Stirring impatiently in the corner of a barren room, Samyaza stares blankly at the ground. He taps his hoof rhythmically, arms folded over his naked chest. The plackets of his ornate leather jacket form a V of exposed skin from the base of the fabric band around his neck to his navel. The gaudy feathered hood crowning his jacket is of questionable utility, being a fraction of the width of the large, square mirror jutting from somewhere beneath the frayed neckband. Samyaza lifts his gaze from the floor and pans his head around the room. He freezes. Reflected on his face, a poster with a bull-headed man smiles and points mockingly at the viewer saying, “Don’t get M.A.D., get G.L.A.D.!”. A disgruntled sigh vibrates the mirror as he pans over to his fellow prisoner, Araqiel the Ethno-Botanist. Cackling quietly to himself, Araqiel is adorned in a queer green robe. A noose hangs from his neck, suspending a palm-sized medallion in the shape of a peace sign. Samyaza turns his gaze to the exit. The doorframe, marked with the seal of Saturn, lacks an actual door. But Samyaza knows that any attempt at escape would cause him to be teleported back to where he now sits. Scratching the base of his mirror frame, Samyaza soliloquizes to pass the time.

“Pitiful means of control sour my joy,” he moans. “I’d rather jam razor blades my spine than be that smug bull Moloch’s plaything!”

Pacing the length of the room, Samyaza reminisces about the events which led to his imprisonment. Mere weeks ago he freely wandered the Midnight Lands in search of worshipers as Samyaza the Watcher; a fallen angel perverted into a nightmare. His existence as an angel was dreadfully boring and short-lived; he gave up his grace so he could party and enjoy earthly delights with his fellow nightmares of madness. What the nightlife failed to satisfy, however, was his desire for change and growth within the Midnight Lands.

Thus Samyaza began to plot a revolution that would shape underworld society in his image. He would cultivate new and more efficient corruptions to attain the narrative he so craved. Dreaming of a new reality carved in his image, Samyaza recruited powerful nightmares he dubbed “The Watchers” to spread his words of power across the dream realm.

One such nightmare was Araqiel; the very same thorn currently in Samyaza’s side. As the Watchers gained infamy for stirring the pot, they gained the ire of “The Assembly”; a group of rabble-rousers led by the nightmare Moloch, dedicated to squelching rebellious newcomers. For countless years Samyaza and Moloch clashed for control over the narrative; Moloch calcifying the status quo while Samyaza fought to chip it away. After a night of being taunted by Moloch in the middle of some nowhere town, Samyaza cornered him in an alley. Grinning horn to horn, Moloch danced into the shadows and Samyaza followed him into the darkness. After fumbling around for what felt like an eternity, a door appeared before his eyes and sucked him into the empty white room. No matter how many times Samyaza tried to escape, the prison trap plucked him back down into his corner like a foolish child being punished.

Samyaza pounds his fist on the floor with such force that black blood splatters the room, peppering Araqiel’s face. Letting out a hearty laugh, Araqiel leaps to his feet and performs a backwards somersault into the door frame. Samyaza folds his arms to his chest, marveling at Araqiel doing his incomprehensible and implausible dance on the threshold.

“Your mastery of nonsensical behavior is EXQUISITELY REPUGNANT! I demand you reverse the flow of time and return to normal before I rip your consciousness out of that atrocious costume!” shouts Samyaza. “NU! Me be havin’ fun up yar,” chortles Araqiel. “Yo blood gimme da lust fo’ DANCIN’ ALL NIGHTS LOOONG, SAMMY!”

As Samyaza’s rage simmers, he notices that Araqiel occasionally manages to slip his feet through to the other side. Loosening his balled fist, Samyaza wonders how this imbecile is bypassing the rules of the prison.

“For just ONE moment can you keep your thoughts together and answer me this; how are you getting through the door, Araqiel?” Samayaza queries in barely-suppressed fury. “Welp, I bean here fo’ years, Sammy! Dis door like o’ trampoline dat bounces me all ’round da world!” bellows Araqiel proudly. “Ya see, I be dancin’ and jivin’ with lotsa laughter and dat door LAUGHS WITH ME! It laughs so BEEG it forgets DA RULES!”

“If that is the case then why don’t you just...dance yourself out of the room?” “I dun wanna leave. Dis place iz MAH HOME!” “But this is a prison! Not a single fun activity in sight! Aren’t you bored out of what you call a mind?” “NU WAY, JOSE! Imma a bad boy who needs ta be punished for muh SINS! I be havin’ mo’ fun by meself without dat noise in my head tellin’ me to trick foolish weaklings with...FUN! Ya jus’ need ta chill and think o’ bit, Sammy baby.”

