The Dark Lord Mortedart feels their limbs unfold as they stretch out to their seven-foot height. They have manifested in a dimly lit alleyway abutting a wide avenue where a festivity is taking place. The sickly-sweet smell of fried cake assaults their nose. Down the road, a band plays ragtime, reminiscent of when Mortedart was captured, interned, and forced to exist without corporeal form for a hundred years.

Plumes of smoke swirl around the sorcerer creating a frightening picture as they turn to a lone girl slumping against the brick wall of the alley. A poster advertising the city’s centennial celebration crinkles behind her halo of dark curls.

Mortedart booms, “I am the Dark Lord Mortedart, the bringer of doom.” Their voice resonates through the alley, drowning out the party. “I was imprisoned for one hundred years, but I am centuries old and mortal fetters could not hold—”

“Sorry, did you say Mortedart?” The girl raises one bushy eyebrow.

Mortedart pauses. “Yes. Ahem. I’ve come to take revenge on the descendants of the founders of Haverley.” They snap their cape with a flourish and wait for her to fall at their feet begging for mercy.

“Your parents named you Mortedart? Brutal.” She screws up her nose and lifts a drink to her mouth.

“Did you not hear me, child? I have come—Oh for the love of God, stop slurping. It’s rude. I’m making a proclamation.”

“Sorry.” She lets the straw fall from her mouth.

Mortedart narrows their eyes to glowing green slits. “Soon, you shall truly remorse when I raze the scourge of this town from the earth’s surface. YOU shall be amongst the suffering—”

PING.

The girl pulls a small metal square from her pocket and traces her finger across its surface.

“What’s this?” Mortedart steps closer, catching a glimpse of images that flash like sorcery across the tablet. The girl chews on her lip as tears threaten to roll down her cheeks. She turns away, hiding her face.

“Good. Yes, exactly. It’s a little delayed but you should cry in fear. Hide your face young maiden, but I shall prevail.”

Her sobs get louder. “Even you’re calling me a virgin? I thought we were friends.”

“Friends? No. And I wasn’t. Wait. Maiden is a compliment, is it not?” Mortedart is realizing that a lot has changed in a century.

“You’re just like the bullies at school.”

Mortedart’s face clouds and thunder claps overhead despite the clear night sky. Mortedart hates bullies. “What’s this?” they ask.

She holds up the silver rectangle. An image of young courtesans performing a song and dance about a Sandra Dee loops on its surface.

“And you’re Sandra Dee?” Mortedart asks.

“Just Sandra,” she sniffles. “We watched the movie Grease in class. Now everyone’s calling me Sandra No D. Because…” Her face flushes red beneath a scattering of freckles. “I’ve never had the D… like the di—”

“Alright,” they interrupt her. “Mortedart understands.”

The tears start to flow. “They hate me,” she whispers.

Her tears tug at something long forgotten in Mortedart’s heart. They remember a time when children teased them for their unnatural height, calling them the duke of limbs. “Well?” Mortedart demands, “What will you do?”

She takes a deep breath and lifts her chin. “Act like it doesn’t bother me.”

“What? No. You must seek revenge.”

“Revenge?” Her eyes widen. “My mom says if people are cruel, they’re usually suffering themselves.”

The dark sorcerer rolls their eyes. Such a mom thing to say.

“She says I should kill them with kindness,” Sandra says.

“I like the first half.”

“Huh?”

“Kill them,” Mortedart growls.

“You can’t just kill people.” She taps at the rectangle. Mortedart leans in and watches as laughing faces and hearts appear.

“What are you doing?”

“If I laugh, maybe it’s like I’m in on the joke,” she pleads as more hearts appear.

“No. Stop making hearts. Stop now! Mortedart commands it.” They rip the rectangle from her hands and throw it against the brick wall. It lands with a clatter and goes dark. “They must die!”

“We can’t kill them. It’s, like, wrong.”

“Very well, but you must stand up for yourself, girl. When you let others treat you poorly, you teach them to continue their malicious ways.”

A cluster of teenagers stumble by, laughing. Sandra waves and smiles hopefully as a boy glances down the alley. He snorts and turns away. She sighs. “You make a good point.”

“So, we get revenge?”

“What’re you thinking?”

“They mock your virtue therefore I shall cast a curse of syphilis upon their bodies.” Mortedart laughs maniacally into the dark night.

Sandra looks at Mortedart skeptically. “Syphilis is pretty easy to treat and it would feel like we’re slut-shaming them.”

“Aah.” They consider. “We could make their nails fall out, make them vomit snakes for a week.”

She recoils. “Those sound traumatic.”

“Look, I’m just brainstorming here.” Mortedart rolls his eyes.

“We could egg their houses.” She glances up, a wicked smile on her lips.

“Transform their homes to eggs?” Mortedart rubs their hands together in anticipation.

Sandra shakes her head. “No. Throw eggs at their houses. It’s really hard to clean.”

Mortedart nods. It’s a start. “You’ll make a fine minion to the Dark Lord Mortedart yet.”

“We are friends then?”

“We might be friends.” Mortedart kicks a stone, feeling suddenly shy. They can’t remember their last friend.

“Let’s go to the Dairy Shoppe and plot revenge over milkshakes.” She loops an arm through Mortedart’s. The smoke from their aura expands to envelope her as the two turn towards the music and lights of the celebration.

“What flavours might there be?”

“Chocolate and Strawberry are my favourites,” she gushes. “Sometimes they let you do halfsies but depends who’s working.”

Mortedart’s eyes narrow. “Oh, they’ll allow halfsies or I shall cast a plague upon their houses.”

Sandra laughs. “Maybe we ask nicely first.”

“We can ask nicely,” they acquiesce, “But Lord Mortedart shan’t be denied their halfsies.”