Peggy screamed. The Great Old One bounced away from Roger’s corpse, as blood bubbled out of the exposed wind pipe.

“I’m sorry, Master,” she cowered. “He seemed like a likely candidate.”

“When you bring a Prospective in, Pegs, don’t tell them about the Prophecies,” the Great Old One said, his deep voice boomed, as his dainty pink nose twitched. “First, we must get them to understand that my visions created creation. If it wasn’t for my visions, none of you, or this,” his ears wiggled at the breeze, “would exist.”

Peggy knelt down in front of the Great Old One. “Forgive me,” she whispered.

“On one account,” said the Great Old One. His small mouth opened, two small teeth jutted out, and it chomped down on Peggy’s middle finger. The crunch of bone, like a dog snapping a branch, crackled softly and the once wiggling finger lay on the ground, as frothy blood oozed from Peggy’s new wound. She passed out from the screaming, and the Great Old One took his front paws to cutely wipe the blood from his eyes.