Creative Writing Assignment - The Ken and Barbie Killers Make A Deal With The Devil

 Doing a Number on Mister Two and his Three Wishes

University of Windsor. 4th year. Creative Writing Assignment - Stephen Weir - story has copyright

 I know that I can’t out wish Lucifer, that Old-Scratch. It is well known If one gets three wishes and Number One is to demand three more, punishment is coming Big Time.  Satan style. He is bound by God to make people like me pay for their avarice and sins.

Kidnapped. Beaten. Raped. Theft. Soul Destroying. God knows I have done it to more than a few angels in my time.

Or maybe he will get all humourous and transfer me into the body of Helen Henny the chicken bassist with Munch's Make-Believe Band at Chuck E. Cheese's. In between playing that maddening Happy Birthday ditty He will force-feed me day old pineapple pizza until I break down and wish away those extra wishes. It could take decades, but Mephistopheles doesn’t care, he revels in timeless torture.

Back on Earth I have always done my homework. Before I paint a bull’s eye on the back of my target, I must know everything about her. Height. Weight. Corn Flakes or Captain Crunch?

And so too now I study the Prince of Darkness. No Not Mick Jagger. What does he do for female companionship since Lilith wife Number One turned to dust? Is he lonely? Seriously. No painting the devil on my door if I can sub for the dead wife or Angel Liberty his recently deceased daughter. Any other fallen angel chillin’ in Hell will do just as well.

I wish I could wish it all over again. I asked for eternal life (with a rider for being of sound body and mind). Hate to admit it, he got the better of me. It doesn’t pay to skip the small print but then again I can’t read Aramaic nor Demoniac.

As they say, the Devil is in the Details, so now I am just 6 inches tall with a here-to-eternity wardrobe of Barb. I will spare the details about Ken, unfortunately he isn’t anatomically correct – I checked.

Oh, and the apartment. Wish Number Two.  More size issues.  I am sure the Borrowers would put their souls on the market if they could buy this place. A spacious two floor unit inside the walls of an old house. Electricity spliced from a nearby power outlet. No fridge, just a devilishly clever icecube that is internal. It won’t melt. 

No TV but just a spy hole that allows me to see the big people’s TV (can hardly wait when the horrible children grow out of Sesame St.) Last week I climbed out of my unit down the Budgie cage ladder. Managed to scoff a smart phone and a never-empty credit card. 

The food literally stinks here  –  will piss me off till time stands still. My dinner is the bait on an eternally loaded rat trap. I am sure I will get the hang of getting the cheese off the trigger - but does it have to always be Gorgonzola?

The unbearable stench of my meals is why I lost my cool and any chance to get a reparational replacement Wish Two.

“I wish to God I could eat a Whopper whenever I want to” I yelled to the heavens.

“ YOU dare to call His name,”  growled the Devil. “He knows all. He watched you kill those girls. Poisoning your sister didn’t get you Brownie points either. Heroin. Kidnapping. Torture. Anthropophagy.  He has signed off on all of your wishes – He was the one pushing the stinky rat trap cheese. “

I won’t let myself hate the Evil One. It would only bring him joy and the game is still on. My revenge is best served dead cold. 

Wish Three?  I command the Devil to eat my heart and absorb my soul. That is to happen at midnight, Friday the 13th. As I told Ken this morning, even Beelzebub won’t be able to withstand the pain.

 

Signed In Blood

Karla Hamolka. 

© Copyright September 2022 Stephen J. Weir

Illustrations from the Nuremberg Chronicle, by Hartmann Schedel (1440-1514)