I’ve been an Imp for far too long. No promotion to my choice of demon, ghoul, or poltergeist until I can get at least one good, messed up murder spree completed. I’ve sat on many potentially great, terrible shoulders. I’ve worked the thoughts of many who “coulda-been,” but none pulled through. They all went crazy and died before they could do anything.
My first–Bartholomew the Court Jester: he was going to turn all the royalty’s heads into hand puppets and put on a performance I called, “The Royal Family at Dinner,” complete with 3 acts. He wound up helping some kid pull a dagger out of a rock, changed his hat, his name, and called himself a “wizard.” They played “King” and “Wizard” for months until the kid’s mom caught on and didn’t let them hang out anymore. Bartholomew lost it and ran off to some bog, ate a bunch of toads, and sank in a mudpit.
My 132nd–Morty the Undertaker: age 24, wound up buried alive in a magician’s coffin. The magician had actually died; Morty dove in before the funeral to be with 80 year old “Magnificent Vincent” for all eternity. He was supposed to carve out children’s spleens and serve them as hors d’oeuvres at their own wakes. He loved the idea. Once I got the cogs in his brain greased up, they started producing even more gruesome recipes than I could come up with. He was the ticket to my promotion. Instead, he fell in love with Vincent who was performing at a little girl’s birthday party. That little girl was the first, and only, victim I selected for Morty–he failed to kill her.
I was distraught. Morty was my 132nd failure at making a disturbing serial killer. 133 failures means that I would get demoted and sent back to purgatory. Oh, the paperwork of purgatory. Endless. No shredders. It gives me goosebumps just thinking about it. Bah.
My last chance was at that party. She was there when Vincent died. Vincent rejected Morty’s advances and Morty knew in his heart that he had to be with Vincent forever. He spiked the magician’s drink with formaldehyde. Vincent heaved violently before the small girl who had just turned 10. Little girl with hair pulled back in a French braid and eyes the color of damp mulch. She just gazed at him as the glass in his eyes replaced his soul. Then she did the most beautiful thing; she grinned.
It was my invitation into that wonderful, freshly corrupted mind of hers. And she was open to suggestion. I started her off on her brother’s G.I. Joes. First task: carving out their eyes and removing their limbs. Second: practice on stray animals. On her 15th birthday, she was ready and I couldn’t be more proud! We wandered through her birthday sleepover; she and I were the only ones still awake. All 12 girls were sound asleep. All it took were two simple words: “Jessica, Kill.”