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This Monday Morning Vent was written by the valiant Momelia. Warning: Some violence and gross household imagery.

Necronomicon from Ash Vs Evil Dead

How to Deliver Your Self from Evil
by Momelia

If Evil were a foot and a half long, scuttled on four short legs, coated in fur as black as corruption, with a leathery tail as long as its body, then I woke up to the sight of it on my kitchen floor. It wasn’t doing any scuttling this time because, to my mounting horror, Evil was half-trapped in a glue board. A part of me was convinced that it wasn’t sticking around to make friends. Half of Evil’s horrible length, from its lower feet to some of its tail, was stuck to this glue board that I got in Puregold for fifty-five pesos.

Evil was not moving for the time being, like it was calculating a pandemic, and it was truly the most disgusting thing. Meanwhile, that glue board was the most amazing thing, and I elected to purchase more of it if I lived through this ordeal.

I was frozen on the sofa I slept on. I stood up, and Evil tried to scamper a few inches towards the open kitchen door. That slight movement paralyzed my courage all the more, because it meant I was not making all this shit up. “There’s this adult rat that’s half-trapped on this glue board on my kitchen floor” shoved the sleep off me, and I armed myself with a purpose. I cannot allow, I will not allow Evil to live. It will return with an infernal appetite and an infestation of other Evils, and I will not live with that. Evil would triumph if a good gay like me did nothing, and besides, what would Jesus say?

The fading sunlight of that afternoon betrayed Evil’s true form. The hair on my arms prickled. Evil was plump like gluttony and its scraggly coat of hair, not fur, was black as sin. Its gray tail was the whip that scourged people who take hourly selfies for all of Eternity. I saw that Evil’s bottom legs and maybe four inches of its tail were caught on the glue board, and this explained Evil’s restricted movement. I will not be able to unsee this oppressive image, it is now tattooed on my brain, but I imagine that Evil’s nuts were glued to the board as well, and that would make things tolerable because it is funny.

H.P. Lovecraft wrote a short story, The Dreams in the Witch-House, where the antagonist had a curious familiar. It was a large rat with the face of a man. Brown Jenkin teleported, was fluent in taunts, gnawed on human flesh with relish, and was altogether a mean little freak. He had nothing on this thing of Evil, however.

I remembered we had a hammer in the garage. And a box of sandwich bags. I decided that I had some smiting to do.

I stood up and walked towards the locked screen door, my eyes glued on Evil on my kitchen floor. A sharp click issued when I undid the lock, but what happened next was as alarming as the lack of standards in this report. I heard cardboard scrape across my kitchen floor at the same time the lock was released. Terror grew in my heart. The kitchen floor had been exorcised of the presence that possessed it a few seconds back. Where was it? I knew that I should be relieved, but I committed myself to cleansing my house once and for all, so I braced myself and walked towards the open kitchen door.

What I saw next nearly shocked me unconscious. And I wouldn’t have lived through this awful turn of events were it not for two words: “Glued Nuts.” You see, Evil’s panicked scuttling caused the whole length of its plump black form to stick on the glue board. And it was far more revolting because I was now seeing it up close. Evil was now as completely helpless as it was hideous on the glue board. It was now entirely stationary, except for its small, scheming head that moved left and right as it contemplated its circumstances. I crossed myself for protection. Glued Nuts.

I rushed back to the garage to where The Hammer was. It’s nothing more than a used claw hammer, really, but it would serve. I wrapped the business end of The Hammer in two sandwich bags. Things would be particularly messy, there would be blood, and you would not catch me scrubbing rat brain off the head of some claw hammer.

My feet trod with caution because Evil, trapped as it was, grew in size with each step I took towards it. My heart was on the verge of collapse as I squatted next to this helpless abomination. I was then a foot next to Evil stuck in the glue board. I paused, and with what little measure of courage I had about me, I squatted down. I gripped The Hammer in my left hand. Time slowed down. Imagine the smell of an adult rat.

I raised The Hammer two to three inches above Evil’s hysterical head, made one upward swing, for practice, took a deep breath, and then I closed my eyes. I repeated that trajectory in my head, and (Editor’s addition: with a cry of “Thor! Chris Hemsworth and Tom Hiddleston sandwich!”) brought The Hammer down in one thunderous wallop. Whackkk!

The air was still, and everything was silent save for my heart beating in my throat. Did I miss? I have good aim, usually, but I had smitten Evil on the head with my eyes closed. So there was a chance that my Hammer of Good had fucked up, and I might need to hammer Evil on the head one more time for good measure.

I opened my eyes. The glue board, to my mounting anxiety, was now flipped over, and all I could see was four inches of Evil’s leathery tail sticking out. It wasn’t moving. I let go of The Hammer, carefully. My heart resumed its rightful place in my chest, and I was breathing more easily. And with this resurgence of confidence, I tapped the glue board with my left foot, and it twitched.

The glue board shivered with the still-living Evil trapped below it. And it shuddered again. Evil lived, Evil survived my smiting, and it mocked my courage. Indignation coursed through my veins as I decided to…No, I was too exasperated to think straight (not to mention too gay), so I stomped on the glue board, twice, with every fiber of frustration in my person. And then it was still.

I tapped the glue board one more time, and it was lifeless. I left it alone for a minute, and it remained utterly still. So I took a garbage bag and heaved the glue board into it. A small pool of blood marked the scene of my triumph. I could have bled that pool myself, for I had never killed anything larger than a cockroach before this day.

(Editor’s note: Blood is not easy to scrub off. Next time, spread a sheet of plastic on the floor.)

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