The Coming of the Antichrist (humour)

Summary: When your nephew is the Devil's child, what can you do?

A/N: I confess. This was a totally self-indulgent piece.

My nephew is the foulest creature you are ever to set your eyes upon. A bastardisation of everything it means to be a child. A beast in human form. I await the day when Satan will rise from the stinking bowels of his Hell, and declare, for all to hear, that the child is His Son, of whom He is Proud. Or something in that vein.

The little imp runs around, squealing at superhuman pitch, and flailing his chubby limbs in the air like a mad, demented octopus. Good, strong mahongany topples, glass shatters, and the living either cower or scupper before and about him.

I pictured it once. The divine possibility first popped into my head as I watched the Antichrist devour my entire stockpile of prize truffles. Perhaps, I fantasised, the loathsome child should one day fall over mid-rampage and hit his head on some conveniently placed sharp or hard surface. The floor would suffice. Marble, if I am lucky. And perhaps, he would be all alone at the time and lay there, bleeding out his little life in such exquisite agony. I shivered with delight, barely noticing that the Unholy Nephew had finished truffle-guzzling and was now hitting the empty wooden container hard against the table leg.

Of course, once they found the wretched creature, broken and bloody, his life essence would have been entirely and irrevocably extinguished, and his soul (if he had one) would have been whisked off to the depths of Dante's Hell, quicker than you could say-

"Come, Norman, darling, mother's here."

My ruminations were interrupted cruelly by the arrival of the Mother. She looked thoroughly constipated with joy at the sight of her son, and I wondered how she could bear to be parted from him for even a moment. And why, if and when she managed to drag herself away, she would give me stewardship over her Hellspawn.

Her husband entered the room, a moment later. His loving gaze suggested that he had yet to learn of his child's demonic lineage. Or, indeed, his wife's escapades with Lucifer Incarnate to bring about aforementioned misfortune.

My nephew's mother, Mariah, looked up at me, pausing mid-adulation to ask expectantly, "So, has my little boy behaved?"

I stuttered, robbed of breath. "Oh, entirely...angelic even." Oh dear. I had wilfully deceived, and was therefore damned.

I planned my confession there and then. Head against the grill, eyes respectfully downcast, I would tell the priest. "I have sinned, father. I lied to my beloved sister, blood of my blood, my kindred spirit. I should have told her while I had the chance.

The priest would reply, words laden with coersive gentleness. "And what should you have told her, my child."

"I should have told her the truth, Father." At this point I would break down completely. "For her child is truly the Antichrist. And he is come to steal our souls."