For all of those readers who love Holes, but are tired of reading about the Harlequin Girls of D-Tent. This is just for you.
I thought maybe it's time there was a story where looks didn't matter, and that sometimes, there isn't just pure good and evil.
Sometimes...
Just sometimes...
Evil is misjudged.
And good is misinterpreted.

-LeMoNsOuR-

Prepare to change your point of view...

It happened on a Christmas.

I was innocently looking through the aisles of the general store for some cheap, false designer handbag for my beloved mother's Christmas present. I hated this store, but it was the only one in the area that sold 'everything'.

I hated it because the only man at the counter was Mr. Whiskers.

Why would an adult man have such low respect for himself? What happened to the dignity of name changing? It's like... it's like a woman who's name is... Mrs. Miss...

MRS. MISS!

BAHAHAHAHAHAHA!

:I

Or like a man named Mr. Sir...

But you already know that story.

This one starts with me, Marion Sevillo.

As I curiously peered through all the fake handbags and wallets in the Sales aisle, I noticed that Mr. Whiskers was again staring at me with those eyes so covered in flabby wrinkles that you could never tell where he was looking.

But I knew he was looking at me.

On this special day, Mr. Whiskers had brought in his ginormous chocolate Santa for everyone to behold. You see, Mr. Whiskers makes chocolate figurines on the side (though I'm not really sure if they are edible). Chocolate Santa glared at me with even fiercer eyes than Mr. Whiskers had.

I think the reason why he hates me so now, was because when I was three years old, he caught me munching on his prized cat figurine, dedicated to his deceased friend, Mr. Woof.

Mr. Woof was his cat.

We had been sworn enemies since that day, and sometimes I believe he was responsible for my traumatic upbringing.

Get out of here... get out of here fast before he turns me into a chocolate boy... and MOLEST ME!

The fearful thought made me jump a little, as I picked up a random, (but tasteful), two-dollar Giorgio Armani handbag and rushed to the counter.

Yup, that's when my life took a turn that turned me into the dreadful Dogface that I am today.

It was as though Mr. Whiskers had planned this day with God since the beginning of time... or ever since I had digested his dedication to sweet ole' Mr. Woof.

As I hurried to the counter to pay for my mother's wonderful gift, what seemed to be a lizard crept from one of the shelves and ran in front of me.

I HATE LIZARDS!

What was even worse was that it was the ugliest, spotted lizard in the world. I didn't even know you could find those in Texas! Well, I lost my bearings and slipped on my own shoes.

A crack of a smile appeared on Mr. Whisker's flabby, wrinkled face, and then his mouth opened to reveal a set of eroded teeth. Husky, suffocating sounds came from his dry throat, as he hacked and coughed and sputtered.

He was laughing at me.

Not much of a laugh, but it was a fucking laugh just the same!

I got up on my feet, glared at him, and glared at chocolate Santa, who was laughing, too.

"Bastards! I'll show you!' I screamed, and kicked a hole in chocolate Santa's groin.

Mr. Whiskers' laugh turned into a groan of old-man horror as he reached out two, gnarled hands towards his beloved Santa.

"Nooooo!"

I just stood there, giggling like a retarded kid seeing a funny circus show.

Suddenly Mr. Whiskers' innocent, old man face turned into a spawn of demonic evil. He stared at me for the longest time, and then brought out a bat from behind him.

Oh my God, he's going to bludgeon me to death!

I stood, frozen.

But then, Mr. Whiskers surprised me by walking towards one of his glass display cases, and he smashed it like hell with the bat. Glass shards flew everywhere as Mr. Whiskers laughed demonically.

Calmly, with me still frozen in place, he walked over to his phone, and dialed a familiar tone,

"Hello, police. Some hooligan just walked into my store and smashed one of my display cases! And—" Mr. Whiskers shed a dirty, cloudy tear that looked more like semen, "—and he killed my precious chocolate Santa!"

For an old, withered man, he was smart as H-E-double hockey sticks.

It was that moment I turned my heels and ran for my dear little life, leaving Armani on the counter for another day. Then this old man, with his arthritis and sick old man's breath, jumped upon me like some wild animal and tackled me down.

"You ain't goin' no place, sonny!"

"Get off me, freak!" I screamed as loudly as my twelve-year old voice could scream.

I tried kicking him off, but he kept pushing me back down.

Then I did what no one would ever do to the poor elderly. I poked him in the eye.

"Oww!' Mr. Whiskers cried as he covered his face with his pale, withered hands and backed away.

I snickered sinisterly, but immediately stopped to see two policemen at the door. They only saw me poking the 'poor old man' in the eye. They didn't see the savage old prune tackle me down like a proffessional football player on steroids and smash his own display case.

Then they saw Mr. Whiskers' beloved Chocolate Santa, who was brutally castrated by an twelve-year-old kid with pink overalls (from my mother).

And then they saw the smashed display case.

I was arrested and brought to the judge.

There's no need to explain the whole ordeal. I'm sure every one of you have already read the 'judge' part of the story millions of times.

"In all my years as judge, I've never seen such acts of violence upon the elderly... form an twelve-year-old child! You deserve harsher punishment, but unfortunately you are a minor..." the judge peered down at me over his glasses.

"Twenty-two months at Camp Greenlake, son."

Within two days, I found myself in a very disgusting, rickety old car (this was before we were "rich" enough to own a bus).

The man driving it had wispy, white hair. The woman beside him sat dully, staring out the window. Her head bobbled as the car bounced along the pebbly road. She looked so... dead. I've never seen such a defeated, ugly expression in all my life. Little orange strings stuck out from different places in her white hair. I believed she must have been a redhead once.

I could barely see outside of the window, it was so darn dusty. It was then that I had realized we were literally nowhere. It was all sand and cracked ground for miles and miles.

"Excuse me," the stringy-haired woman slowly turned to glare at me with her dead, decomposed expression.

"I don't want to kiss ass or anything, but I don't mean to be rude..." I twiddled my thumbs.

"I just—"

"—Well, spit it out, boy!' the man driving growled.

"Where the hell are we going, old man?" I demanded.

The old man laughed, and the woman just smiled. It was as if I'd said the silliest thing in the world.

"You guessed right when you said Hell."

Jesus, I'm getting sick of old people.