Little Joe's Horrible Loss

Once upon a time there was a little boy named Little Joe. Little Joe had a mommy and a daddy who both loved him ever so much. They would take him to the park and the zoo and the hot dog stand down the block.

One day, Hot Dog Stand Pete saw Little Joe walking to his stand all alone. “Why hello, Little Joe,” said Pete. “How are you today?”

“Bad,” Little Joe pouted.

“Why,” Pete asked, “did you break your tonka truck?’

“No,” Little Joe said.

“Did you chip your choo choo train,” Pete asked.

“No,” said Little Joe.

“Did they cancel Firefly again,” Pete asked.

“No,” said Little Joe. “My mommy is sick.”

“That’s too bad,” said Pete, “but I am sure she’ll get better.”

“No,” said Little Joe. “The doctor said she’s real sick. She may go to Mommy Heaven.”

“I see,” said Pete, “would a foot long help? I’ll put extra jimmies on it.”

The foot long did not help. Little Joe’s mom died that night. Little Joe was sad. He was the saddest little boy on the whole block.  Maybe even the whole world. He stayed in his room for days and days. He did not want to go to the zoo or the park or the hot dog stand. He did not even want to go to school.

People came over to visit Little Joe, but he was mad and said things he did not mean. He told Grandma she smelled like feet. He told Reverend Poundstone his hat looked funny. He told Hot Dog Stand Pete that running a food stand was the most he would ever achieve in life.

“Now, Little Joe,” Daddy said, “I know you are upset about Mommy’s death, but we both need to get on with our lives and start dating again."

“Why did Mommy have to go to Mommy Heaven,” Little Joe asked. “I needed her here.”

“Well,” Daddy said, taking Little Joe on his lap, “I don’t know, really.  But if you stay cooped up in here you’ll become an asshole.”

“That’s not true,” Little Joe said to himself when his Daddy went away. “I’m just sad about Mommy. I’m just acting out and grieving in my own way. It’s not like I’ll become some sort of monster if I stay locked up in here.”

Oh how wrong Little Joe was. It turns out that his bedroom was built on an old Mohican Graveyard that had also been used as a nuclear waste dump back in the 1950’s. Overnight Little Joe grew six eyes and tentacles from his chin, and his skin was coated in a layer of slimy scales.

“I feel a little better,” Little Joe said, waking up the next morning. The sun was rising bright and pink and birds were twittering in the chestnut trees. “I think today I will go to school.”

Mister McGillicutty was raking his lawn across the street as Little Joe emerged from his house. “A monster,” Mister McGillicuty cried. “Someone get a gun and shoot it!”

Little Joe ran back into his home and cried and cried. He did not come out ever again. Instead, he played World of Warcraft and wrote bad poetry on Livejournal.

THE END