School of Doom (alt. title: Doom School)

Filbert Avery was just like every other normal overweight boy at Horsemount High School. He ate breakfast, caught the bus, hung out over a box of elevenses at morning recess, read his textbooks, ate lunch, did pop quizzes and then went home. He was just your average kid—except he wasn’t. He wasn’t because Filbert Avery was a warlock. Except just didn’t know it yet. Except all that was about to change. 

It was a day like any other. Filbert awoke to the sound of his mother and father arguing about each other’s supposed infidelity over the breakfast table. He rolled over and stared hazily at his alarm clock. It was nearly time for breakfast. He thumbed a fat finger in each of his podgy eye sockets, wiping overweight sleep form his chubby cheeks. Within minutes he was up on his thick legs, then in no fewer than forty fluid movements had fit his sausage-like appendages into their corresponding clothing-holes and was on his way downstairs. 

Breakfast, as usual, awaited him at the table. And, as usual, it was like a strung out hooker—utterly desperate. His mother, the primary breakfast chef of the household, had once again become embroiled in a foul-mouthed argument with father while cooking and in her fury had overcooked some of it, undercooked most of it, and forgotten the rest. He sat at the table staring into the thin, translucent film of undercooked egg. The blackened sausages stared up at him an a mock smile, and the bacon laughed at him from the fridge where his mother had left it. Rage took hold of him briefly and—just for a moment—he swore he saw the yolk move. It must have been the wind, he thought. There was probably a draught, he thought more.

But all the doors were shut and the windows had recently been put in and were double glazed. 

Filbert got on the school bus and took his usual seat, that was any seat that no one objected to him sitting on. He was sat next to Craig Tones. He was one of those slight, ill looking children. His greasy curled hair hung over his expressionless, banal face. He was the kind of kid that bored you just by looking at them. His overly nasal breathing and periodic snorting riled Filbert at the best of times but this morning it was worse than ever. He stared hard at the side of Craig Tones’ face until suddenly a small acne spot popped, depositing it’s molten insides onto Tones’ cheek like a small red faced baby puking. What on earth was going on today?

At school, Filbert went to his locker. His fury hadn’t been helped when the older boys, Scott Chunderson and his cronies to be exact, had berated him from the moment he got off the bus to the moment he found a teacher to complain to. 

'Don't be such a taddle tale, Avery' Mr Brekowski had said. His bald head and bald face—save for a large beard covering most of his face, twitched as he spoke like it was being poked by invisible fingers, or an invisible fly was flying into it like it was a big bearded window.

Filbert threw open his locker door and stood in awe. Suddenly it all made sense. The moving egg-yolk, Craig Tones’ spot, one of Scott Chunderson’s cronies suddenly contracting gout as he poked fun at Filbert from across the yard…today was April 15. Or, to be exact, The Feast of the Warlock God, Ulranuku. Filbert had discovered this powerful daemon while hiding in the terrible literature section of the school library. The legend went that Ulranuku chose one follower every year to host his power and do with it as they will. All he requires in return is their mortal soul. Filbert had acted immediately, performing the sacred mortal pact with the book (and by extension Ulranuku) First the follower had to get a bowl, fill it with milk, peppercorns, the hair of a cat, and last but not least, a phial of the followers own blood. Naked, with a smarting finger, Filbert had stood above the bowl and performed the sacred chant:

Ulranuku, pha-so labu. Pha-so labu so. Uranuku so pha-la.

While simultaneously squatting, dipping his testes into the cool, hairy liquid, as the ritual dictated. 

Now the power was his. He suddenly felt it all at once. His hands turned to bright blue flame and his eyes turned blood red. He turned to where Mr Brekowski was standing and in a single thrust of his flaming wrists sent a fireball into his bearded face. His entire head ignited and Mr Brekowski ran like a panicked goat around the hallway, screaming for the pain to stop.

'Don't be such a taddle-tale!' Filbert cried at him in a demonic voice. The fact that it wasn't really a pertinent line to use didn't seem to faze him. 

Next on his list, Chunderson. He found him hanging out on the school steps and in a swift movement of Filbert’s arms had cursed him to such an extent that in fewer than 4 seconds Scott had gone from a smooth-talkign ladies man, to literally a giant, singular testicle. Which then exploded, spraying his gang with its insides. Which they also died from. 

Then he punched Craig Tones right in his boring, stupid face. 

Content with his own personal rapture, Filbert Avery extinguished his hand flames and walked home. See you next year, he thought.