I’m putting a lot of work into the self-publishing venture for the last novel which was actually written in 2019. Update-wise, I’m already 69,000 words into writing the first draft of the next novel, but wanted to see what I can pull off with the last story through the self-publishing portal. Little by little, I’ve come to the conclusion that going the traditional publishing route with your novel output is sort of like selling your soul to the guy in a red suit downstairs. Particularly if you’re a gluten-enhanced, nobody like myself. Thus, we have this essay/short story re-post since I’m pressed for time.

You bet this essay is Halloween-related. Wouldn’t make much sense to post this one in April, does it? An earlier version of this essay actually got posted way back in 2015, but this newer version is different, hopefully better, and more updated. Basically, re-written in all sorts of ways. Enjoy!!

Word Count: 1,316

Embracing Your

Inner Hell-Spawn

Time to come clean all you demonic wanna-bes. You know who you are. Milksop types who slink over to the corner at a party, just so they can hide in the shadows and hope nobody notices their presence. Sooner or later someone actually does get curious, comes over, and speaks to you in all sorts of ignominious tones. You’re somewhat flattered they’ve even taken the time to talk to you. In actuality, the person initiating the conversation forgets what the two of you were talking about thirty seconds later. After which they turn their back on you and the verbal exchange ends. Just so they can go to the bathroom and ask themselves why they attended this party.

At this point you decide things could get more interesting if you make that amazing transformation. The type of physical transition that over-produceced Hollywood messterpieces easily allocate too much of their special effects budget on creating. A physically transformative action with all its bells and whistles that stuns the crowd. Easily giving flies easy, unencumbered access to the inside of the witness’ mouth.

You’ve waited all your life for this moment and now hopefully it’s actually happening. Your body begins to morph into this larger than life, scaly, horned, slobbering hell-beast, and suddenly there isn’t a single person present who doesn’t bow down to you with infinite demonstrations of fear and loathing. No more wallflower impersonations for you. Now you’re the one in charge and nobody can tell you otherwise. Of course, now you’re finally embracing your inner Hell-spawn, it feels damn good, doesn’t it? Excruciatingly sweet too. You wonder, is this sort of what sex feels like?

First off, let’s ask ourselves is this possible? You bet it is! You’ve watched more then your fair share of late night monster movies and this entitles you to know exactly how this is supposed to happen. Everyone is intimidated, and soon you’re walking around with your orb and scepter. A vicious scowl painted all over your face.

That low life scum who thought they were doing you a big favor by talking to you ten minutes ago? Now he’s getting down on his hands and knees and kissing your oversized, scab infested, (and extremely smelly) feet. Ah, how sweet…

Interestingly enough, all those good-looking women attending the party? Now they’re more than a bit intrigued with your presence and overly fascinated with you. You walk up to one of them and she asks where you’ve been all her life. Close up, she isn’t intimidated by the fact that you’ve now transformed yourself into a hairy, sewer smelling, Hell-hound. In fact, she offers you a chair as she winks at you. The chair is obviously too small so you decline the appeasement.

Instead you wave your hand, which causes more than a few annoying hangers-on to suddenly disappear, and a sea of humanity parts. An over-sized throne is quickly assembled and you slouch down in it. Your subjects are groveling big time and no one chooses to defy your authority.

Abruptly someone notices a portal to Hell which obviously allowed your transformation to take place, and rather than try to hide it, your henchmen choose to accent the passageway. A nice set of blood red curtains is hung around it and flashing LED lights are attached (global warming must be taken into consideration…). Actually, this is the sort of thing a demonic Martha Stewarttype might do in a situation such as this. You smile at the realization of this fact.

Now that you’ve achieved godlike leviathan status, it’s also high time to institute some of your loftier objectives. You’ve thought it might be kind of unique to be in the same position as all those James Bond villains throughout the years. You know the ones I’m talking about. Evil to the core creeps that their own mothers think twice about loving. Individuals who make Adolph Hitler and Joseph Stalin look like fine, upstanding citizens. You’ve got the looks for it, so why not go hog wild. Begin instituting your plans for total world domination.

Feels grand to be on such a lofty pedestal, doesn’t it? Of course it does. Then again, you didn’t get here without a fight. All those lonely nights, and multiple games of solitaire. Don’t ever forget that tumultuous night at home when the pizza deliveryman showed up two hours late and justified bringing your cold, soggy, double pie by telling you it was the fault of his car breaking down just as he was driving through a ditch. You understood his excuse and paid for the pie anyway. Was it justified? Sort of…

While we’re dwelling on the subject of your pathetic past existence, is it really necessary to go to such an extreme of transforming yourself into a demon in order to achieve a modicum of recognition? Why not, you’ve always wondered what it would feel like to be endlessly drooling, and now you’re getting a chance to experience the phenomenon. This is your opportunity.

Should you begin to abuse your minions? Maybe not since this might result in certain feelings of guilt. How about we compromise on this one? For instance, you can start whaling away on your victims, but you do it with a foam whiffle bat instead. That way none of your victims gets hurt, but you’re still finding a way to appease your inner-urge to abuse someone.

Next, let’s start to develop your plan for world domination. You’ve subjugated everyone at this party, but that’s only a small group of individuals, and your powers are on a limited scale. What to do?

Bigger is indeed better in this particular instance. Since we’re being delusional, you might as well make yourself much larger. How about gigantic? Since we’re talking, “Go big, or go home” type expansions, why not Godzilla sized?

A Gatorade flavored potion appears at your feet and you take a big gulp. Suddenly you’re growing at a rate that makes most mother’s working with a limited clothing-budget-for-their-kids shudder when late-August rolls around. Now you’re a formidable 50’ tall behemoth that forces the national guard to request additional tanks. Other huge, Hollywood type weapons that expand the movie’s production costs well beyond the studio’s limited budget scope. Then again, we’re talking federal government here, so budgets are inconsequential and basically meaningless.

You begin to saunter your way down the avenue. Well, not really saunter since earthquake-like rumbles and shakes occur with every step you take. What a great feeling of superiority? This makes you wonder why this particular dream and its subsequent reality didn’t occur a few years ago. Like before a lack of food and rent-money forced you to take that part-time garbage collection job with the city’s sanitation department?

This wonderful dream could go on for a very long time, but reality has a nasty habit of getting in the way of most things. For now though, you’ve got to figure out a way to gracefully leave this party. You could go with your normal exit strategy and silently slip out the front door when no one is looking. Nobody will notice you’re gone, and at the end of the evening the host will probably do their usual thing and wonder to themselves why they keep inviting you to these shindigs.

Instead, maybe you should jump out of your corner in a rage. Guns blazing and blood-shot eyes while you make lots of noise, flaying your arms violently, over-turning furniture, and slamming the door as you exit.

Naaah, let’s just do the usual thing and quietly slink out. That way you’ll get home in time to watch those Lawrence Welk Show reruns on PBS. It won’t be too late. Just right for sitting back on on the couch with a nice cup of warm milk, and embellishing the hell-spawn dream some more.