In Laymon's Terms

“I’ll give it my best shot.” I pulled the pick-axe out of Lady Katrina and started waving it at Assmodeus.

The creature growled at me. Then it flew over us.

It started pissing in mid-flight.

And its piss burned like acid. It actually raised blisters on us. Its tail thwacked me on the side of the head as it zipped past.

The creature was probably relieving itself to make room for dessert—me and Raven.

Assmodeus flew down the passage for another thirty feet or so, then landed, turned quickly and flew back over us to give us another spritz.

At first I wanted to just run for the exit, but I realized that the demon could fly way faster than any human could run, and I sure as Hell didn’t want to turn my back on that thing.

So the second time it flew over, I grabbed its tail and pulled down—hard.

The creature squealed like a pig as it dropped to the cave floor. And lucky for us, it landed right on one of those stalec-thingies. The pointing-up kind.

The not-so-lucky part is, that ripped open the creature like a slaughterhouse pinata, splashing us with even more shit and guts. But then, we were already painted with filth anyway, so a second coat really didn’t matter.

So I survived. But then, you probably figured that out already, since I lived to write it all down.

I took Raven to my place, where we washed each other off with a garden hose and a whole bottle of antibacterial liquid soap in the backyard. Neither of my parents were home yet, thank God.

Then we went to the police station and had to explain it all there. We drove out with a couple officers to the cave, and the rookie threw up when he saw the freaky mess that was waiting there.

Two days have passed.

The newspapers are making a huge deal out of the whole thing, I’m becoming a local hero, and I bet my Dad is going to be reelected, what with his son being so brave. And tonight I’m having my big date with Raven. She says all her friends are soooo jealous.

They should be. After all, I’m Tommy Wharton, the Fearless Demon-Slayer.

Robert Morrish

RECISELY AS THE clock struck midnight, Leonard struck his mother.

Hard.

With an axe.

Having seen more than his share of slasher movies, Leonard had thought himself prepared for the blood, but he was still startled by both its escape velocity and the sheer quantity. In the midst of his carefully-planned act, he paused for a moment, red drops trickling down his pallid features, struck by the absolute finality of what he was doing. It was that same thought that spurred him to continue. It was, after all, too late to turn back now.

He brought the carefully honed head of the axe down in less-than-careful arcs, settling into a kind of mindless rhythm, like a spastic, razor-sharp piston. Leonard’s sunken countenance took on a peculiar mix of quiet determination and fierce hatred, the two expressions briefly battling for dominance before settling themselves into their queer compromise.

He had come upon Mother in her sleep and, other than a brief initial squawk of surprise, she had offered no resistance. Soon, the only sounds were that of the clean whoosh of the axe cutting through the air, the disgustingly fleshy sound of the head striking home (nothing like the movies—Leonard had heard they used cabbage heads for that), and Leonard’s increasingly labored breathing. It went on like that.

Finally, when there was little left at his feet that was still recognizable, Leonard let the axe fall from his hands, his chest heaving and bony arms aching from the effort. He stared down at the strange mingling of springs and bones, blood and feathers, fabric and flesh, and a smile crept into place.

He had finally done it.

An act contemplated for years, but always shunned for fear of Mother’s vengeance—should he fail again, as he had botched so many of his life’s undertakings—had finally been executed. The recipient of so many years of abuse, Leonard reveled in finally turning the tables on his tormentor.

Of course, to be fair, life hadn’t always been an unforgiving cycle of punishment and forced forgiveness. He hadn’t always looked upon this woman with fear and loathing. There had been a time, a time that seemed more than a lifetime away now, when the thought of his Mother had conjured images of softness and sweetness. Leonard’s recollections of these times were tinged by a filmy haze, the soft-focus effect of a movie’s dream sequence. He remembered a distant kindness, a firm dedication, and the softness of his mother’s breast. Long-buried memories flooded Leonard; he glanced down involuntarily at the subject of his thoughts. Seeing—really seeing—the mess he had made, Leonard’s eyes bulged. He slapped a hand ineffectually over his mouth, cheeks ballooning, and sprinted for the bathroom leaving sticky red tracks in his wake.

The morning after Leonard killed his mother, he was ten minutes late for work. Confused skies threatened rain between intermittent flashes of a sun seeking center stage. Leonard worried.