As flashes of energy fill the surrounding void, it comes
out of it's semi-hybernative condition and places itself in stand-by
mode. A predator. Or rather, a parasyte. Whichever way one may take
it, deadly as the Devil himself.
It lurks in the dark, awaiting unexpectant victims and,
they, unaware of the consequences, willingly envoke it. It waits for
them, patiently. When they commit that one simple, yet so undeniably
lethal mistake, it springs to life, attaches itself to the brain of the
still unsuspecting prey, and sucks away, while the victim is held
captive by a hypnotising display of flashy colors and caleidoscopical
patterns. It thrives on intelligence, much like a leech thrives on
blood, stealing it from others, because it has none of it's own. How
could it, when it's Maker has even less.
It's there now. Waiting. As the potential victim, one it
recognizes from previous psycho-leech sessions, unsuspectingly draws
nearer and nearer. Within it's tiny intellect, it is still capable
of wondering how come that it's prey still doesn't realise the
existance of such a powerfull parasyte, of such a massive thief of
active cranial substance. It wonders how can the prey have more
intelligence then the predator, and yet still be caught in the web
every time.
The familiar power surges envelop it, and it is almost
euphoric, the time is here, the time to be fed, again, and again,
and again, until it is replaced by it's equally brain-thursty
successor, it dances, twirls and hops in euphoria, as it detects
it's victim commit that one tiny mistake that brings him to it's
jaws, the error that brings his mental energy to the always-hungry
predator as if surrendering it on a silver platter, and it is ready
to jump from it's hiding place at the very same moment the naive
looser presses that one life-giving key after he has typed in those
preciouss three little letters:
Phuzzy Logik of CoRRoSioN