TITLE: What Would Satan Do
There are days when it is appropriate to stomp the hell out of a frog, and days when it is just better not to. The trick is to know which is which.
Satan shot an evil look at the creature on the sidewalk. F*** frogs, he thought, using the new vernacular he hadn't quite got the hang of yet. F*** them to f***ing h*ll.
He had on his favorite Italian shoes - made out of baby cats or something really nice he couldn't remember - and they were no good for stomping much of anything, let alone juicy amphibians. But the little bastards were everywhere, just begging to be obliterated and, in the case of a few particularly cheeky ones, having their innards ground into the pavement.
The frog croaked and Satan snapped - Italian shoes be damned, this frog was going to die. He raised his leg high, preparing to stomp down. But then the clock tower tolled, and he realized he was late for class. When he looked back, the frog had hopped away, thereby narrowly escaping stompy, cat-shoe death.
He heaved a weary sigh. His shoulders slumped. After a few strange looks from passersby, he also put his foot down and stalked off to class.
The day had started so well. He wasn't sure why - yesterday's therapy session had, after all, been a complete waste of time. The woman hadn't told him anything helpful. She'd been too busy screaming after he had set her on fire.