Beastly!

Reputation? I have no idea what you’re talking about.

I know the book exists. I know what it says.

Who do you think put it out there? Made sure it was included with the other tales?

If someone – you, hypothetically – were to talk to a double handful of predators, you’d know what anyone with half a mind knows: people have a type when looking for love and companionship, therefore monsters have a type when looking for victims. Of course, what “type” they’re looking for changes from predator to predator.

I like my meals with a bit of fat on them. Who doesn’t? It’s tender meat.

But I’m lazy. I don’t want to work for it.

My father, when he was alive, loved the idea of being a gentleman farmer. He loved pretending to be a baron of an estate, “farming” his “crop.” He made sure the peasants were well-fed, healthy enough to pop out lots of babies, nourished enough to not pay much attention to “farm accidents” when they “naturally” occurred.

I have heard word of another, like me, overseas, who put pressure on a government official here, a corporate leader there. Eventually there was a city in the middle of nowhere, a boom-or-bust town grown wildly large, where people clinging to the edges of society can go missing. No one notices, no one cares.

I can’t be bothered. That’s too much like work.

Humans rationalize. Humans re-wire their brain to explain away the horror in front of their faces. Justification is a greater force than anyone realizes.

I let them come to me.

The smart ones? They may cut their teeth on myths and fairy tales, but the smart ones look up the un-redacted sources. They learn phrases like “Stockholm Syndrome,” and “enmeshment,” and “narcissist feeding cycle.” and are wise enough to avoid me and mine.

But there are others, the dreamers. They dream, but don’t want to wake up to reality. They scrub away the harsh edges, elide the fangs, believe the “reformed rogue” trope. Those, they are plump, they are ripe, they watch the shows or read the tales and believe they can be the one to melt the monster’s heart.

They never grow up.

I just ensure they don’t.

I prefer the word “flibbertigibbet” for those types. Notice the word “gibbet” on the end of the word? The gibbet is the structure by which one hangs a criminal for public display, as a warning to all.

Rather appropriate, in a subtle sense.

They are not missed, not really. They make good playthings, but are useless when it comes to the hard work that relationships require. When there are babies to feed and clean, and food to make, and domiciles to maintain, those are the creatures sitting on the comfy couch, eating chips, watching the soap operas or reality shows, and complaining about the lack of funds to go get their nails done.

When dreams are channeled into fantasies, not reality, a person becomes functionally useless to society. A waste of resources. Time. Food.

A placeholder for the humans that could be doing the work of forwarding society, not pulling it back.

Of course I’m justifying it. Wouldn’t you, in my position?

The shows?

Oh, I would encourage them, if I could. It emboldens those flibbertigibbets, it energizes them. Oh, to become the princess, not just a gold digger! Nicer clothing, better food, comfier couch! Jewels they didn’t purchase with their own hard-earned money, a castle full of servants to do the menial work that is beneath themselves!

Television blurs that dream line between fantasy and reality, and like the walls of faerie thinning, people can slip through.

They come looking for me.

Like you did.

I don’t know what trace they are following. Could you elaborate, please? None of the rest could tell me, but you are smarter than most. What did you follow? Rumor? Receipts? Missing persons reports?

Please don’t tell me it was intuition. Real intuition would have sent you screaming in the opposite direction.

Journalistic curiosity? That’s a new one.

Oh. That particular book. And those odious movies. And now the movie re-make, because the first try wasn’t bad enough?

Ah, well. I presume it doesn’t matter.

May I see your journal, that you have been scribbling observations into, so assiduously?

Ah, well. Yes, most excellent observations. You would have made a good journalist.

What, you think you have immunity? Because you’re smarter than most who waltz into my den?

What is the phrase? “Dear, sweet, summer child?”

It was a nice interlude, but now, I’m afraid I must ask you to join me.

For dinner.

I said I have a type. I didn’t say I refuse to eat any other type, especially when it comes to me. On a silver platter, as the phrase goes.

I’ll put your journal in my library. For some insightful reading, if I need it.

No, it will not save anyone. Flibbertigibbets who have their fantasies come true, no longer need the dessicated dreams, the frantic scribblings of those hallucinating with their three pounds of organic jello.

But if it helps you feel better about your situation, then imagine it will help a future victim of my appetite.

Isn’t that the beginning of a dream? A wish?

A dream that becomes a fantasy?

Funny, no one really talks about the fantasies that slide into nightmares. And no one talks about the nightmares that bloom into reality, and you never wake up from them.

Be thankful I’m not a vampire. Those creatures can damn your soul, and I know too many flibbertigibbet types who fall for them.

At least I don’t play with my food. I will be kind.

No, clever is not a fail-safe. One can easily out-clever themselves. One can easily fall into the trap, thinking one has found the loophole.

“Journalistic immunity” is a thing for humans.

Not monsters.