High Master Seamus was not a power-hungry sociopath, as agreed upon by his sizeable cult.

See him!

A severe, potbellied figure, never without a djellaba and skullcap, Seamus was not mocked. The superman was a gravity well of ego, as only the self-assured can be, as to shout the loudest, and condemn the sharpest, and inspire submission by brow configuration alone. For Seamus, these things constituted truth, without question. When he was jailed, it only proved his holiness.

It was Wednesday when her name and face popped up on Tinder.

I thought, that’s a cute coincidence, and swiped right.

It’s a Match!

You and Wednesday Addams have liked each other.

The Swamp Monsters’ barbecue was to die for. We’d been neighbors just long enough not to ask about the particular provenance of the hunks of meat they served. There are, after all, things you just don’t do in polite company.

I’m thinking a red suit. Yeah, a nice red to go with the cherry tint I got at the salon yesterday. Suits line this section of the market corridor, a few shining like mirrors in the overheads. Most though are dull and unflattering shades of green, grey, or brown. They sag on the racks like

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I’ve never met a cannibal named Harvey. When my mother gave me that name, I suppose she also doubted the credential could ever find itself attached to those banal phonemes. But nay she was wrong; I am eater of flesh, connoisseur of the Homo sapiens, taster of gammy knees and tennis elbows. It is I who dines on the crème de la crème of the food chain—the dastardly human. Does that make me king of the food chain, then? An emperor?