Concussion Protocol
Copyright© 2021 by Kim Cancer
Satan Says
“You’re a murderer,” shouts Satan, gleefully. Satan is faceup, swimming along the hardwood floor, as if he’s in a pool, doing backstrokes.
“I’m a murderer,” Kyle mutters as he jogs and wildly splashes clear liquid all over the house, down the hallways, in every room. The rooms, to him, look like hungry mouths, the hallways like dry throats. He asseverates that the liquid he tosses is nourishing and ceremonial.
Then he finds himself back in the anteroom, lifts up and points the gun at Satan, fires three popping shots.
The bullets whiz through Satan, borough into the floor, leaving three tiny smoldering holes.
Satan, unshriven, keeps swimming backward, and flashes a toothy, seraphic smile, giggles like a schoolgirl. Satan then cries out in a sardonically phony upper-class British accent, “You can’t kill that which is already dead!”
Kyle snarls and chucks the gun to Satan, then steps onto the stairs, rides the wooden escalator up to the second floor. The house’s walls have turned to mirrors, and Kyle sees his pale reflection. He’s paler, whiter than he’s ever seen himself. His skin looks like silk draped over his bones.
He’s then wearing Teenage Ninja Turtle tighty-whiteys and is hoisted by an invisible arm, given a wedgie by an unseen force, and is slung, atomic wedgie style, into the bedroom.
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