As I was saying, the murderous Murdersocks were now on my feet. I was overwhelmed by a feeling of murderous murderosity.
However, the thing that stuck out most in my mind was that they were very comfortable. I wish I could find a non-evil variety of this quality, because while I thought (at the time) that murder was a fair price to pay for such comfortable socks, it probably isn’t for everyone. I think the murder victims especially wished I had chosen a different pair. But, as you know, I had no choice in the matter. I wore the Murdersocks because the Murdersocks wore me.
But, now that I think of it, who is this me that wears and is worn by the Socks? You don’t know because I haven’t introduced myself yet!
My name is Jephrold Gratchfield McNerrister diFlansworth-Smythe, but most just call me Baker. My family has lived in this peaceful and unmurderous town for eleven generations and for six of those generations, we’ve been running this very bakery.
Now that you know who I am, we can move on to the terrible thing that happened next.
The first customer on that fateful and murderous day (not counting the porkulent child who brought the socks and was now part of them) was a thin man of about thirty-eight. He had sad eyes and a cheerful hat that made me think of a clown.
I asked him if he was a clown and he was very offended. The hat was a family heirloom, he said, and furthermore his mother had died in a clown-related accident. He had hoped he would never again to be reminded of those jokesty jesters of tragedy.
What he did want from me was a loaf of rye bread. Rye bread was something I had made that morning (as I do every morning) and I would have happily sold it to him. I would have if not for the Socks.
The Murdersocks had already made the decision to murder him instead. That unearthly glow of murderosity that they emit when they are thirsty was shining like a happy baby (who is a murderer) and I was gripped by uncertainty.
How would I possibly make this customer AND the Murdersocks happy at once?
I had no time to worry further for there was a sudden flash*. A flash of murderousness.
And before I could catch my breath to ask myself what had happened, the thin man with the sad eyes and cheerful hat was no more.
He had become something else, a horrific lump of murderedness, much like jello, but less appetizing. Unless you are a Murdersock.**
*I would not learn exactly what had occurred during that flash of murderous non-light until a fortnight later, when it came to me in a dream, which is the subject of Chapter 4 of this book.
**I suppose the reaction of a Murdersock to it would be much the same as to jello, but that assumes that Murdersocks like jello, which I don’t know. All that can be said of them for sure is that they like murder.