Once upon a time, there was a playground with an old swing by the edge of the lake in the park. Why at the edge of the lake you ask? Well, with such an old swing, one would suspect the swing would either
a) have some supernatural powers or
b) have some dark urban legend attached to it
But no, today our swing is just an ordinary old swing with rusty hinges and a worn out tire as a seat.
So what’s with our old swing you ask again? You see, I’m not very sure too. I just found this old swing by the side of the lake where I loved to fish.
Oh yes, fishing was one of my favourite pastime. I could spend the entire day sitting out there by the playground at the edge of the lake waiting for my catch.
Then again, what’s the catch? Oh, don’t be mistaken, I don’t wait for fish. Well not the animal that lives in the lake that is. The fish I wait for are far more delicious than those slimy, disgusting denizens of the murky depths.
Sometimes I wonder why humans love to eat fish so much, especially the Japanese (they even eat it raw, those idiots). Fish has this smell that I can’t stand, not that I actually have a nose or a sense of smell, but from just looking at those silly eyes and their gaping mouth, I know straightaway that children taste much better.
Ah… Which makes me arrive at the crucial point of my story. Why children you ask? You sure have a lot of questions, don’t you? Anyway, children love playgrounds and I love to eat children. That’s how it works. So how do I go about fishing children for my meals? Here’s the secret. Don’t tell anyone yea?
Children adore swings. The older, the rustier, the dirtier, the more dangerous, the more the children love them. While they ride on it, they forget about almost everything, they won’t even remember why they are dead the very next moment! Seeing those innocent smiles on their faces bring such joy to me, for I know, like the Japanese who love their fish raw, I love my children raw too.
Like how little children adore swings, I adore their eyeballs. I just love the sound it makes, that little squish, when I chew on them. My favourite has got to be green eyes, they taste like mint. Black eyes taste the worst. I don’t even want to describe how it feels to eat black eyeballs. The feeling just… disgusts me!
Oh yes, don’t worry about the bones. I’m not a chronic litter bug. I love to throw my trash where they belong. More like where I usually work. Down by the other side of the lake, that’s where the cemetery lies. Little children have the littlest bones, so I have absolutely no problem trying to hide them in someone else’s coffin. Pardon me, Amen.
Here comes another! A little girl called Nancy. Or Alice. Or whatever. Their names don’t really matter. Because to a Grim Reaper like me with a unique taste for young blood, what matters most is they love the swing. Yummy.
- by a friend of mine
