Dear Shelia,

Get a freakin’ load of this one. Satan wants to start every chapter with It was a dark and stormy night. I told him he couldn’t plagiarize Snoopy and he came back with a really boring lecture on the original idiot who penned the purple prose. I can’t even remember the dude’s name. That’s how boring it was. I almost fell asleep.

For your amusement and my own therapy I’m gonna give you a peek into my Hell. Make sure you’re sitting down.

It went something like this…

“It was a dark and stormy night.”

“You’ve got to fucking be kidding me,” I muttered, giving Uncle Fucker an impressive eye roll that would normally earn me an agonizing retribution. Thankfully he let it go.

“Hmm, let me think,” he said putting his finger to his bottom lip and feigning deep thought. “No. Not fucking kidding at all.”

“This just isn’t going to fly, dude,” I mumbled, scrolling through the massive manuscript and trying not to laugh or scream.

“What’s the problem?” Satan inquired, tossing his black Armani sport coat on the leather couch and gifting me with an eye roll of his own.

Secretly I had to admit his was better, but he’d had millions of years of practice. I’m only thirty.

“You can’t start every freakin’ chapter of your autobiography plagiarizing Snoopy.”

“Why not? And for your information, the original wordsmith who penned the terrible purple prose was Edward Bulwer-Lytton in his novel Paul Clifford—not Snoopy.”

“Mmmkay,” I said, squinting my eyes at him. “But still, Uncle Who-shouldn’t-be-writing-an-autobiography-at-all,” I went on, hoping to talk some sense into him—like that was even possible. “Why would you choose to start every single chapter of your memoir with, It was a dark and stormy night?”

“Because it was.”

“Can’t argue with that logic,” I muttered and typed it. “Alrighty, so what’s next?”

“Should I discuss the month long orgy with the Elizabethan Court or do you think a play by play of when I served up Nero some of his own medicine—you know a little burning, boiling, stabbing and impaling—you get the drift.”

Sheila, this conversation went on for hours. I’d like to tell you all, but I’m pretty sure my instincts for self-preservation blocked out large portions from my memory. Trust me, I was shocked, appalled and weirdly fascinated. Of course when he got to the part about sawing Caligula in half every other Monday, I was done. Unfortunately he wasn’t.

“Astrid, Astrid, Astrid,” Uncle Fucker said with a sigh and a shrug. “If one chooses to saw people in half, then one shall be sawed in half on a regular basis once they reach my neck of the Universe.”

“Pretty sure I just threw up in my own mouth,” I choked out.

“Impossible,” Satan stated. “You’re a Vampyre. Keep typing.”

“Fiiinnne,” I snapped, changing the subject abruptly. Even though Caligula was getting his just desserts, I really really really didn’t want to hear the specifics. “How about we start at least one chapter with ‘It was a dark and stormy morning’,” I suggested, staring at the computer screen so I didn’t roll my eyes or set the Devil on fire—setting Satan ablaze never went over well. And damn it, he was correct. As a Vampyre, I didn’t have the luxury of puking, but his story definitely made me regret my lack of ability in the purging department.

“But it was night,” he countered—for the umpteenth time.

We were now on chapter eleven of who knew how many and they’d all started exactly the same.

“I knooooowwww,” I grumbled. “But don’t you think it might be a tad bit boring to start every single chapter the same way?”

The blast of red lightning that blew up the coffee table was alarming, but I was relieved he didn’t incinerate the couch. I love the couch.

“I’m gonna take that as a no,” I mumbled, waving my hand and dousing the fire. “Alrighty then, keep going.”

“King Henry the Eighth was a fat bastard and a total ass. I explained to him countless times that the sperm determines the sex of a child, but he kept beheading his wives regardless of the information.”

“Umm… are you serious?” I asked, my mouth hanging open.

“Completely.”

“You actually want me to write that?”

“Of course, but add that he smells putrid and every Tuesday in Hell I behead the porcine shit. It’s delightful and I think the world should know that the son of a bitch squeals like a girl every time the guillotine drops. Also, it makes me look good.”

“How in the Hell did you come to that conclusion?” I asked with a wince as I pictured the scenario.

“It will make me popular with feminists.”

I was speechless and he was clearly batshit crazy—although he did have a decent point. As my fingers hesitated over the keys, I observed the Harbinger of Evil eyeing my couch. I love my couch. I typed out the farked up mess and waited for more.

Sadly he didn’t disappoint.

Shelia, I don’t have it in me to regurgitate anymore. Thankfully I’m already dead or today would have killed me. You don’t even want to know about the month long orgy Satan participated in. Those Elizabethans were some kinky motherhumpin’ weirdos. I’ll just say this… gross greasy food and sex toys made of horsehair were involved. I’m going to have to bleach my brain to forget that one. If you want to read it you can pull it up on my laptop. BUT, do that after I leave the office. If I see you doing anything un-book like, I’ll have to kill you. Oh, and if you puke while reading, clean up after yourself. I don’t do bodily functions now that I’m dead.

Have a nice evening.

xoxo Astrid