Pop Goes the Weasel
Pop Goes the Weasel
By Vorel Kurik
_**Round and round the mulberry bush
The monkey chased the weasel.
The monkey stopped to pull up his socks
And Pop goes the weasel.**_
They always come outside, right on time, eyes vacant as they shamble towards the truck. God, it's so disturbing. The children stagger toward us in droves, their faces void of expression, driven by something lurking beneath the innocent music, something sinister. I hate the way the truck rumbles when it laughs; it's like rolling thunder, the way it reverberates throughout my body... it feels invasive, and I can't stand it. But it's not like it stops him. They're getting closer. How do their parents not notice their children leaving the safety of their homes, exiting through windows and doors, probably walking right PAST the adults inside! My mind is continually boggled by the powers of this freaking thing. It's ridiculous. In all my years trapped with this monster, I've never figured out how it operates, how it charms... I mean, I understand the music is key; it seems to awaken something hidden in the children, some instinct, shutting off all rational thought. I also know there MUST be a driver. Without a driver, he's... pardon the expression, but dead in the water. The theory I came up with was that he needs a little bit of life to power his siren cry, to give it energy, to give it power... Hm. Seems I've been here for lifetimes, growing weaker and weaker though I need not eat or drink- oh, holy hell, I'm even speaking like him now! How long until you get rid of me too, you brute? Ah, forget it... You don't give a damn anyway.
AH! Jesum crow, what was- oh. They're here. Isn't it funny how no matter how repulsed you are by something, you can't avert your gaze? Night after night, it's the same routine. They line up, slamming their tiny hands against the living metal of the fiend, resting their foreheads against its cool sides until it's their time to approach the front. I only made the mistake once. That was back in... Gosh, must have been the year two thousand and eight, when we were in a little run-down part of Indianapolis. There was this(delicious) little girl, she couldn't have been more than seven or eight, who ambled out of a large white house. She had this adorable sweater on... the sweater's what I remember the most, it was this deep navy blue with a little teddy bear on the front. She was graced with being the first to greet H'narghl. Her eyes were a glimmering hazel- it reminded me of some precious gem. I had never see that color before. Fear is what I felt for the little one, someone so adorable in her obviously parent-picked garb, so I exited the truck to take away his Sacrifice. Those following images caused me to beg God for oblivion, for oblivion brings release. Now I have proof there is no God; there is no God, only H'narghl, and he is cruel and all-devouring. This tiny, beautiful little girl who might grow into a radiant woman approached the grill blankly, emotionless, unaware yet so determined she should make it. The truck vibrated in anticipation as she drew near. A whisper on the breeze, my ears heard the sound of many voices uttering the same instructions over and over in some demonic tongue never remembered by surviving human ears. My bond with the being allowed me to understand the very basic of its meaning- "Kneel, Cower, Serve." Jessica, for that is what I have dubbed her since that evening, obeyed explicitly. I watched her little form kneel before the shining chrome grill, bend herself at the waist and stretched her arms before her, palms to the sky. Now, I don't know how this happens without me hearing it from within the belly of the beast, so to speak, but out here the wrenching, tearing, grinding metal-on-metal was cacophonous and unbearable. I dropped to the ground and covered my ears, but I was compelled to watch the encroaching horror- from within the now gaping maw of my little ice cream truck was a bloodied chasm that seemed to drop off into eternity. Jagged metal teeth protruded from bout halves of its jaws, decorated with strips of cloth and flesh, blasting the scent of millennia of rot and terror into the stagnant spring air. She raised her hands suddenly, slamming them onto its ragged fangs without so much as a scream of pain. Slowly, the little child pulled her self closer to H'narghl's villainous mouth. When her small frame reached his horrible hinged jaws, she leapt, landing square on his teeth and impaling her torso upon them. The engine revved with glee as the jaw came down and began grinding her body to a sick, flesh-colored pulp. For minutes this dragged on, until it tossed its head back and swallowed. There had been something left on the pavement. A scrap of her sweater with its little teddy bear smiling happily at me. I pocketed it before darting back inside and slamming the door. I haven't been out of the vehicle since.
The worst part is the coppery, suffocating scent of blood that inevitably fills the cab every time he feasts. Sure, it's only once a month, but, come on- it's summer. It's hard enough to breathe as it is without adding the cloying potpourri of death and fading innocence. Oh well. This should be the last feeding for a while, maybe I can
(Round and round)
Huh? What's that thing floating on the breeze? Hngh... ungh! There we go, gotcha, you little.. teddy bears...
(the mulberry bush)
...Jessica? Ha-Hang on, little one, I'm 'a coming! Just let me get through this damn crowd of
(The monkey chased the weasel)
I'm up here, Andrew! Help! Don't let him get me, I changed my mind! I don't wanna help the bad man anymore, Andrew!
(The monkey stopped)
Jessica, wh-where are...
(to pull up his socks)
No.. No, you son of a bitch, I did EVERYTHING for you, you can't... No, I won't...
Kneel. Cower. Serve.
You are nothing without a driver, there must always be a-
KNEEL. COWER. SERVE.
Don't... don't... I...
*(And Pop goes the weasel) *