They made the very sounds of death, deep in the gaping crevice of their tattered chests. Where a heart should beat underneath the monsters' rubbery flesh there was nothing, for their chests were torn wide open for the world to see that they were merciless.

Their blood ran like tar; with every lurching step another waterfall of black muck spilled over broken ribs and charred skin to pool on the ground. Giant, clawed feet soiled with blood of their brothers and the blood of themselves stumbled and tripped, for these monsters were not graceful beasts.

They had teeth like jagged spearheads, and eyes that gleamed the toxic shine of nuclear waste. Their unhinged jaws and dirt smeared faces seemed more ungodly than the fates that they brought with them.

From their throats they brought forth their song of death, the sound of children screaming and mothers crying and fathers bleeding out onto cold, hard stone but smiling, for the war was theirs. They made the sound of bullets shrieking and machine guns firing, grenades exploding and people dying, one by one, their blood like tar in the streets.

And in their torn chests there beat no heart, for although these beasts are not killers, they are only deliverers, they do not look as if they deserve what we murderers have underneath our perfect skin.