MUMMY
DEAR
My hands were white white white
Now they're red red red
My eyes were coals, now they're diamonds --
Now you're dead dead dead
My stone face laughed
Into your dead silent face
Do you recognize me?
You created me
You twisted my soul into your twisted mold
Looks like you made a monster, Mummy.
Looks like you got a dose
Of your own medicine, Mummy dear.
How does it taste?
Screwtape read over the macabre poem once more, enjoying the implacable hatred pouring out of it. This was more like it! Some good news at last. Nice meter and cadence, too. There was a letter attached -- from Glubwart, detailing his latest coup in glowing verse:
My dear Sir:
I am pleased to present you with FOUR (4) sweets, delivered. (None for the Enemy.) The mother, the “victim” in this case, repeatedly sold her underage daughter to the mother's adult boyfriends, who in turn supplied the mother with money, drugs and alcohol. The girl ran away from home twice, but returned each time, to be abused again.
The case drew to its climax when the daughter, now a teenager, found a serious boyfriend. The mother refused to let the daughter see the young man, because it would have interferred with her arrangements with her “gentleman callers” for drugs and alcohol.
The daughter's rage reached a boiling point. She plotted with her boyfriend and one of the boyfriend's pals to kill her mother. (Can you imagine a sweeter scenario, sir?)
The trio approached the sleeping woman with baseball bats and knives. Her demise was most painful and horrible, I assure you, sir. A lot of hysterical, desperate screaming, a lot of blood. The woman knew what was happening to her, and who was doing it to her. She woke up after the first blow and tried, horror-stricken, to defend herself, but the knives kept coming, sticking, gushing.
Oh, it was lovely, sir! I wish you could have been there! I have enclosed a poem, written by the daughter before the murder, for your enjoyment. The mother's soul, of course, has already arrived. The other three are on the way, to be delivered immediately after their executions (the state made an exception in this case, and ordered the death of all three, despite their youth).
There's a footnote, sir -- we have a good chance of getting one more sweet out of this case. The girl's father -- the mother's first boyfriend -- disappeared after she became pregnant (a cliched, but fulfilling tale!). He is now deep in cocaine and alcohol addiction, and steals to support his habits.
I can virtually assure you that we will have him, too.
Your obedient servant,
Glubwart
Scewtape put the letter aside, sighed contentedly and leaned back in his huge leather chair. He lit up one of his favorite Cuban cigars, poured himself an extra large glass of brandy and slurped greedily. That Glubwart! What a rascal! I knew he would come through! We must give the old sod a call.
Screwtape leaned over lazily flipped the switch on his intercom. “Yes, Mr. Screwtape?” Desiree Caliente's voice asked.
“Get me Glubwart on the line, Miss Caliente.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Glubwart's barely contained exuberance reported itself on the phone.
“Yes sir? Glubwart here.”
“Well done, my boy,” Screwtape beamed. “A real coup! It looks like you've finally learned something.”
“Yes, sir. We certainly came out on top this time! Four sweets for us -- maybe five -- and none for the Enemy! Zip. Zero. Nada. Nichts.”
“No more of that five to one stuff, eh, Glubwart?” Screwtape teased. “Looks like I won't have to eat you after all, Glubwart. Good thing, too. I don't think you'd be too tasty. Hah, hah.”
Glubwart's laugh on the other end of the line was a bit strained. “Er...Thank you, sir,” he said, awkwardly. There was hardly a proper response to the news that one is not to be devoured by one's superior.
Screwtape felt tempted, but refrained from calling the Boss immediately. There would be time. Let the Boss call me to complain about some petty failing, and I'll spring this on him. Of course, Screwtape would take credit for the incident. [“I was deeply involved personally in this case, Your Lowness. I instructed my underling in every detail.”] It was only fair. Chief demons always get blamed for their underlings' incompetence, shouldn't they also take credit for their successes?
My hands were white white white
Now they're red red red
My eyes were coals, now they're diamonds --
Now you're dead dead dead
My stone face laughed
Into your dead silent face
Do you recognize me?
You created me
You twisted my soul into your twisted mold
Looks like you made a monster, Mummy.
Looks like you got a dose
Of your own medicine, Mummy dear.
How does it taste?
Screwtape read over the macabre poem once more, enjoying the implacable hatred pouring out of it. This was more like it! Some good news at last. Nice meter and cadence, too. There was a letter attached -- from Glubwart, detailing his latest coup in glowing verse:
My dear Sir:
I am pleased to present you with FOUR (4) sweets, delivered. (None for the Enemy.) The mother, the “victim” in this case, repeatedly sold her underage daughter to the mother's adult boyfriends, who in turn supplied the mother with money, drugs and alcohol. The girl ran away from home twice, but returned each time, to be abused again.
The case drew to its climax when the daughter, now a teenager, found a serious boyfriend. The mother refused to let the daughter see the young man, because it would have interferred with her arrangements with her “gentleman callers” for drugs and alcohol.
The daughter's rage reached a boiling point. She plotted with her boyfriend and one of the boyfriend's pals to kill her mother. (Can you imagine a sweeter scenario, sir?)
The trio approached the sleeping woman with baseball bats and knives. Her demise was most painful and horrible, I assure you, sir. A lot of hysterical, desperate screaming, a lot of blood. The woman knew what was happening to her, and who was doing it to her. She woke up after the first blow and tried, horror-stricken, to defend herself, but the knives kept coming, sticking, gushing.
Oh, it was lovely, sir! I wish you could have been there! I have enclosed a poem, written by the daughter before the murder, for your enjoyment. The mother's soul, of course, has already arrived. The other three are on the way, to be delivered immediately after their executions (the state made an exception in this case, and ordered the death of all three, despite their youth).
There's a footnote, sir -- we have a good chance of getting one more sweet out of this case. The girl's father -- the mother's first boyfriend -- disappeared after she became pregnant (a cliched, but fulfilling tale!). He is now deep in cocaine and alcohol addiction, and steals to support his habits.
I can virtually assure you that we will have him, too.
Your obedient servant,
Glubwart
Scewtape put the letter aside, sighed contentedly and leaned back in his huge leather chair. He lit up one of his favorite Cuban cigars, poured himself an extra large glass of brandy and slurped greedily. That Glubwart! What a rascal! I knew he would come through! We must give the old sod a call.
Screwtape leaned over lazily flipped the switch on his intercom. “Yes, Mr. Screwtape?” Desiree Caliente's voice asked.
“Get me Glubwart on the line, Miss Caliente.”
“Yes, sir.”
A moment later, Glubwart's barely contained exuberance reported itself on the phone.
“Yes sir? Glubwart here.”
“Well done, my boy,” Screwtape beamed. “A real coup! It looks like you've finally learned something.”
“Yes, sir. We certainly came out on top this time! Four sweets for us -- maybe five -- and none for the Enemy! Zip. Zero. Nada. Nichts.”
“No more of that five to one stuff, eh, Glubwart?” Screwtape teased. “Looks like I won't have to eat you after all, Glubwart. Good thing, too. I don't think you'd be too tasty. Hah, hah.”
Glubwart's laugh on the other end of the line was a bit strained. “Er...Thank you, sir,” he said, awkwardly. There was hardly a proper response to the news that one is not to be devoured by one's superior.
Screwtape felt tempted, but refrained from calling the Boss immediately. There would be time. Let the Boss call me to complain about some petty failing, and I'll spring this on him. Of course, Screwtape would take credit for the incident. [“I was deeply involved personally in this case, Your Lowness. I instructed my underling in every detail.”] It was only fair. Chief demons always get blamed for their underlings' incompetence, shouldn't they also take credit for their successes?
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