My cousin Kelly wanted to make dinner for her 8th birthday. My Aunt wasn't home from work, yet, and Kelly wanted fried chicken. She'd seen her mother make it many times. But the problems she faced when desire met reality were threefold: She was short, only 8 years of age, and had never cooked before. But she hefted the iron skillet, turned the flame on, and put in the shortening to melt.
Kelly didn't understand preparation and process. She didn't prepare her chicken first and then the pan, and neither did she put the flame at the right height. And when she went to put the chicken into the over heated fat, she went up in flames.
Blazing Inferno by Kriki
The screams of a person on fire are not easy to dislodge from the ear's memory. There is no other pain like burning alive. The imagery Christ's description of Hell is accurate in its denizens' pain and anguish. Her screams sent us from our playroom down to the kitchen more quickly than Christmas morning. I, but six years, stood there, unable to help. Her older sisters knocked her to the floor and rolled her to put out the flames.
The treatments for Kelly's burns, which covered her body from her head down to her legs, were equally painful, and watching my cousin go through this procedure was painful in that we couldn't stop her pain, make it go away, without putting her into the short bliss of unconsciousness.
Then followed the years of gruesome disfigurement. Her face was melted, strangely mottled and discolored and misshapen. Hers was a lonely adolescence, a life consigned to being a hideous freak.
Even meeting her again for the first time in 25 years was a jarring experience. Unmarried, she lived the life of a biker and made her living wherever she could make it. Her scars and discoloration had softened, but something in her had hardened and become bitter and resigned.
Fast forward 45 years:
Now imagine the fate of women in the Hell of Islam's domain with this 'skin gun'.
Hat tip to Allahpundit at Hot Air.