As I often do, I'm taking part in another Chuck Wendig Terrible Minds Flash Fiction Challenge. This one is based on this Tweet from a Twitter account that does nothing but throw out insane writing prompts. We're about to see how pure evil celebrates a birthday. And no, it's not political. But this one is.
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Everyone thinks being evil, that pure megalomaniacal evil
built on a foundation of power and endless streams of money, is easy.
I’m here to tell you, that’s not the case.
I am called many things, but I’m mostly known as Jotara,
the Crusher of Souls. My real name is Randy and I used to sell vacuum cleaners
door to door. Being the Lord of the Malevolent Keep can be challenging, but it’s
indescribably better than dealing with some soccer mom or stay-at-home dad
wearing stained sweats, talking down to you because they think they’ve finally
met the person one rung lower than them on the social ladder. They were among
the first visiting my Chamber of Nefarious Punishment. Those smug faces were
twisted canvases of pain and regret within minutes. That was a good day.
For the most part, being indescribably evil is fun. Ultimate payback to those who
mocked me when I peed my pants in fourth grade on the bus to our annual field
trip to see the world’s Largest Bottle of Ketchup. Being responsible for the
disappearances of the prom date who stood me up as a joke (and let’s not pull
any punches, she was no prize), her parents, the entire student council who
planned the prom, and the band who sang the song chosen by said student council
to represent the entire affair. The state of New Jersey thanked me afterwards
for that one.
My point being, this job doesn’t suck. At least not most
days. Like today.
My birthday.
Just because I’m the Lord of Ineffable Villainy doesn’t
mean I don’t still enjoy my birthday. I like cake. I like unwrapping presents.
I like being served the hearts of unbaptized babies whilst having those who
respect and fear me most singing “Happy Birthday.” I’m an immortal god of
repugnance and destruction, but I have feelings. I’m still just a guy, you
know?
It’s a catch 22. I can’t explain the concept of a
birthday to my loyal slaves because they are as I made them—mindless automatons
whose sole function is to follow my orders without thinking and to kill everyone
in sight. And if we’re being honest, those two taskes tend to fall under the
same umbrella. I mean, are you going to trust one of these mindless mass murder
machines to bake a red velvet cake with matching cupcakes? Of course not.
When it comes to music, I’m the first to admit I dropped
the ball there. I thought extinguishing the lives of all the musicians, actors,
and writers I admired in an effort to steal the creativity from their very
souls was a solid idea. As it happens, I didn’t actually gain their power and now the people I would’ve invited
are all too dead to show. Plus, I killed the last two guys who could’ve sang
the song from the White Album to really get the birthday celebration rolling.
You know there’s no handbook for this, right? No one
tells you how to be an all-powerful entity bathed in darkness and monstrosity. It
just happens and you do the best you can. People seem to be real cool about
stealing my ideas, though. Don’t get me wrong, I dig the ones who recognize the
artistry of what I’m doing. But the fact that little orange prick—
You know what? I’m not going there. I gave up talking politics
for Lent and I’m going to stick with it.
But just the audacity to—
Nope. Gotta have willpower.
OK.
What was I saying?
Ah, yes. I didn’t know what would work and what wouldn’t
when I got this gig. I thought, hell, I killed the guy, I can bring him back,
right? Nope. What I do is reanimate the corpse and just a shade of the soul is
left to run the body and if you think a shade can properly command a body to do
a decent version of “In Da Club,” you’re insane. You know what my options are?
Either trying to get Conway Twitty’s dead ass to sing “Happy Birthday, Darlin’,”
or Florida Georgia Line. Yeah. Florida Georgia fucking Line. One, they suck out
loud, and two, they don’t even have a birthday song. But, I killed everyone
else, so…
Then there’s the presents. Even I admit, I’m a hard guy
to shop for. I literally have $147 trillion at my disposal. So no, I’m not going
to be impressed by your grand gestures. A solid gold Ferrari? Please. Ever
driven a solid gold car? That shit is soft and you can’t even touch the damned
thing without it warping. It’s ridiculous. Oh, wait, you kidnapped the
President of France for me to use as ransom? What part of $147 TRILLION did you
not get? At this point, I would have to expand the lair to hide any more money.
I’d probably have to use the ransom to do the rebuild and you see how that’s
just a potential loss leader right there.
And I swear to Me, anyone shows up with some homemade
nonsense, I will personally bring your dead grandparents back from their
eternal slumber and make them perform the most deviant sex acts Porn Hub could never
show you while forcing you to watch every moist, gooey second. I have no
interest in seeing the results of your ill-fated struggle with art because you
think it’ll come off as kitschy and cute. No one wants your drunken interaction
with construction paper, glue, and unicorn hair, GREG.
I dunno. I just wanted a birthday, you know? I brought
Marilyn back to sing to me. Yes, that
Marilyn, and yes, that song. She
looked like a stroke victim and sang like a, well, like a stroke victim. It’s
just that—
Hang on. My phone. Sorry about that.
Oh, shit, it’s Vlad.
I have to take this, sorry.
“Привет, господин Президент!”
