Bathroom Monologue: His Name is Victor

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No one suspected anything of Victor. That was part of the witch’s curse: he couldn’t even say what he was. His powers were gone and he was forced to take a lowly position. He came every day precisely at the minute of his shift, took off his cloak and put on the blue smock and nametag. How it mocked him with its exclamation points.

“HELLO! MY NAME IS VICTOR!”

To this store he was just another checkout counter jerk. Just another man sweeping up refuse and waiting for “break time.”

“Break time.” Once break time had meant breaking the laws of nature! It had meant subverting minds and conjuring demons from beyond. It had meant breaking time itself, in his bare and unholy hands.

Now "break time" meant eating store-brand granola and watching funny Youtube videos on the manager’s computer. Some were admittedly clever, even to his venerable wit. When his sorcery returned and he unleashed the hounds of inferno upon the earth, he would make certain those content providers were spared.

He would not bend. He wore the cloak and ankh, no matter how unfashionable his neighbors thought it was. That was the embarrassment. But that witch would pay, for the Pharmacy section had an amazing array of chemicals. Belladonna in stomach medicine, wolfsbane in pain relievers – he’d never admit it, but there was a thrill to stirring Tylenol into his cauldron's brew. It was so wrong. And soon that woman who had wronged him would be brought to justice, because of his unending vengeance, and because of every day low prices.