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   ooooo   ooooo  .oooooo.  oooooooooooo       HOE E'ZINE RELEASE #598
   `888'   `888' d8P'  `Y8b `888'     `8
    888     888 888      888 888                   "Child of Satan"
    888ooooo888 888      888 888oooo8
    888     888 888      888 888    "                  by Effy
    888     888 `88b    d88' 888       o               4/24/99
   o888o   o888o `Y8bood8P' o888ooooood8
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 Pre-note: Before one reads this story, a little background information is
           necessary to help one understand the basis of truth and the
           inspiration for this story, which adds to the humor.  The
           characters in this saga are real; I am the narrator, and Sara is
           one of my good friends in real life. She actually did date a guy
           named Tim who had a small vocabulary, and she did have a dog
           named Fang in the shed.  We used to joke around about killing
           Tim because he was completely playing her like a deck of cards.
           One day, I decided to write up a little story about our fantasy
           of killing Tim.  And here it is...

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        It never really made much sense to me how Sara could jump from guy
 to guy like she did.  But needless to say, I admired her persistence in
 chasing down these “hotties,” unlike myself, who jumped from guy to guy
 once about every eighteen months and hardly did a damn thing to pursue
 them.

        Now, I usually never met these guys because they often lived in a
 different town, but there was Tim.  He lived across the street from Sara,
 and she dubbed him the hottest guy in Cassville for awhile.  I never knew
 what she saw in his lack of vocal cord use, his choice of friends (which
 included four foot tall seventh graders that couldn’t count the ten brain
 cells in their heads even with a pocket calculator), his vague answers to
 each and every question Sara whipped at him with her stinging tongue, and
 his small vocabulary.  I must say though, it was quite interesting how he
 could get away with answering every question in about four separate
 answers: "Maybe, probably, I don't know, tomorrow."

        If it were any other guy, Sara probably would have given up on him
 after the first week.  But no...not Tim.  She put up with his repetitive
 answers for a long time.  But when she finally realized he was playing her,
 she set out to do a number on him.

        And it cost him, big time.

 [-----]

        Going to Sara's house when she baby-say on Wednesday nights was
 like trying to hear a whisper at a Marilyn Manson concert.  She had the
 loudest sisters on Gods (or Satan's) earth.  If their mouths (in inches)
 equaled the decibels in their vocal cords, they would have mole holes to
 the extent of Tim's bullshit (which was extremely large, mind you).

        On such a particular afternoon, Sara and I were just hanging out in
 her room, discussing what the adults say is such a useless waste.  It
 defied everything in the Ten Commandments, but since Sara had broken all of
 them already, and we didn't really believe in that religious bullshit, we
 didn't give a flying fuck.  It defied the saying “do unto others as you
 wish others to do unto you,” and twisted it around to “do unto others as
 they do unto you and multiply it tenfold.”  Yes, this little thing was as
 sweet as candy after you eat a pickle, it gave you giddy satisfaction, a
 zillion times more than the supposedly satisfying Snickers bar, and it left
 you feeling like a winning lottery ticket.

        Yes, I am talking about revenge.

        "He played me," Sara sneered, gulping her cappuccino and spilling
 some on the floor.

        "Here," I said, handing her a cotton aqua dress we used to mop up
 our cappuccino messes.

        She wiped the mess up and threw the dress into the trash, it's
 permanent storage place.

        "Stupid fucknut," she carried on, her shaky hands grabbing a
 Marlboro and lighting it.

        "Here," I said, giving her an ashtray.  It reminded me of Hawaii,
 with all the volcanoes and ashes spewing out of the top.  The only thing
 missing was the lava.

        "I need the notebook," Sara said.  "I need to write about what a
 stupid fucker Tim is."

        The "notebook" was basically what the name implied, only it was
 special because it contained practically every shred of information we
 passed by in our daily lives.  If we had a wedgie, it went right into the
 notebook.

        "Here," I said.  I was beginning to feel like a broken record.
 That was how it was when the whole ordeal with Tim was escalating.  Sara
 talked, I listened.  Not that I minded.  I usually didn't talk unless I
 had something important to say back then.  I'm not sure it was a good
 thing, but then again, I could be dead right now if I had decided to open
 my mouth at Sara.  It didn't leave much room for joking around though, but
 after the whole episode, melodrama, tragedy, whatever you would call it,
 with Tim, I found my lockjaw sufficiently cured.

        "Die, die, die," Sara chanted, a faraway look in here eyes.  "You
 lie, you cry, pull the trigger, and die."

        I looked at her in alarm.  Here she was, being driven mad before my
 eyes.  I knew it was only a matter of time before she pulled out the chalk
 and drew a pentagram on her floor, and drove to a farm to seize a goat in
 the dead of the night to slaughter and implant in Tim's bedroom.  I
 wondered how many bodies were buried in her backyard.  Perhaps she was
 running out of places to hide the carcasses.  Oh, how I shivered then.

