by Gail Fulkerson
It had been ages since Frank sat for a psychic reading; the last one he sat for was from Mother Shipton, in 1561, just before she died from a daemon bite.
Mother Shipton told Frank that Lucifer would cast him into hell if he didn’t repent and turn his life over to Jesus. Frank howled with daemonic laughter just before he ate her head.
Ever after the Shipton reading, Frank was put off by men and women who were, or purported to be, psychic mediums. He’d go after them and do them in by whatever means he could discern from their innermost thoughts and fears. Ma Shipton was terrified she would be cast into hellfire, so that’s where Frank sent her.
He killed off Sylvia Browne in 2013, moments after one of her television appearances. He waited offstage in the wings for her and, as she walked by, took a silent but deadly swipe at her with his razor— sharp talons. Sylvia didn’t see him until it was far too late to take any evasive manoeuvres. She fell like a sack of potatoes on the polished studio floor and quickly bled out, after one of his talons had sliced open an artery in her neck. Frank licked most of her blood off the floor, scooped up her body, and hightailed it out of the studio. It was lucky for him that no human or daemon was looking in his direction, or he may not have made it out of the studio alive.
Frank made it home in record time. He made sure to cover Sylvia’s body in plastic wrap, ensuring none of her remaining blood and body parts seeped, oozed, dripped, or fell out, before he got the cadaver home.
A police detective stopped by Frank’s place about a week after the ‘accident’. He had some questions, but Frank wasn’t in the mood to answer any when the cop showed up. He quickly despatched the detective, stuck a stick in the cop’s butt, wrapped him in plastic wrap and aluminum foil, and threw the cadaver in the freezer. He’d eat the frozen cop later in the evening, with a battery acid, antifreeze, and hummus dip, after the dishes were done.
As for Sylvia, Frank had plans to show her off to his cronies, so he made sure not to eat too much of her before the showing. It was difficult for him because of his voracious appetite, so he nibbled off her toes, spitting out the nails like seeds from a watermelon. Then he went for her organs, hollowing out her abdomen. He forced himself to stop there, because he didn’t want to cave in her chest cavity by eating her heart and lungs before her “big reveal”.
Sylvia's debut was set for the next day. Frank had made sure that she looked as lifelike as possible, rouging her cheeks, applying lipstick and mascara, and drawing on her eyebrows. Sylvia looked like an overly surprised caricature of herself when he was finished, but he didn’t care. He made sure to coif her hair and straighten her dried, blood—soaked clothes. Putting on her high heels was futile, since her shoes wouldn’t stay on anyway, not since Frank had gnawed off her toes.
He carefully placed the corpse in the work van he drove for his meal deliveries and headed for the abattoir across town. When he arrived, many of his pals were already inside, so he grabbed Sylvia’s body and ‘walked’ her into the building through a back door.
He spied someone operating the lights and asked him to dim them. Then, when the place was in darkness, he went onstage (vats lined up with a few tables from the break room placed on top of them) and, when the lights went up, he would present “Sylvia Browne, world—famous psychic medium, “live” at the abattoir”.
As he predicted, the crowd went wild, screaming and hollering, puking their guts out from all the excitement of seeing a real, ‘live’ psychic medium in their midst. One or two of the older daemons fainted from the crowd’s overwhelming hysteria.
Frank posed Sylvia’s corpse in weird and wonderful positions, even taking suggestions from the audience. One daemon wanted to see Sylvia bend over backwards and touch her toes with her teeth, but Frank had to admit then that he’d eaten her toes the day before. Perhaps the daemon would like to see Sylvia bend over backwards and break her spine instead?
The evening was a complete success. Some daemons rushed the stage to pat Frank on the back for a job well done and to take a bite out of Sylvia’s remains, before the meat turned completely rancid. Not every daemon likes the taste of rotten meat; I suppose it’s an acquired taste, like olives.
*********
Frank’s next project was already in the works. He was going to snatch the Canadian Prime Minister and a few of his allies and make them perform a rendition of MC Hammer’s “Can’t Touch This” in Parliament during question period. The multi—coloured parachute pants and pink puffy—sleeved pirate shirts were on order and would be in Frank’s possession by the end of the week.
He could hardly wait.
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.
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