Reddit writing prompt; It is the post-apocalypse, and while exploring the wastelands you discover a cult. Unfortunately you are captured and hauled into the cult camp’s walls. However, you discover the person/object they worship is a bit different than expected.

I struck the ground hard, flung forward by my brutish captors. Lights danced before my eyes as my jaw cracked against age-stained tile, eliciting a grunt. Wicked laughter bounded of the crumbled walls of the room, those around me delighting in my pain.
As my vision cleared, I began to make sense of this strange place. I was in a room of substantial size, the interior shattered by the calamity that ended civilization decades ago. Chunks of wall had given way, revealing strips of rebar and battered concrete. What windows remained were boarded, tantalizing sunlight trickling through.
The hall was lit by a number of strange sconces, fashioned from pots and strainers. Pans and woks held incense, the reek of lavender and thyme permeating the room. And at the end, set upon a dais of scorched wood and broken stone, a great steel box sat. Upon it’s worn and rusted surface were painted a number of marks, circles bisected by a jagged wave. This pattern repeated throughout the hall, carved into stone and dabbed onto walls.
A hooded figure sat by the great steel case, swathed in a patchwork robe marked with the same symbol that infested the halls. In his hand was a length of corroded iron, upon which was mounted a great butcher’s blade. 
The cowled man spoke, his voice dry monotone. “Trespasser,” he called, jabbing his staff at me, “you have entered the realm of the great Slacho, the mincer of flesh, the master cutter. You bear not the marks of the brotherhood.”
“I can explain, great Slacho-“ a boot to the ribs cut me off.
“Do not speak of the name of Slacho, heretic!” the man bellowed, rising to his feet. “The lords name is reserved for his faithful, you wretch!” He waved towards the great steel cube beside him.
I tried to apologize, tried to defend myself, but all I could produce was a sickly wheeze.
“All lives are forfeit to Slacho, he who diced the world, who’s hunger is endless,” the priest declared. “You refused to serve him in life, now you will sustain him in death!”
Panicked, I tried to rise, only to find a knee pressed into my spine. My hands were restrained in short order, and I found my flailing ineffectual. I watched in horror as the hooded man stood before the great box, his head bowed. With a murmuring chant, he gently placed a hand upon its surface.
With reverence, he declared, “Mighty Slacho! Before you lies a heretic, one blind to your omnipotence. May you sever his muscle, drain his blood, bite his bone.”
My struggles renewed as the man opened the front of the grate, all its horror soon to be released. With a flurry, he stepped aside, and revealed Slacho.
It was a tubular thing, capped with a dome and made of some white material. A long, neck like protrusion stuck from the top, entwined with a metal coil and capped by an obsidian sphere of the blackest night. Upon the alabaster shell of the object I could just make out “Sla- Cho-,” two of the letters worn from age. I could almost make out two Ps…
The cowled man picked up the thing as though it were his child, cradling it lovingly. Steel glinted as the bottom was turned towards me, waving metal teeth nestled wishing the case.
“Now, lord Slacho,” the man declared, walking towards me, “it is time to feast.”

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