        Sara was humming the Twighlight Zone to herself, a devilish little
 smile on her face.  I pictured her in her devil costume she wore several
 weeks back for Halloween, her forked tail dangling mercilessly, cigarette
 smoke billowing around her as she laughed evilly.

        "Revenge," she drawled, her tongue savoring the words like a dog
 licking its chops after it hunted down a tasty cat.  "Rrrrevennnnnge.
 REVENGE."  She licked her lips and took another drag off her cigarette.

        Pictures of devils dancing in my head.  I knew it was over.  Tim was
 as good as dead.  Might was well dig the grave right then and there.  Kill
 him and wrap him in flypaper and send him to the meat factory.

        Laughs bubbled up in her throat.  The laughing grew more insane and
 loud as I stared daggers at her, my eyes as big as golf balls, my mouth
 hanging open.

        "What is it?" I asked her.  "What are you thinking?"

        "The perfect plan," Sara said, rubbing her hands together in
 pleasure.  "The perfect plan for revenge."

        I leaned forward, interested.  It could be anything now.  Stuff
 socks in his mouth and dump him in the icy Mississippi?  Entangle him in
 the clothesline and light him on fire?  Scald him with cappuccino and peel
 off his skin?

        "I need your help," Sara said, glancing in my direction.

        I was so curious that I was willing to agree to anything.  "I'll
 help," I answered quickly.  I knew then that the ashtray no longer would
 lack lava because I felt like a volcano ready to burst, the magma flowing
 swiftly to the top.

        "Good," Sara whispered excitedly.  "Good, good, good, good, good,
 good, good, good, good, goodie, goodie, goodie..."

        "Good God," I whispered to myself under my breath, though "Good
 Satan" would have been preferable.

        Sara went off her rocker completely and totally right then.  She
 demonstrated reverse peristalsis and spewed cappuccino and Reeses chunks
 all over the room.  She flung herself against the walls repeatedly.  She
 began to spin, faster and faster and faster, until she fell on her ass
 and skidded across the room.

        There came a small knock at her bedroom door.  A brunette head
 poked in.  It was her sister Stephanie.  "Sara--"

        Sara looked up at her, fire burning in her once cool blue eyes.
 "Grrrraarrrr!" she growled in anger.  It was the most inhuman sound I
 thought I had ever heard.  It sounded like it had come from the depths of
 Hell!

        Stephanie screamed and fled.  I could hear her screaming all the
 way downstairs.

        About this time I realized that I had shrunk into a little ball,
 practically groping the wall in fear and bewilderment.

        Sara slowly turned her disheveled head towards me.  Her hair was
 sticking out in every direction, her skin white, and her eyes...they were
 red!  So help me God (or Satan), they were red, like two pools of Tim's
 blood!  I began to feel dizzy.

        "You must help me," she said in a low, gravelly voice, rasping to
 get the words out.

        I knew I had no choice but to obey.

 [-----]

        That afternoon produced a change in Sara.  Not one of those
 one-eighties where she would have become a geek with a textbook glued to
 her hand and a calculator in her back pocket and Einstein's scientific
 formula tattooed on her forehead.  No, it was a one-eighty in the opposite
 direction, aiming straight down to communion with some unknown demons I
 had never witnessed in any spell or hex I had read about.  Sara spent most
 of her time mumbling things in strange tongues I'm sure no one but Satan
 had ever heard before.

        Even her appearance altered.  Her wardrobe now consisted of mostly
 red and/or black.  The red came naturally because of her monstrous supply
 of Chicago Bulls shirts.  She took her blue jeans and bathed them in tar
 so they turned black.  Whenever I was around her, she smelled like a
 driveway freshly paved in the oppressing heat of August.  She wore black
 lipstick and eyeliner and dyed her hair the color of blood.  People at
 school began to compare her to Dennis Rodman.  Once, I suppose I didn't
 warn her enough about what she was becoming, and she ended up wearing her
 devil suit to school.

        By this time, about two weeks later, I already knew all about Sara's
 plan to desecrate Tim.  Needless to say, some of her insane enthusiasm was
 beginning to rub off on me, and I felt a need to do him in, too.

        Sara was what I would literally call the master of depredation, and
 she was about to prove the title.  And I was going to help her.

 [-----]

        It was Friday night.

        The time was 6:30 P.M.

        I was all ready to go.

        I grabbed the rope and left for Sara's house.

        Upon my arrival, I found something most interesting happening in
 the kitchen.  Sara was crouched under the table, a black candle lit between
 her legs.  Normally, I would have made a remark about something gross, but
 the new Sara did not tolerate any insult whatsoever.  I had to be extremely
 careful.

        Sara didn't see me, even though I was peering under the table.  She
 was rocking back and forth madly, her eyes narrowed into slits, staring at
 something I couldn't see, probably little devils dancing around the candle
 and crawling up her legs, darting in and out of her mouth.  She rasped to
 herself.  I couldn't quite make out the words and I was certain I wouldn't
 be able to understand them.

