Daemonic Easter Bonnets & Bloody Ice Cream

by Gail Fulkerson

Easter weekend was in full swing. Millions of people rose from their warm beds, got dressed in their best Sunday-go-to-meetin’ duds, and entered the doors of a church on Sunday to wish Jesus a happy reincarnation day. They filled the pews, making sure their neighbours saw them and what they were wearing before the priest or minister began the service. They gave generously when the plate was passed, putting in dollar bills instead of coins. The big spenders were accused of buying their way into heaven, although they’d halfheartedly deny it.

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On this Easter Sunday, Frank and his cronies were concealed in the shadows as the parishioners filed out of the church. The men loosened ties and opened the top buttons of their shirts, the kids ran down the steps to meet with friends to make plans for later in the day. Women removed sweaters as they walked gingerly on high heels along gravel paths to the family sedans.

It was all going according to plan. The daemons waited for the last vehicle to leave before they entered the church, gaining access through the rustic front doors and stained-glass windows. Inside, the minister and a few elders were in the kitchen discussing Easter matters as they unwittingly sipped tea spiked with a sedative that Frank’s bff, Larry, had slipped into the teapot before the water was poured.

Side by side, the two best friends enjoyed the minutes watching the humans go from alert to unconscious as they sipped and giggled, their heads nodding, the teacups and saucers dropping from sleeping hands, and their bodies falling from chairs into dishevelled yet colourful Easter-dyed heaps on the floor.

Frank and Larry each grabbed an unconscious human off the floor and played with them like dolls, posing them like action figures and making them do things they would never have done while awake. It was one of the highlights of the daemon’s day, perhaps of the entire weekend.

While the two besties were having fun in the church, a horde of daemons were spreading out over the town like an evil dark cloud, intent upon grabbing as many humans as they could before they ran from their sedans and barricaded themselves in their homes. Every human hunted by daemons fervently believed they would be safe within the walls of their abodes, but that belief was violently shattered once the daemons broke down doors, smashed windows, and ripped roofs off of houses to get at their prey. The humans screamed and pleaded with Jesus to save them, but to no avail. Jesus was incommunicado and couldn’t or wouldn’t answer any of their prayers.

The prayers, screams, fires, sirens, and mayhem began to subside sometime after 11:00 Monday night. Most of the daemons had filled their quota of humans by then, and were returning to their nests with their catch. Years ago, daemons who participated in the annual Easter Massacre gathered in the centre of town to begin the process of disarticulating, gutting, and wrapping human parts in butcher paper, ready for the freezer. The practice was abandoned, however, when Satan accused his neighbours of encroaching upon his property for the sole purpose of stealing meat and other victuals. The culprits, denying any involvement, conveniently disappeared shortly after the accusation. Also, their house burned to the ground. The daemonic community chalked it up to angry humans seeking revenge, and that was the end of it. No one said a word when Satan’s household took delivery of a big new freezer, and immediately stacked it to the hilt with meat that ‘miraculously’ appeared at Satan’s back door. No one ever questioned their supreme leader’s actions or motives, since accusers didn’t survive long enough to apologize for or make amends.

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The thrill of hunting devout humans was just the beginning. Daemonic Easter Weekend had a carnival atmosphere, much like Mardi Gras but without the beads. Instead, there was a teacup ride that sprayed a mist of diced guts at the riders — a favourite among the younger daemons — and a pie-eating contest in which many daemons wanted to participate, because the pies were made from ground gnomes spiced with human sweat and the watery liquid drained from blisters. There were shooting galleries filled with human corpses to amuse the little imps and their parents. Bbq’d people ribs, lizard chops, and garter snake steaks were on the menu, along with gallstone ice cream — served in a cone or a bowl — and the ever-popular blood and bile milkshakes.

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It was getting late, and Frank was tired, and bloated with all the things he’d eaten throughout the day. He tried calling an Uber so he wouldn’t have to walk or fly home, but no one was answering his calls. It took some effort, but Frank was able to stand up and take some staggering footsteps in the general direction of home. The more he worked at it, the better his footwork became, until he finally found his stride. With renewed confidence, Frank made it home within hours, a trip that usually took him mere minutes. He was out of breath but still alive. As the front door crashed open, Frank briefly wondered what had happened to Larry. He’d last seen him accosting an elderly man in the middle of town, shredding the man’s overcoat and suit jacket to get at the meaty centre.

Frank’s knees buckled and he fell face first onto the mat just inside the front door, cracking his forehead on the hard stone floor.

“Well, crap. That’s gonna leave a mark,” Frank thought to himself. He wanted to get up and go to his room, but his body was spent, so he slept where he fell.

Later that morning, Frank was awoken by the aroma of frying bacon. As he stumbled into the kitchen and took a seat at the table, Frank’s mom slid him a plate of eggs and bacon, laced with arsenic, just the way he liked them.

“Coffee is still brewing, but it won’t be long,” his mother informed him. “Here, have a glass of stomach juices and intestinal fluids while you wait.”

“Thanks, Ma, but I think I’ll pass on the juice,” replied Frank. “My guts are inflamed as it is, and I don’t want to risk having them explode on me again. That really hurt, and I couldn’t eat for months afterward, until they regrew. I don’t want to go through that again. Losing my arms was bad enough, but regrowing my entire digestive system was the worst,” he recalled.

Just then, Larry came in, dragging a sack of bloody people parts across the kitchen floor. Frank’s mom was about to bite Larry’s head off for making a mess, but restrained herself when he revealed the contents of the sack. There, in the middle of the floor where it had been dumped, lay a glistening pile of brains, kidneys, and livers, the daemonic caviar of meats. Strewn amongst them were forks, spoons, and knives; Larry always collected cutlery from the scenes of his kills simply because he liked the way they glinted through the all the gore.

“Wow! You outdid yourself, Larry,” congratulated Frank.

“Thanks, man. I appreciate that. Hey, Mrs. Satan, is there any more of your famous coffee left? I’d love a cup if there is,” said Larry.

“Sure thing, Larry, I’ll grab a mug for you,” Frank’s mom replied, grabbing the freshly brewed coffee off the stove and pouring mugs full of the steaming hot liquid for the three of them. A drip from the pot landed on the table and ate a neat hole through it.

“Don’t get any coffee on yourself or you might lose a body part,” she warned, as she sat down to enjoy her mug. 

Gail Fulkerson is a writer who specializes in the supernatural. She lives with her family in Saskatchewan, where she is working on another story involving Frank the daemon.