Sunday, October 16, 2011

The Day I Met the Devil

by Von Droomer

It was a quiet midsummer day, the kind of day that nothing could stop me, especially at the fearless age of two. In those glorious times, life was easy and the world was my toilet. I had no second thoughts about strutting out into the yard, dropping my rockin' dinosaur shorts and watering the roses with my biological shower. But all would not go so well this day.

I had just found a nice clump of weeds that looked like they needed an afternoon drink. Momentarily leaving my army men and robots to fight among themselves, I dropped trow and let the Kraken loose. (Although at this point in my life, it was probably more like a cuttlefish.)

It's important to note that at this time I lived on the top of a big 'ol mountain in the Ozarks. I had about two neighbors that I could see from my house, and one of them just so happened to raise goats.

So there I am, my willy free in the summer breeze, merrily pissing away, when I hear the most terrifying sound my ears ever had the misfortune to suffer through. A noise so demonic and twisted that it could turn away the armies of heaven and give Chuck Norris a moment of pause. It was the piercing cry of evil incarnate, and it had come for my soul. In terror, I turned to see the face of nothing less than the devil himself.

Baaah, mother fucker. 

Panic swarmed through me. I could see my short, candy-filled life flashing in its godless eyes. With no time to think, no time to second-guess, I turned to flee from this nightmare beast. With my pants clinging loosely around my chubby little ankles, I waddled away furiously, every step threatening to send me tumbling to the ground to be consumed by the monster behind me. I could here its hooves spitting brimstone and burnt cookie crumbs as they pounded on the ground behind me. The breath of Satan burnt my neck as salty tears streamed down my rosy cheeks. 

My lungs gasped for air as I approached the door to my house, my sanctuary, and relief washed over me when I saw that he door was open. With no thought past my imminent freedom, I flung my tiny frame through the threshold. To my despair, the snake-tongued, furry dragon behind me entered the house - my sanctuary! - as well, its hunger for my flesh not to be denied. With no other option, I pressed forward.

Through the living room we went, and still the beast pursued. Into the kitchen, and I could still not escape. Finally, into the bathroom - a dead end - where I sought the protection of the bathtub, the thin plastic curtain serving as my last line of defense between my chidlhood innocence and eternal suffering. 

At that moment I'm not sure which was louder, the gurgling bleats of the monstrosity before me, or my own cries for a merciful death. Or maybe another, different noise coming from beyond the demon livestock, from family who had surely come to my rescue. 


I was confused, outraged, and disappointed. I was in a struggle for my life and possibly my afterlife, yet those who should be there to protect me were seemingly getting joy from my predicament. My pleads became more desperate, and I was sure this was how I would meet my end. 

Thankfully my family soon decided that they had enjoyed my terror for long enough and banished the hell beast from our fortress. I was shaken up, but alive. I had come face-to-face with the eyes of doom and escaped unharmed. I was free. 

But I swear to god, if you ask me to go to the fucking petting zoo I will falcon punch your spleen and run. Because somehow, someway, I know that those beady-eyed sheep-wannabes want nothing more than to deliver my soul to Hades. 


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