Doc's Story

It all began many, many stormy years ago in the outskirts of Transylvania.  On a thin, cold table, a woman screeched in pain for hours on end.  She could have taken drugs to ease the agony, but not my mother − oh no!  She reveled in the ripping of flesh and the waves of blinding pain.  So out I came, screaming bloody murder into this pointless world. 

My father was a crazy, wicked, old scientist.  He loved to experiment on human females: one was my mother.  His vast collection of torture instruments resides in museums all around Eastern Europe now.  My father had been a prominent researcher in his day, a prodigy who degenerated into a madman.  I wonder if the passion for knowledge is genetic, carried on a chromosome somewhere, and I inherited my genius from my father.  My earliest memories are of his laboratory, permeated with the scent of chemicals and bright flashes of light from electrical sparks.  Daddy would give me balls of mercury to play with as he toiled away at his experiments.  His grandest project was a study of the Cerletti-Bini alternating-current electroconvulsive device, which he adapted as a method of electro-torture for releasing repressed memories.  Perhaps his methods were questionable.  Maybe he should not have used my mother as a test subject when she was pregnant with me.  It might not have been the best idea for him to experiment on himself with various volatile chemicals (especially since they seemed to alter his personality).  But I digress.  He met his end while inventing a new electric chair designed to torture criminals before killing them.  Wires got crossed, and 3,000 volts of electricity shot through his body, cooking him alive.

My mother was left alone with me in the mad scientist’s laboratory.  When she called for the cemetery man to take away my father’s corpse, the loose-lipped bastard immediately told the local townsfolk of my father’s death.  They formed a vicious mob and smashed the lab to pieces.  I suppose it was their way of mourning their loved ones who died during his experiments – villagers had an unfortunate tendency to disappear after agreeing to serve as my father’s subjects.  Science and medicine were all my mother had ever known, so she sought sanctuary from the head of the local asylum, who had been a friend to my father.  He conducted a wide array of ghastly experiments on his patients. 

Years went by and my mother continued to be this psychopath's "left hand," doing any little, old, dark trick that he asked her to do.  I was used to never having her around.  My playroom was an abandoned basement lab too putrid to conduct even the foulest experiments in.  Here I was able to practice my own black arts on the flesh and brains of small rodents and the occasional, unfortunate cat or ferret.  As years went by, I became bored with experimenting on animals that I couldn’t speak to and began to delve into the science of the human mind.  And that was when I developed an interest in the lunatics at the asylum.  I would befriend them, ingratiate myself to them.  Then, carefully, I would begin to work my way into their minds.  When poor Smitty was found hanging from the ceiling of his room, a bedsheet wrapped around his neck, nobody suspected it had been my idea for him to do it.  When old Lucinda Jenkins stole butter knives from the commissary and gouged out her own eyes, nobody realized that I was the puppetmaster, pulling her strings.  I became so skilled in the psychiatric arena that by the time I turned 16 I was able to slip a finger or two into the mind of almost anyone I met.  Simple fools, they didn't stand a chance. 

But even then, there was still a side of me that wanted to please . . . to be a good girl.  I joined the dance squad at my school and made the honor roll every term.  But my dark side was slowly overtaking me.  I didn’t realize at first that resistance was futile.  For many years, I fought it.  I went back and forth between the need to be good and bad. Both were bittersweet.  As I got older, however, events conspired to make my dark side consume me completely.

Before long, I was ready to move on and leave the old asylum and my sorry excuse for a family.  Ironically, the day I was packing up my scalpels and lipsticks was the day that my crusty stepfather decided to make his move.  Apparently he "liked the way I looked" and tried to force me into being his female pin cushion!  I easily fought him off and fled to my basement laboratory to plot my revenge.  That night my mother prepared dinner as she always did.  But I snuck into the kitchen and added a special secret ingredient:  crushed benzodiazepine tablets.  It didn’t take long for the drugs to take effect after my mother and the asylum head ingested them, and both of them lost consciousness at the dinner table.  That made it so much easier for me to drag them to my laboratory and restrain them.  When they awoke, they were understandably alarmed to find themselves strapped to heavy metal chairs with electrodes clamped to their bodies in some very uncomfortable locations.  As they struggled and pleaded for their lives, I smiled sweetly at them, and threw the giant switch located on the laboratory wall.  The lights flashed on and off as thousands of volts shot through their pathetic bodies.  I had recreated my father’s torturous electric chair and made it even more painful.  Smoke rose from their burning flesh and blood poured from their noses.  The room smelled of barbeque.  There was one final flash, their eyes popped out from their sockets, and it was over.  HE, himself, was so tickled by the brutal way I ended the lives of my mother and stepfather that he snatched me from this world and pulled me down into his festering lovenest below.

Hell is not a lazy place.  They may play their little harps and flutter their wings in Heaven, but down there we know the meaning of work.  I was put in charge of the slightly sweet minions of hell: those who were just not quite evil enough.  When they had adopted my regimen, things started to change a bit even on Earth!  Churches closed, priests got blowjobs right and left, nuns were fornicating with other nuns and candlesticks.  HE began to take notice and in no time at all I blossomed into Dr. Jacqueline Hyde, Headmistress of the Home for the Demonically Challenged and Founder of the Evil Minion Reform Program.  It was my greatest and most glorious moment.

HE persuaded me to take my program of demonic reform back to Earth.  After all, demons are everywhere, you know.  It was while I was working in Washington that I got a very interesting fax.  (By then, I had a laboratory in D.C. that was both high tech and old-school appliance-ready.)  The famous Trixi Stix needed help within her pack, the Satan’s Cheerleaders.  A squad-member, Vixin Nixin, was in need of some special demonic reform.  She had grown lazy and her focus was questionable.  A rupture from within the squad would set back years and years of work.  I was a bit tired of large-scale work and this was a very promising and high-profile client.  So, I set everything aside and took residence in Texas for a while to help out.  I just can’t seem to leave this place now.  The live shows tickle me; there’s always someone to taunt and taint and I like the exercise.

Only one problem I feel I should mention . . . sometimes this itching, burning, sickening feeling comes over me . . . can't . . . describe it!  I just get so mad at EVERYONE and all I want to do is hurt them . . . ruin them!  Send them into the hell that I live in every day!  My father . . . I know it's his fault!!  Damn him!! He was already experimenting on himself and on my mother before AND after I was conceived.  What did he pass on to me?!?!  I . . . must continue . . . to . . . alter . . . the minds . . . of all those I meet.  My mission . . . must go on . . . can’t stop….don’t wanna………….no one can know my true purpose . . . or identity . . .

hurting . . .

ruining . . .

pain . . . lovely, lovely pain.