In him the dragon untamed, roaring and belching its acrid malcontent.  Every word is a curse.  Every gesture perverse.  Around him people shiver and hide, disgust and pity pushing their backsides.  He sees nothing in the mirror that pleases but the reflection is the mantle he knows.  Twist and turn he might, fleeing into the uncaring night.  Turn around, Mr. Black, the beast is on your back.