Shop of Horrors

By Da Vinci at Work

Didn't I tell you?

My predictions always come true…

Chapter 2: The Boy who Unfortunately Lived

Wow, your exceptionally intellectual nugget (located directly in the core of your tremendously thick skull) must be contemplating at this pathetic point in the fourth dimension, also known apparently as time. How, on this small and insignificantly blue and green planet, did Vincent Dale become a seer, a psychic, a fortune teller, a clairvoyant?

Aren't psychics or fortune tellers or whatever-they're-allegedly-known-as those elderly Gypsy ladies who toy around with faux crystal balls and paper tarot cards all day?

Don't they just sit around at home like potato-couched hermits and wait until some astoundingly stupid individual falls for their "accurate two dollar palm readings"?

Well, too bad, because, hell, do I look like a freakin' old lady to you?

I think not.

Let me explain, not that you actually give a crap, but heck, I have time on my hands.

So…It all began on a beautiful and tranquil November evening-

Wait.

What?

No!

For God's sake, I AM NOT AN ENGLISH POET!

Anyhow, I plan on keeping this short and simple, no fluff, no anything. A few words on my part will suffice. You need not know anything more about me, Sherlock Holmes. Period.

Tragically, I must add, that I am an orphan. I have been an orphan for the past sixteen years of my wretched existence. Sixteen long and cumbersome years I've lived without a mother's tender love or a father's affectionate care. I've gotten used to it.

Heck.

I'd gotten used to it the day I was born that stupid November evening. I was, as the people of the orphanage had whispered "behind my back", the sinful consequence of a young and foolish woman and her illegitimate lover. It's not that they died or anything; it's just that my alleged mother threw me away at the orphanage. She certainly didn't want a bastard ruining her reputation. No, siree.

And please.

I do not desire or necessitate your sympathy.

I beg of you.

Anything but your sympathy will do. Even hatred.

And yes, I remember every cracked up moment of my life, since the day I was left at the steps of that drearily rundown orphanage.

I was born with my psychic ability, you see. Who wouldn't be, when their IQ is far superior to that of the considerably intellectual human being?

Yes, that's right.

My IQ measures over one hundred eighty; that's why I am in the twelfth grade on a full scholarship, not the tenth like all my deplorable, pea-brained peers are. Brainless and foolhardy as they are.

Enough about me. I see that you are already getting quite bored of me, and perhaps even more bored than you were of Mr. Kelcotta. Haha. Now that's going to take some amount of skill.

Yes, I am the most disheartening thing on this inconsequential blue and green planet. I have already been acquainted with that fact long before anyone will have pointed it out to me. I am not as dim-witted as you believe.

Let's all get back on track here.

I'm a freak, a whack, a weirdo, a "Mommy-look-he-is-scary" loser. No wonder my mother decided to trash me and run. So now, I'm stuck working as an assistant at a stupid government place. The municipal building, they called it…

But then, I could probably become a star, a celebrity, an idol, working at a circus where grotesque clowns with low wages make a living off of juggling plastic colored balls. Imagine it: THE FREAK SHOW FROM THE ENDS OF THE UNIVERSE. Hah! I would be the finale single-handedly: PSYCHIC MORON ON A UNICYCLE…

I must be digressing again. I've been doing that often, now that I actually think about it. Perhaps it's because I want to avoid the main issue at hand. I've been evading, escaping, dodging, and forestalling all my life. I don't know what it is, but I think something is wrong with me.

Ha.

Like that wasn't made apparent already.

I feel so exhausted, so very exhausted and out of my years.

Oh, and did I mention that it's Halloween? Haha. I'm skipping around on topics and issues again.

It's been such a long time since I've gone trick-or-treating. Eight years, to be exact. The last time I went, a giant talking panda freakin' scared the piss out of me. And yes, I was eight at the time.

What eight-year-old in his right mind wouldn't be frightened out of his skin when a giant furry panda walks up to him and starts hugging him until his lungs are half-damaged? And not to say that the panda just, out of nowhere, starts to talk to you as if you're his best pal in the entire solar system. That is just downright uncanny. Everyone knows that animals, other than vicious humans, aren't supposed to speak English, especially giant pandas from the raccoon family.

I've had nightmares for over a year because of that stupid panda bear. I suppose I have developed some sort of gianttalkingpandaphobia afterwards.

Anyhow, this year, I am determined to go trick-or-treating. After all, I have nothing better to do with my measly, oblique life. And, certainly, no friggin' giant English-fluent panda will deter my plans. I solemnly swear. Seriously.

This year, I hereby declare, will be the best year of my pitiable life.

Oh, and I must remind you yet again, I am, as a psychic and a self-proclaimed genius, always right.

Author's Note: Do you like it so far?

Have any questions?

Concerns?

Anyhow, just remember to review.

It really helps, you know. Oh, and at this moment, I must advertise. Haha, salesman. I have a story on FictionPress called Changing his Status Quo. My friend and I are in competition to see who will get the most reviews for our stories on FictionPress. Read it. And review. So far, I have 132 reviews and my friend has 149. She has eight chapters, and I have six. Anyhow, here is the link, just take out the spaces. h t t p / w w w . f i c t i o n p r e s s . c o m / d a v i n c i a t w o r k

KUDOS TO EVERYONE!