It was only by coincidence that I first came in contact with the Murdersocks. Or perhaps it wasn’t. In this strange and murderous world of ours, it is fully possible that the socks came for me knowingly. One way or another, they arrived at the door of my bakery at a quarter past seven in the morning on a Tuesday. They arrived murderously on the feet of a beefy and murderous child of about five.
This child (it was a girl) was not herself a murderer. She sought only to reinforce her porkulent frame with muffins and pies, which she knew I could provide her. I am (or was) a baker, afterall, and willing (albeit sometimes reluctantly) to sell my goods to anyone, no matter how young or how fat.
What the child did not know was the reason her new socks were such a nice shade of deep red. The socks had been a gift. In fact, they had given to her that very morn, though she could remember not by whom. Not that she tried very hard, for the muffins and pies awaited her extatically anticipating gullet.
A small dog was tied to a post outside the bakery. It was not my dog, and I can only assume that its owner decided not to feed it and let our scraps be its meal instead. The girl (lost in muffinous reverie) walked straight into the dog and tripped. A scraped knee left her in a foul mood, but only for a moment. She had almost reached her delicious goal. However, a strange tingling in her feet redirected her attention back to the obstructionary canine.
I watched every moment of the horror that followed through the window of my shop. The chubby tot suddenly appeared shoeless, her socks emanating a strange light that was not in any way light. Light illuminates what surrounds it, but this did not. It murdered what surrounded it, which was in this case, the dog. In the blink of an eye (and I was trying not to blink), the pup was now pulp. It was not a corpse, as one would expect to appear after a living thing has passed on, but rather a homogenous puddle of viscous dog-substance. I had to close my eyes and say every prayer I knew to resist vomitting over the fresh-from-the-oven goodness.
I gathered my courage and stepped out onto the sidewalk to investigate. The girl was gone. She too had succombed to unstoppable murderousness of the murdersocks, which now lay neatly folded on the doorstep. They were a brighter shade of red than before and honestly quite beautiful.
I started to go back in to call the police, but that beautiful glowing redness of the socks compelled me to reach down and pick them up. I put them on my feet and have never looked back.
It has been eleven years and nine days since that fateful Tuesday morning when I became a servant of the Murdersocks. They are very old and they share with me their terrible remembrances of their dark and murderous past.
That past is so dark and so incredibly murderous that I dare not recount it here. I do not think any human being who is not possessed by the Socks can withstand the enormous murderosity of that knowledge.
Suffice it to say, the Murdersocks like me. They have even chosen not to murder me as long as I continue to do as they command. I sort of like this job I have now with the Murdersocks. They do most of the hard work anyway. I just take them where they want to go and I’m done. Much simpler than baking pies and muffins.
I cannot tell you of the dark of murderous past of the dark and murderous Murdersocks, but I can write about my time with them. There should be no problem with this as long as no one reads it.
If you have gotten this far, then I apologize, for there is no hope for you. You wil continue reading and never be unmurdered again.