“Please allow me to demonstrate. “ Dr. MurderDeath growled as his body began to adopt its viscous plasma form.

“Oh, No” yelled Good Guy Man,”he’s becoming the Doom Ooze!”

Dr. MurderDeath/Doom Ooze shoots and undulating green tentacle out toward Good Guy Man’s talking dog sidekick, TalkDog.

“What out, TalkDog,” yelled Good Guy Man.

But it was too late.

The Doom Ooze’s doom punch incapacited Talk Dog.

As he laid on the ground, he said “My dearest fellow, I fear the thread of my breath has run out on the spool.”

Good Guy Man was so distraught, he leaped through the ceiling of the barn and flew away.

The Doom Ooze soldifies and once again becomes Dr. Murderdeath.

“I guess a TalkDog really is Good Guy Man’s best friend.”

I see nothing. A vast empty void staring back at me. I want to go into it. I feel afraid and deferential to it. The void is like my father.

So basically this creature cries when its being attacked. Like it starts bawling and everyone feels really uncomfortable because they started the fight and now they’re making it seem like they’re the victim.

It’s like a regular guy but he’s mean to children and his mom. He litters and chews with his mouth open. He only takes pennies from those take-a-penny-leave-a-penny dishes. He doesn’t tip. He refers to women as femoids unironically. He livestreams. He doesn’t vote but he loves Elon Musk. He took out a second mortgage to buy cybertruck. He calls himself a MAGA Communist.

So, I have this friend named Kyle. And everybody said that I was making him up because I said he had nine arms and was a thousand years old and that he didn’t want to come to school with me because he’s shy about not being able to read. But then, three of the big kids were like making fun of and they were like “Jimmy wets the bed.” But, I don’t. I don’t wet the bed. I havent wet the bed since like third grade and my mom says that’s normal so clearly these big kids are idiots. But then they were like “ Jimmy still plays with imaginary friends.” And i was like “No, i’m eleven! I’m too old to have imaginary friends.” And the big kids said “Then where’s Kyle.” And then the coolest thing happened!

Kyle, at the uttering of his name, was awoken from his nine day slumber underneatg my dads Ford focus. And he made himself like 11 feet tall, i swear. And then he picked up the bullies and threw them into the sun.

No, mom, i’m not lying. That’s why the principal tried to call you. But the big kids were fine. They got back from the sun a little bit tan so you dont need to call their parents or anything.

“Are you dumb?”

Kelly blinks blankly at the older woman in line behind her. Stammers trying to think of a clever retort.

“Are you dumb?” The lady repeats stepping forward.

Kelly is anxious. She’s never been in a bodega before. In Ohio, they had to make their own sandwiches and no one had heard of a bacon egg and cheese.

She looks to cook for help. “Look,” he says in a thick Brooklyn accent, “You gotta make a choice: mayo no mayo.”

Kelly can’t seem to find her voice. She looks at the cat lounging on the cups of Maruchan instant ramen and telepathically says “help me.”

The dignified tabby looks at her inquisitively before responding “Yes, I will help you, Rat King. You must fulfill the prophecy.”

The tabby rears back on his hind legs and pounces onto the rude woman’s face.

Kelly runs out of the bodega, into the bright and bustling streets of Bed Stuy. The pigeons coo in admiration as they watch the true Rat King of New York City stumble toward her destiny.

9am. Target.

You always end up here on Saturday morning don’t you.

Saying you’re going to the gym.

But the route you usually take was under construction so you had to go a different way.

Take a sharp left turn away from the interstate and toward the lattice of one way surface streets named after dead presidents.

Lincoln. Taft. Garfield. Taft again because the neighbors petitioned to change the name from Jackson.

Drive under the overpass where the cyberpunks have their Tuesday night rave and the drifter shoot their Wednesday night heroin.

And there you are. The holy of holies. That hallowed red circle hovering above like a biblically accurate angel beckoning “Be not afraid, child. Candles are on sale today.”

The automatic doors gracefully glide open for you, specifically.

Walk past the shopping carts and baskets. You wish to live recklessly.

Start in the back of the store and work your wait to the front.

Gardening Supplies. Hell yeah.

You live in an apartment.

Run your hands along coils of grass green hose.

Feel the weight of the metal spade as you hold it in a firm grip.

Except, it’s not metal at all is it?

No!

It can’t be!

Oh my god!

It’s cake!

Crush the spade in your ungloved hand.

And the hose? Mint cake?

Run to an aisle more familiar to you.

Candles!

Waxy melty pungent candles.

No, bitch.

It’s allllllllllllll cake.

Are you scared?

Your hands are all sticky. Clean yourself up.

Run to the bathroom.

Notice as you flee, the floor is a little….spongey.

Touch the faucet. It’s cool. Metal.

Turn it on. Be not afraid, angel.

Out of the faucet, thick globules of cerulean frosting.

Wake up! Wake up!

Look in the mirror.

You’re cake.

You’re home.

Be not afraid.

The invitation came to you in the beak of a crow. The envelope was heavy and cream and busted in blood red lettering an address to your name. You open it and outfalls a card into gold coins. The card says in bright, happy letters

“You are cordially invited to Hades’ first birthday.”

When you arrive at the party, you are greeted at the door by Eurydice. She smiles shyly and tales your coat. You feel silly for wearing a coat to Hell.

Eurydice hands you a black and silver party hat and ushers you into the festivities.

“Oh, you made it! I’m so glad!” Hades breaks away from a conversation with a Satyr and glides over to greet you. He towers over every other guest in the party and you think to yourself “Lifts.” You’re anxious and you get catty when you’re anxious.

You bow. He is a king after all.

Hades thinks it was super weird but he knows you’ve never been here before.

“I was worried you wouldnt come! I love your podcast,” He gushes. “I wasn’t really into true crime before - I mean I know some of those guys - but boy do you know how to weave a tale!”

You are not good at taking compliments, so you smile politely and say “Happy Birthday. I see you’re turning…one?”

“It’s my first birthday ever! I was born and devoured by my father before time technically ever existed so I never knew when my birthday was and then I thought ‘Why not just pick a day?’ So I picked today! And I invited everyone thag I thought was cool!”

“Oh, wow, I’m honored.”

“But seriously, how do you do it? How do you engage with death with such pizzazz? Doesnt it bum you out?” he asks while pouring you a glass of mysterious brownish-pink liquid.

You hesitate to take it and he laughs. “It’s just jungle juice for the mortals. Don’t worry. I wouldnt pull the same trick twice.”

You take a sip and feel warthm envelop your body. “I guess I just view death as a natural part of life, even if it’s caused by unnatural forces. I mean we do things that could kill us all the time: drinking, flying, fighting. Being afraid of death is kind of like being afraid of life.”

“Being afraid of death is like being afraid of life”, he repeats slowly. Then, he claps and says “Ha, how novel!”