A Prayer to Socks


Thank you socks
for being what you are
which is sock-like
and foot-shaped

Murdersocks: Chapter 1: In which the Socks demonstrate their murderishness.

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.

The Murdersocks: Prologue

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.