knock, knock, knock. “mommy,” the mickey mouse clock on his drawer strikes precisely at three in the morning, widely known as the devil’s hour and usually the time this problem surfaces from solely within the dark comfort of his room. at first when they had moved in this new home, he thought it might have just been a coincidence or something of the like, that whenever it was close to being three in the morning his room would grow dim and shadows would dance, sometimes even see things crawling along his walls and feel a tug at his foot and a scratch at his neck. he thought that maybe he were just hallucinating because of the dank ass memes he’d save and weed he’d smoke before bed. but then one night he decided to try it sober, sleeping that is, and had realized that this place was owned by no one other than his mother — i mean, satan. “wake up...” 

Shou Meng’s mother had always claimed to be Chinese, a chinaboo born in California to a lovely caucasian home. she even named her children after Chinese sex shops she’d been to once in her life before. the best ones - she claimed whenever they asked after coming home from being bullied all day at Chinese school. and he had to admit that sometimes it were comforting, but then when night fell and the lights flickered off- everyone asleep in their rightful rooms, even during nights when he could clearly hear her doing some weird ass shit in there, probably some witch sacrifice, nothing she said mattered anymore because the knocks would consume of his hearing and the whispers would tell him secrets his mother would never straightforwardly confess. like how his father had been punished after getting caught with candies in his pocket while fighting a war and how his little twenty five year old sister sticks glittery dildos up her vagina. even how she’d almost sold him to the Chinese mafia for an icee.

an icee. he was worth an icee — she were evil and he knew it, but didn’t want to believe it. tightly he clutches the sack of bread hidden by his crotch as he approaches his mother’s bed, her toenails as long as her snores. sometimes he’d confuse her with a slumbering, man-eating wolf. she’d changed so much over the years. on her walls symbols are carved, the ceiling painted with a writing that he couldn’t read. probably a bed time story or some shit. “eomma,” though she were Chinese, she understood Korean better, so at that she jerks awake in her bed, the cat, Spuggles, clutching at her titties with her nails. ouch. “the bread ninjas are back.” he whispers and squeezes harder at his bread. did he mention this were a substitute for his balls? “satan’s birds are here.”