        "Zzzzaaaowingtowa koo mada," she said in delight.

        "Yeah, me too," I replied into space.

        Sara's eyes opened all the way and she peered up at me.  Suddenly,
 recognition clouded her face.  "Heeeeeeeerrrrreee," she growled, grinning.
 Her teeth looked like candy corn.  She hadn't brushed them in weeks.

        "Yes, I'm here," I answered.  I held out the rope.

        Sara's face filled with delight at the sight of the rope.  She
 laughed, and it sounded like a low growl repeating over and over and over.
 The sound filled the room.

        "Where are your sisters and your mom and Bob?" I asked, looking
 around.

        "Buried in the basement," she rasped.

        I was almost positive that wasn't true, but I didn't dare question
 her about it.  The results could be disastrous.

        Suddenly, somebody knocked at the front door.  It was Tim.

        Sara's mouth slowly curled up into a hideous grin.  Devils danced in
 her eyes.  "Showtime," she said in a low, growling, demonic voice.  In the
 same voice, she giggled uncontrollably.

 [-----]

        Tim stood in the middle of the living room, looking distinctly
 uncomfortable, the slimeball.  Sara sashayed around him, her forked tail
 whipping him in the ass.  Yes, she was wearing her devil suit again.  Her
 black lips mocked at him, "Timmy, you're awfully quiet tonight.  Is
 something wrong?"

        Tim actually looked like he was thinking for a moment (he had a
 brain?).  Then he said, "I don't know."

        I sighed to myself.  That answer was inevitable, I thought.

        Sara looked slightly annoyed.  "Come outside and smoke a cigarette
 with me," she said coaxingly.

        "It's cold out," Tim replied.

        "Are you scared?  CHICKEN?" she screamed.  "BAWK BAWK BAWK BAWK
 BAWK BAWK BAWK BAWK!!!"

        Tim looked freaked out.  "Okay," he mumbled.

        The three of us walked outside to the shed.  Sara batted her
 eyelashes at him.  "Would you like to see my dog?" she asked.

        Tim was confused, the poor boy.  But I didn't sympathize with him.
 He replied, "Why?"

        "Because my dog is nice and fluffy," she rasped.  "I think you two
 will get along well."

        She opened the shed door and gestured for Tim to look in.  Then she
 looked at me.  It was my cue.  I seized Tim's hands behind his back and
 began to bind them together.

        "WHAT THE--" he screamed, but was silenced as Sara stuffed a pair of
 her tarred black underwear in his mouth.

        He kicked and he moaned and he gagged, but he was no match for our
 newly found strength.  We successfully tied him up and dumped him face
 first in the shed as Fang gnawed at his face hungrily.

        Sara locked the she door gleefully.  She kicked at it insanely and
 rasped unintelligible words into the crack.

        Satisfied, we turned around and walked back into the house.  We
 could hear Fang and Tim wrestling around for dominance of the shed.

 [-----]

        Several Weeks Later.

        I suppose you are wondering what became of poor Tim by now.  He is
 back home, kind of safe.  The cops heard him beating on the third night of
 his abduction and released him.  They pried open the door with a crowbar to
 find a bloody pulp of flesh where his nose had once been.  His teeth were
 scattered about the shed, and Fang was licking up a puddle of piss and
 blood.

        Tim never talks anymore.  He just sits there and shakes his head
 uncontrollably.  He doesn't go to school; he just sits in his room all
 day, grasping white tufts of fur that came from Fang's back.  He never
 takes baths or brushes his teeth.  He is slowly decaying.

        It's such a shame it had to end this way.

        As for Sara, she was arrested and placed in a mental ward.  She
 resides in a padded room, where she constantly flings herself against the
 walls.

        Not long after she was committed, the police dug up some bodies in
 her basement, but they didn't belong to her family after all.  To this day,
 the bodies have not been identified, but there is strong suspicion that the
 charred remains belong to two ex-boyfriends of hers, Jared and Derick, who
 had been missing two weeks prior to Sara's arrest.

        As for me, I denied the whole story of my involvement and am living
 happily at home.  Sara and Tim are deemed insane, so the police wouldn't
 listen to them.  Not that Tim said anything anyway.  He doesn't talk
 anymore.

        I visit Sara once a week.  I would bring her cigarettes, but the
 doctors claim them to be too dangerous for her to smoke.  She barely speaks
 English anymore.  Most of her words are in that devil language, and I am
 pleased to say that I am learning to understand it and speak to her in it.
 Mostly what she talks about is intermixed in between Tim and death and
 Fang's teeth.  I tell her about school, but she doesn't hear me.  She only
 hears what I have to tell her about Tim's progress, but since he isn't
 progressing, she just laughs and laughs and laughs...

        The last English words I heard her say were: "I am the devil.  I am
 your maker.  I made you what you are.  Now you have no choice but to obey
 me."

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 [ (c) !LA HOE REVOLUCION PRESS!      HOE #598 - WRITTEN BY: EFFY - 4/24/99 ]
