push and our leap onward, into the Outer Ring, to see murder on faces.

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