chapter one ◊ eno retpahc

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Best way to answer the phone:

Mario's pizzeria and abortion clinic, your loss is our sauce.

I painfully teetered along the dark vacant street that even Siri couldn't locate. When crowned as Hell's Personal Purge, I was briefly connected to the thoughts of the human they wanted me to kill. And by 'they', I meant the demons living inside me. Personally, I believed it was to add comedy to the job.

Those jokes in kickasshumor.com... I'll thank my son for introducing the internet to me. I'll steal him a burger for waiting in the truck.

The human's thoughts triggered the souls in my stomach and they eagerly chanted, indicating I was approaching tonight's dinner. 

The bright McDonalds sign blinded my vision and I nearly walked into a parked truck.

If only Hell could feed off of Big Macs instead of humans. There was nothing wrong with fat demons-some of those thin ghosts could use the carbs.

Struggling to bury the mental voice cranking louder, I entered the restaurant and was hit by a sudden coldness. The victim's thoughts vanished and I inhaled such divine scents.

There stood twenty beefy men, full of tattoo glory while holding pathetic guns to such delicious, innocent warm victims. Pity how I yearned for the coldness these thieves were giving off.

My tongue swept across my bottom lip as the souls sensed their cold hearts. The poor cashier wasn't shoving money in the potato sack fast enough, causing one killer to shoot a trembling child. The mother's screams died momentarily.

He pressed the riffle in the cashier's side. "Faster!" the thief ordered while his buddies gave amusing pokes at the feared customers. It was touching how the cashier lady's flushed pink cheeks and smudged lipstick matched her Elsa braid.

"Why hello, darlings," I sang. "How come I wasn't invited to the party?"

The thief at the cashier jumped and on instinct turned the gun and fired. The bullet whizzed through the air, slid past my open lips and my mouth clamped shut, catching the silver with my teeth.

The hilarious pokes at the customers stopped. Silence stretched across the restaurant.

I picked out the dented bullet and flicked it off my thumb. "It would've been better if you shot a french fry or something. I actually could have digested that. We're at McDonalds for Pete's Sake."

My attention was arrested by the thief's quivering finger. "S-she's-she's a-Witch!"

I rolled my eyes. "Really," I said dryly. "What are we? In the 1800s or something?" I waved my hand over the black tank and ripped shorts I stole from Target. "Does it look like I'm wear'in your mother's drapes?"

"Get out, witch!" the thief threatened yet his smell of fear was enticing. "Get out or you'll make the biggest mistake of your life!"

A snort escaped my mouth. "Please. If you want to know about big mistakes, ask your parents."

The thief growled and pressed the gun to the cashier's head. She whimpered, shoulders shrinking in fright. "If you don't leave, she dies."

I clutched my heart and poured an exaggerated, "Oh no! Art thou threatening me? Whatever shall I do?" Suddenly, the souls roared in impatience and my eyes swirled pitch-black. A slow, wicked smile broadened across my lips, and my nails grew an inch, sharpening to catch the same gleam in my malicious eyes. "Wait-I know exactly what to do."

Now the role of Hell's personal purge was to cleanse--aka--unleash the anger and revenge that the creatures in Hell struggled to contain. 

Picture demon's pouring their anger into a jar.  The jar refills everyday and it's my job to go on the mainland and empty that cute lil' bottle.  That way, the jar won't overflow and explode and release hungry monsters into your home.  Like, would you really want a bloodthirsty, sharply fanged demon above you each time you took a shit? No.

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