it wasn't the excitement, it was the grip of fear firing off synapses ready to empty the bowels. a face with no eyes. a nose as if it was melted beyond recognition in a fire and reduced to two holes. it didn't care who you were. it didn't care that you had a loving wife, that you kissed your dogs as you left for work, or stopped to pick up and redirect the tortoise crawling towards the busy highway.
it was going to kill you.
no heart. no soul. no expressions of mercy. its body felt cold like a stone as eight pistons exploded 4,020 times per minute, the product of their labor burbling at idle. the bloodied rib cage between the doors long since emptied of viscera now filled with fumes of oil and gas with the faint scent of ghosts in leather, polyester, and rubber. the beast with gaping red eye sockets offered a stark sliver of hospitality in what will be the last place you'll ever rest your hands and back on.
squat down on patches of smooth rubber around skeletal hands and feet, the kill will be quick as folds of sharp metal penetrate soft flesh on impact. the door of the iron maiden is open wide eager to expose the true skills of fools who confidently wander in.
be careful when you climb in.