On set

         I walked on set about five minutes late, making a beeline for the director. Knowing he'd be mad at my tardiness I tried to prepare myself for the verbal onslaught about to ensue. Upon turning the corner I was witness to a scene of horror that was not meant to appear in a porno. Bodies were everywhere, not one of them intact. Yola Michaels' head was at my feet, her mouth agape as it had been most of her career; the bed was a grizzly painting of red accompanied by lumps of festering meat; in the rafters I spied the tattooed left leg of Dick Iron seemingly torn from its socket and stuck in a lighting rig. The crew had fared no better but my attention was drawn to the gargantuan beast at the centre of it all.
         Standing at what must have been pushing eleven feet its entire body was covered in coarse looking, dark brown hair that dripped with the blood of its victims. As it turned I saw a pawed hand with two feet long, obsidian claws that glinted under one of the two still functioning lights; a chest covered in sickly yellow scales; eyes of pure darkness as if they contained the abyss itself, and a mouth that was a maw of row upon row of needle-point teeth.
         It saw me as I saw it. I feared for my life but found my feet rooted to the spot. The beast's eyes widened, I looked into the abyss therein and saw my own oblivion. Suddenly with a booming, hellish voice of aeons past that reverberated around the room it spoke.
         “Dude, it's not what it looks like,”