The Chronicle of Young Satan

was going to be the title
of the bestselling book
of how he ended up as a mass
murderer of unspeakable violence.
He had that special, strange glow,
the truly weird have, a kind of
gauze covering his eyes that
filtered out any traces of
humanity threatening to leak in.
He even smelled strange like some
kind of mutant life form, undecided
what shape to assume next.
In between shots of Tequila,
he whistled through the gaps where
front teeth should be, formulating
the question of the afternoon,
“I haven't eaten in days and I
need something solid in my
stomach. Got anything with
a worm at the bottom of a bottle?”