Lord Glaxnor beckoned me. He summoned me for a great quest.

What mischievous yet necessary plan had the Great Lord Glaxnor thought of this time?

Two words: The elimination of all old and elderly persons from the planet, specifically those over 50.

I know that's not two words, but in Lord Glaxnor's supreme language, which I understand and speak fluently, it is.

And when Lord Glaxnor demands something, you do not fucking question it.

He was not asking me a favor. He was ordering me to carry out this important plan.

The feast of Grandma's blood will come and it will be second only in extremeness to the Apocalypse. But I could not do it alone. I needed someone to carry out this wretched, sadistic plan with. I could not be caught for this. I could not go to jail for this.

I picked my 5-year-old brother Timmy. He barely had a grasp of the basic tenets of the English language, yet I knew it was in his blood, deep in his heart, the ability and maybe even the urge to murder.

The first subject, the "victim," would be our 71-year-old grandmother Sylvia.

She's done numerous things to piss me off, such as only having oatmeal cookies, Squirt soda, and some weird bread available to eat in her house. Needless to say, she deserves to die.

I walked into Timmy's room. "Hey, Timmy, you wanna kill Grandma?"

"What?" he said in his 5-year-old voice.


I don't remember what he said exactly, but before I knew it, I was dragging him by the nose, one finger in each nostril, to my car, throwing him in the trunk, duct taping his mouth and feet, and then off for a road trip to Grandma's house!

Our grammy opened the door. "Oh what a pleasant surprise!" she shrieked (or however old people talk).

"Shut the fucckkkkk up, Grandma," I said as I pushed her out of the way and entered her house–our house now.

Timmy followed reluctantly behind me, on the dog collar and chain I had tightly attached to his vulnerable, young neck.

"Would you boys like some cookies?" my Grammy-bear asked as she struggled to get up from being pushed to the ground.

"NO!" I shouted out. "NOOOOOOOO!" I got the cookies out of the cupboard and threw them onto the floor, spilling crumbs and breaking the cookies.

I looked over at Timmy and mouthed the words "Glaxnor." He looked away, almost regretful, his eyes tearing up, even though we hadn't killed our grandma yet.

It'll come, Timmy. The feast of blood will come and it will be second only in extremeness to the Apocalypse, Timmy, the Apocalypse which Lord Glaxnor is the designated party event runner.

"I don't want any of your expired FUCKING cookies, Grandma. I may have been born out of your vagina in a c.c. section but I will not eat your cookies! It's over Grandma. Say your prayers. Pick your last words. Call a priest on his cell phone so he can read you your Last Rites."

"I'll take some cookies," Timmy really quietly stated.

Before I knew what was happening, I had slapped his face harder than I'd ever slapped anybody. He keeled over in pain and fell to the cold floor. I hadn't slapped Timmy since he was a baby. I almost felt bad (kidding). But the slap worked. I had talked him out of cookies and into murder. He cleared his throat, wiped the blood off his face, and got up.

My grandma had started scooping up cookies off the floor with her old, frail fingers. Then she grabbed a broom to sweep up the crumbs. I whispered into Timmy's ears exactly how things would play out.

He nodded, tears once again forming in his eyes. He went over to our grandma. "Let me help, Gramma," he said, scared. She let him take the broom and in one quick motion he snapped it across her back repeatedly. Then he went and grabbed an urn holding our grandpa's cremated ashes and poured it over her. The rest is too sadistic and demented to include here, but suffice to say, Lord Glaxnor was pleased. And before you start feeling bad for our grandmother, take this into account: she once sent me five dollars for my birthday. You can't even buy a soda with five dollars these days.

Thus Phase 1 was complete. Phase 1 out of at least 35 million phases. And when the cops come knockin' at our door, you know where I'll be sendin' em…straight to Timmy's room. And when Timmy's in juvenile hall for the rest of his life, getting raped and possibly shanked, I'll be sippin' on pina coladas with strippers and Lord Glaxnor somewhere up on Jupiter, where the skies are sunny and the oceans clear and refreshing.

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