Halloween

Ken Hawkins assumed the phlebotomists would like to take advantage of the spooky Halloween theme, being a blood bank and everything. Ken was always up for a good gag and figured the place would be decorated like a graveyard, and all the techs would be dressed like vampires.

That Halloween night, as he approached the front door of the blood bank, he was not disappointed. Fake spiderwebs adorned the entrance, and the window was blacked out, so you couldn’t see inside. As he turned the doorknob and stepped onto a mat inside the entryway, he heard a mournful howl and someone saying, “Enter at your own risk.” Ken knew that was a prerecorded chip thing that activated when his weight pressed down on the mat. “Nice touch,” he thought.

They had even tricked out the fluorescent overhead lights, so most of them were out, and the few that remained flickered like those in every bad horror movie he had ever seen. Always safety conscious, he wondered about the potential tripping hazards of such poor and strobe-like lighting but supposed that was not his problem. As Ken cautiously approached the receptionist’s desk, he saw a woman he didn’t recognize from previous visits. Typically, a sweet, older, probably retired woman was at the receptionist station, but this woman was much younger. She was dressed all in black; her face was ghostly white with some sort of pancake makeup. Dark circles surrounded her eyes, and fake blood dripped from the corner of her mouth.

She smiled sheepishly and said, “Can I bite you? I mean, can I help you?”

Dear Rob,

By now your memories should be returning. I know you won’t be feeling guilty but, if there are any lingering human conscience-like reflexes, please know that I have done this—gladly! Enthusiastically even!—of my own free will.

We have been friends since you turned six years old. Our family was assigned to watch after you and help you awaken when you entered puberty. Unfortunately, your mother felt something was wrong with you when you lashed out at those bullies when we were nine (you were fucking brutal man, it was awesome!). She had a priest perform an exorcism on you. You’ve been pretty meek and mild ever since then.

The problem was that you didn’t have a demon in you. You are actually the Great Prince of Hell, Orobas born in human form now that the end-times have begun.

He hated Mrs. Critsch, who would come in constantly complaining about pain and picking up enough pain meds to take down a thoroughbred; and some wine to chase it. Every week it was a new pain and a new prescription. Never once a nice word; never once a hello.

He hated little Toby Walsh, who would spend way too long looking at the fashion magazines while slowly squeezing the front of his pants. When the eleven-year-old was done sexually exploring himself, he would linger around the candy until he thought no one was looking so he could pop a few pieces in his pocket and run out.

There was Father Jessup, the priest that would lounge by the counter, disturbingly sucking on his Icee’s straw while watching that slut, Katie Carlson play pinball.

There was handyman Ted Kline, who was always out to seduce a wife while their husbands were at work, with his tan skin and premeditated lingering glare.

Ted’s current conquest was Mrs. Hathaway, the only real estate agent in the area, there to take advantage of people’s misfortunes as their houses were closed in upon by the bank.

Speaking of banks he hated Paul Theurber, who was always too on top of the rent, as though it was going into his own pocket. He’d always show up a day early with a warning.

He hated them all. The population of Richfield was about one hundred and fifty, and Lonny knew each and every one of them; and knew, in detail, how much and why he hated each and every one of them.