“When I use this term, the Dark Prince, this is my definition of a male essence that is able to shed light in darkness. … A lot of people around me at that time were turned on by cheap come-ons, drawn to thinking that the Dark Prince was somebody who would handcuff you and give you the orgasm of your life. Well, he doesn’t need to handcuff you. It’s boring. Go handcuff yourself.” (Piece by Piece)
“A lot of people think darkness is making somebody emotionally defecate on themselves. That’s baby demon stuff. … These baby demons can be wonderful in some ways. Wonderful in some ways, highly conscious in some ways, but until they’ve done their work on their shadow, they are more concerned with the power of seduction and the control over another Being than anything else.” (Lucifer, per Tori, Piece by Piece)
Finally, she emerges from her shell.
After visiting her personal nadir and coming back up for air everyone else’s aura is evident. Suddenly all the minor demons are plain as day, and she’s watching in mute horror as they eek out a living as ineffectual parasites.
Flukemen. Huge reptiles gnawing on a woman’s neck, the carpet a blood-soaked sponge.
Is it true that devils end up like you? Something safe for the picture frame? No longer devils, but simple symbiotes? Well guess what, fucker – the real prince of darkness isn’t defined – defamed – by his vampirism. Lucifer is more than a leech.
But you need the blood so bad you will do anything to get it. Change your life, your look, your heart rate and the way you breathe. That is the depth of your fear and loathing. She’s got your shaving your legs. Shimmy once and do it again.
“Bring your sister,” she chides, “if you can’t handle it.”
As if there is any question. Clearly you cannot handle it.
Tori is on the other side of the swirl now – more herself than ever before. Berdache, masculine and feminine. Kachina, corporeal and ethereal.
“Everybody knows that I’m her man,” she reminds you, “and I have a message for you: you don’t need one of these to let me inside of you. Getting fucked is not about physical penetration – it’s about emotional penetration. Either way, I can impale you.
“And for all of your animus, you just doesn’t have that power. So, how’s your jesus christ been hanging?”
Flaccid? It’s not the side effects of the cocaine.