"You Never Did the Kenosha Kid"

Around eighty years ago, the old woman up in the colonial house overlooking Salem Slot killed herself, and the whole town felt pretty bummed about it. She was found by a maid just hanging around, heh, from the rafters. The old woman was a recluse now (well, she was dead now, technically), just the maid to keep her company, but her death caught the town’s imagination for a few days. She was quite stunning in her youth, and was even the center of the Slot’s social scene back in the day. It was a hot summer night when she married the son of a local banker and bought that house on the hill! But then her husband got shot in the head at Buena Vista fighting General Santa Anna’s men and her son later came back a cripple from Cold Harbor.

“My God,” she said. “The Rebs blew off both your arms?”

The son grins. “Nah, just the left. But doc was drunk and started off by amputating the right!”

In any case, he shot himself later using his feet, and she was quite sad about the whole thing. So she hanged herself, and the whole town gave that lonely house one last sorrowful look of remembrance, but then people moved on, ‘cuz lots of people were killing themselves during the Panic of 1873. Besides, the Slot was industrializing, and there were railroads to build, factories to construct, Enlightenment and rationality to spread to the corners of the world where the natives lacked it.

The old house was abandoned for a while, until Secretary Baker took it over as a place to stock mustard gas during the Great War. It remained in Uncle Sam’s hands until the present day, where it’s now known as the SALEM SLOT ASYLUM FOR DELINQUENT AND FEEBLE-MINDED CHILDREN.

Headmistress Ingrid, tall and dark, stalks the halls of the Asylum, big ol’ rolling pin in her hands, ready to whip her charges into tip-top shape. There’s a storm outside, the night before Halloween, and you just know those girls might be feeling a little antsy. Only fear will keep them in line. The sound of wood smacking against palm echoes through the dark halls, growing in intensity as Ingrid approaches the dormitory.

“All girls should be asleep,” she coos, “Like a flock of good little sheep.” The girls are kind of stupid, so you gotta make the lessons easy to remember.

Ingrid throws open the doors to the sleeping barracks. There are thirty bunks in here, all of them occupied. Ingrid smiles, since her discipline ensures that the girls are in bed by curfew each and every night. Eyes are closed; chests rise and fall softly. Whether or not they’re actually asleep doesn’t matter. Ingrid ordered them to sleep, so they’re either asleep, or pretend to do so. A nice little metaphor for their expected role in society.

Ingrid has to stifle a laugh. Take that, you stupid beatniks and your stupid rock n’ roll! With order, discipline, and a dash of fear - the debasement of society can be kept at bay.

The Headmistress turns to leave, but then she frowns. Out of all of the problem children at the Asylum, one’s the most problematic at all. She never sits for her math lessons, she never stands for her etiquette lessons, and good lord, there was that incident with the reefer. Ingrid’s frown reaches the corners of her chin. Yes, if there’s one girl who could ruin all of her hard work at the asylum, it’d be her.

Ingrid marches to a particular bottom bunk. There’s a prone form in there, alright, auburn hair spilling like rivers over the blankets. Ingrid sighs in relief, but then lightning strikes outside the open window, revealing-

That’s not hair, that’s red yarn!

And the window is…open?

Ingrid raises the rolling pin high, gripping it tightly, then yanks the covers off and brings it down with intent to kill. Before the pin can smash through skull, there’s a clink as the jack-in-the-box once hidden beneath the blankets springs open. Instead of a little jack doll, it’s a boxing glove swinging out with all the power of Rocky Marciano behind it. Ingrid has just enough time to see the stupid scrawl that says TAKE THIS, FASCIST! before the glove caves her glasses in.

Ingrid awakens a second later. Her glasses are toast, and there’s a nick on her face now.

A nick on my face? H-How will Dr. Funny ever come to love me now!?

It’s all the problem child’s fault. Yes, it always has been.

Ingrid looks out the open window and sees the rope made of laundry sheets leading down to the ground level. From there, an escapee could head down the hills, all the way to Salem Slot itself…

A clenched fist. Ingrid won’t take the blame for the asylum’s undoing. Yes, she’ll get that kid back, and bash her brains in with the rolling pin, like she should’ve done a long time ago.

A guttural fire rises within Ingrid, a fire not seen in over a decade, as she screams to the high-heavens:

DAMN YOU, DAMN YOU-

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“MARY LOU SUNDAY”

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