His beard is like a wild bush fire, there is so much it consumes. 

His mouth is like a gun, when it opens it shoots bullets, bullets of harm, bullets of pain. 

His eyes are like lasers, bright, red and terrifying. 

His laugh is like a siren, a warning that you should go home. 

His smile is a cruel, closed gap in his horrifying face, waiting to open to make you feel uncomfortable. 

His promises are fake. 

If he was a season, he would be winter, the coldest, iciest winter.

By Maisie