Doomed

^{DECEMBER 21, 2:48 P.M. HAST} Satan, Enraged

Gentle Tweeter,

You think it’s going to be a breeze, watching your mother get murdered, but it’s not. I’ve witnessed my mom get lynched by redneck backwoods sheriffs, and I’ve watched her bludgeoned by the henchmen of Big Tobacco, and chomped on by the bulldozers of Big Coal, and garroted by the hit men of Agribusiness.

Once my mother was bitten in half by a renegade manatee. Blood poured out of her eyes. Blood gushed from her ears. Her guts pushed up and out of her mouth. That’s how I knew she was dead. It took days to film. It took an entire team of special effects wonks just to get the blood right. Easily a hundred people were present on set. Stylists and makeup people, grips, dialogue coaches. Caterers. You name it. All of these people stood around, yawning and eating potato chips, and watched my mom gasp and choke on her own gore.

The happy memories of ordinary kids might include their homemaker mothers phoning Bulgari to have jeweled tiaras sent ’round for approval, or Tasering the Somali maids, but my fond recollections include looking on as my mother was burned at the stake by a cabal of Big Pharma drug companies.

I’d sat in a folding chair and peeked between my chubby fingers while she was stoned by angry Puritans. I’d perched on my father’s lap and held my breath as her lovely face disappeared into a rank pool of quicksand.

And she never flinched, my mom. She never winced.

The director shouted, “Action!”

And my lovely mother died beautifully every time.

She died bravely. She died cleanly. She died thin and noble and calm. When the script dictated, every time, she died perfectly. Her final words were always so eloquent.

She never required a second take.

My father, my dad I’ve heard expire loudly and wetly through a hundred locked bedroom doors.

Whatever I expected, it’s not like that in real life. On the flaming peak of that plastic volcano, as the continent of Madlantis sinks into the Pacific Ocean, Babette lifts the large knife and plunges it into my father’s heart. A beat later, at Satan’s command, she swings the ornate cake knife in a wide arc to slash my mother’s throat.