It was autumn and night when I first saw it.

The dark spot darted from the refrigerator to the corner of the kitchen, where we kept a sexy basket of dirty dish towels. I approached the basket and nudged it with my foot, which caused the runner to bolt back to the refrigerator and me to screech.

Full disclosure, I am not the devil. I cannot damn you soul nor make Faustian bargains. Rather I am a simple warlock of humble means who is in need of a man’s soul for various occult purposes.

Menelaus’s hoary beard is stained red with Trojan blood. Lo, how he sits grieving at the prow of the flagship of a thousand ships, the craggy furrows of his brow deepened with the loss of his brethren, of Patroclus, of dishonored Ajax brought low by his own hand, of even the mighty Achilles. His powerful shoulders bend under the weight of a ten years’ war.

Nearby, his wife Helen is moodily gazing at the horizon, smoking a jay.

“This fucking thing will be the death of me.”

It was January 10th, 2022, and I was finally taking the goddamn toaster out of the box to set it up. The toaster was a Christmas gift from my wife. She moved out a few days after that. I received the separation agreement from her attorney last week.

“You don’t just need to step outside of your comfort zone!” shouted Vince Tickleman, “You need to leap out of it!”