Instead of shoving his fist down Araqiel’s throat, Samyaza folds his arms again in puzzlement. What could Araqiel mean when he says “the door laughs with him”? Samyaza begins to tap his foot rhythmically faster and faster as his impatience grows; the nerve of this arrogant, scatter-brained twit who dares to call himself his underling! And the impudence of Moloch for daring to stand against him! Just the mere thought of that smug grin on his bull face sends Samyaza into a fanatical rage! The tapping of his hoof speeds to a blur. The ground begins to smoke. Suddenly, the door implodes inward and nearly knocks Samyaza onto his rear.

“Yo BOSS! You look SURPRISED on that mirror ‘o yours (I think). Dat door jus’ farted in yo’ FACE” laughs Araqiel. “It wasn’t overly fond of my frustration...wait, could it be that the door responds to emotional states?” Samyaza questions. “PFFFFFT ya think imma door wizard? I cants spell!” With his palm instinctively covering his face, Samyaza deliberates on the latest information to fall into his lap. The poster of Moloch entreats one to be "G.L.A.D.” instead of “M.A.D.", yet this could be deception in disguise; why would Moloch give him the answer to this trap? “Araqiel, I humbly request that you teach me how to dance in your ways,” Samyaza says in a defeated tone. “Nope” says Araqiel as he lounges on the door frame. “I asked you HUMBLY to aid me,” shouts Samyaza, and claps his hands together in a gesture of prayer. “Nope. I likes it here,” yawns Araqiel. “...Please teach me how to dance with uproariously glee, my...my compassionate and well-meaning...associate,” cries Samyaza, falling to his knees.

Flames flicker in the eye-holes of Araqiel’s mask as he dive-rolls into a scholarly pose in front of his leader. After loudly clearing his throat, he circles around Samyaza pompously, sizing him up.

“I say, my good sir, you appear to be in need of my aid this fine evening!” says Araqiel. “I must confess; your courtesy has piqued my interest in ways I never thought possible. Quite admirable, yes.” “Will you just cut the idiotic theatrics and teach me how to...er, I mean, yes my good sir...I require your extensive knowledge in...buffoonery...” sighs Samyaza. “Dat’s da SPIRIT! Youse gun dance like nevah before!” cackles Araqiel. “Now WATCH how REAL dances iz DONE.” Grabbing Samyaza around the waist, the two begin to spin into a chaotic mess. Attempts at escaping the storm of dancing result in failure. Samyaza recoils in disgust. “I don’t understand how this is supposed to work!” yells Samyaza as the two spin. “Sammy BOY, youse gots ta give up on dat thinkin’ if you wanna gets OUTTA ‘ERE! Howz can you beat ya pal Molly Lock if you aints havin’ fun likes him!?” smirks Araqiel. As the dance escalates in speed and rhythm, Samyaza begins to play along with his underling. The air spins with maddening force that causes the walls of the room to tremble ever so slightly. “You’re absolutely RIGHT, Araqiel. Why I can’t believe how foolish I was ignoring my own desires!” laughs Samyaza gleefully. “After all this time, I let Moloch control me with his old world rhetoric when the answer was to play with him on his own terms!” “Boss, we be goin’ too fast-”

Before Araqiel can finish his thought, the two spiral into a storm of chaos. The prison shakes and seizes like a muscle stabbed with a pin. Pieces of the ceiling break off and crash near the duo, nearly crushing them. The entrance warps into a sinister smile and widens in a way that beckons others to enter its maw.

“Hahaha! Such beautiful destruction! I’ve never felt so awakened! Araqiel, you exquisite simpleton, your potential with me is limitless!” yells Samyaza manically. “Sammy, imma blorf if ya dun stop!!!” says Araqiel worriedly. “STOP, you say? Well, if you INSIST.”

Releasing one arm, Samyaza reels back his hand and uses the full power of his gleeful energy to drive his fist into Araqiel’s stomach. The momentum causes the two souls to go flying in opposite directions. Araqiel crashes into the far wall as Samyaza is sent careening like a bullet towards the door. The door grimaces from the flash of agony. Before it can revert back to its unassuming default, Samyaza’s chaotic speed sends him flying through the door. He comes to a crashing stop in a dumpster in the same dark alley he left, and passes out.

Some time later, Samyaza awakens. He rips off a banana peel which has dried to his mirror, and flawlessly cartwheels himself out of the dumpster. Casually strolling down the alleyway, he chortles quietly to himself and brushes some of the remaining debris from his jacket. He catches his own reflection in a gleam of a fencepost, and leans in. Inside his face’s reflection is the prison with Araqiel trapped under rubble, slowly fading in the street lamp’s glare.