No one can be absolutely sure how the Malemalum cult was founded, but I may have a pretty good idea, as it was started by my dad. One night, Dad probably got drunk enough he started hallucinating (which, sadly, isn’t too unusual) and thought some evil god appeared, ordering him to bow down and worship him by sacrificing virgins in his name.

I’ve formed this theory with this evidence: every time Dad has a “vision,” he also has a splitting headache that matches the description of a hangover (though heaven forbid suggesting that). And when the members of this cult aren’t chanting evil-sounding nonsense, sacrificing virgins, and playing with fire, they’re at a bar getting very drunk.

Yeah, my dad’s a drunk, but apparently heading an evil religion pays well, because I rarely have to explain to the landlord why there’s no money.

Oh, yes, another side effect to my dad heading an evil religion is we move around a lot. People start getting just a little suspicious when their teenage daughters go missing and turn up a few weeks later with their hearts torn out or some such.

I’m not quite sure what they do because I’m not a part of this evil cult, I just put up with my dad until I have a job and can pay rent on my own rooms.

No wonder Mom left him. I only want to know why she couldn’t take me with her, instead of leaving me with the an alcoholic head of an evil cult. I hope she hadn’t got it in her head that I actually liked my dad, as that would be really sad.

Anyway, one of the few signs of sense Dad shows is to leave his sixteen year old son alone most of the time. And when he bothers me, it’s with phrases like “Pack your bags, we’re leaving in the morning,” “I don’t expect to be back before midnight,” and, of course, the ever popular “Get a haircut and stop growing, kid, you’re starting to look like a scarecrow.”

I don’t mind this because, like I said, he leaves me alone. Occasionally, he tried to be funny, or parental, or something like that and just ends up looking like an idiot (which, hell, is pretty accurate), but this thankfully doesn’t happen too often.

Imagine my surprise when he shook me awake at three in the morning.

My first reaction was too pull the pillow over my head and hope he took the hint, which failed to take into account the fact that my dad is denser than a solid iron cannonball. My second reaction was to groan and kick him in the chest, which would have made any sane person go away. But Dad isn’t sane. My third reaction was to sit up so suddenly I surprised myself, which was partly because Dad had pushed me out of bed moments before and I was convinced I’d broken something.

“What?” I demanded irritably.

Dad leaned over the bed, grinning ironically. “Well, why’d you fight me so much, kid?” he asked. “I mean, I only woke you up.”

“Maybe because it’s still dark outside!” I exclaimed.

Dad shrugged. “I’ve been up for over an hour.”

I muttered something about the making a run to the healer for my dad’s head, as something was obviously broken worse than usual. “When I came in, you were still sleeping off something.”

I ducked his cuff. “How many times do I haveta tell you kid— I don’t care what you do, as long as you’re home before I am!”

“Well, since you’re not usually stumbling in until four in the morning, I didn’t think midnight would have caused much of a problem,” I growled, running irritated fingers through my hair, glowering at him.

“What on earth were you doing out at midnight, kid?”

Tempting a griffin to kill me, actually; it’s what we extremely bored teenager refer to as “fun,” but did he really think I was actually stupid enough to tell him that? “I was, you know, around the place.”

“No, I don’t know, kid.”

Welcome to the generation gap, folks. Anyone but Dad would’ve gotten from that sentence that it was nothing big (albeit life-threatening), and therefore not worth talking about. Not my dad. “I thought you told me that you didn’t care what I did as long as I was home before you were.”

“Yes, well, you weren’t home before me and know I do care.”

“Forget it, Dad. It’s not like I blew myself up or anything,. Now why in hell did you wake me up at three o’clock in the morning?”

My father ran his fingers through his brown-black hair, trying to figure that all out. Unfortunately, I can’t deny he’s my dad, because we look so much alike. Same brown-black, hair, though mines longer, same lanky form, same slightly hooked nose. About the only thing different is the eyes. Dad’s are brown, and mine are green like Mom’s were.

Finally, however, he seemed to get it. “Oh, you wanna know why I woke you up? Why don’t you just listen to me, then?” he demanded.

I’d thought that was what I was trying to do, but hey, I could always be wrong. “I’m listening, Dad.”

“I need you to take care of something for work,” Dad continued, and I had to interrupt him there, for the sake of my eternal well-being.

“What? Sorry, Dad, but I’m not a part of your twisted little cult.”

“Twisted? Excuse me, son?” Dad asked, clearly insulted.

“Dad. You sacrifice virgins and dance around the full moon chanting weird stuff that the neighbors talk about for weeks after we get the hell outta there. If that’s not twisted, I don’t know what is.”

“Point, point. Anyway, I’m not asking you to participate in it.”

“Good. What do you want me to do?” I demanded, knowing from experience that you get my dad to tell you all about something before you even think about agreeing to it, or you may end up doing something absolutely idiotic, or evil, or both.

“I just want you to keep an eye on something for a little while. I need to go meet up with Wallick,” he answered.

I glowered at him, but I had to admit one thing— I can hate it all I want, but he’s still my dad. “Oh, alright. You owe me one now, you realize that?”

Author’s Note: So, what do you think? Other than, of course, really, really weird. For those of you that’re reading Dark Fate, you’ll be pleased to know that I haven’t slacked off to write this, and I’ve got more than half of the next chapter written. For those of you that know how cliche this is, keep in mind that its parody, please, people. Otherwise, please review! Cheers! — Loki Mischeif-Maker