Issue 33

The Curse of Evil Daddy

                I am insane Evil Daddy and there is NOTHING I like better in the world than to torture babies!

                Bwha ha ha ha ha ha ha!

                Words cannot describe the delicious pleasure I get out of putting clothes on infants.  They scream.  They roll over.  They try to get away.  But I am relentless as I pull the nasty cotton straight jackets over their heads, muffling their cries. Then I chortle as I cover them back up, securing the diaper firmly with confining Velcro straps.  The worst part for them is that they’ve just had it off, a brief taste of what it’s like to be free. Sometimes I’ll just let them think they’re getting away, only to pick them up bodily and spin them back around onto their backs like helpless turtles where I can inflict a few Instant Tortures like blowing belly farts, administering sloppy kisses, unleashing spider tickles, or summoning the hounds to lick messy faces.

                Torture is a finely honed craft, an art to those who can appreciate it. While a key element of torture is repetition, it takes variation to step up from what will simply becoming numbing to the level of excruciating frustration.  For example, I always remind the little ones, “I told you you couldn’t chew on that” just as they are about to get that first satisfying bite in.  However, I try to vary how I take the object of desire away.  Sometimes I’ll ruthlessly snatch it out of their hands to start them screaming.  Other times I’ll pull it hard enough that they can still hold on but just can’t get it into their mouth. But most often I put them on the edge of a shelf that’s tantalizingly only a few inches out of reach.  That’s a good one, it is, as the children struggle for whole minutes at a time seeing if somehow there’s a way to get hold of that object and put it back in their mouth.

                One of the finest classes of tortures revolves around eating.  To see their little eyes watching all the food that goes into my mouth that doesn’t go into theirs just makes me swell with anticipation.  I dole out pieces, mere tastes.  And so often they don’t want me to put it in their mouth but onto the tray so they can feed themselves.  I laugh as most of the food falls to the floor for my hounds to consume. The result is that they unwittingly torture themselves even better than I could.

                One of the best and time-proven tortures is putting a little one into the Iron Maiden for children, the car seat.  There’s hardly room to throw just the beginnings of a tantrum.  I personally find the final click of the seat belt to be fulfillment itself.  The cherry on top is watching those tiny fingers, which are strong enough to rip the nose off my face if I gave them the chance, probe every crevice of the release mechanism but without success.

                Ah, but many of these tortures are simply over too quickly to be truly satisfying.  For extended torture pleasure my favorite technique is the elaborate Putting to Bed torture.  It has the most buildup, as the little ones can sense the coming of bedtime as the sun sets and the adults slow down.  They get frantic, the babies, pulling out all the stops on their energy, anything to get the adults motivated to start moving again.  They can almost hear the impending doom like a church bell calling ghostly guests to a funeral dinner.  The first course is the changing of the diaper and getting into a sleeper.  This dressing session is the highlight of the day for me because the babies know when the sleeper comes out that it’s all over. Then it’s into the crib as the main dish, tucked in tightly so that the blankets pin them to the bed and the barred cell door slammed up to lock them in. I’ve installed sound-blocking panels in the dungeon nursery to keep the neighbors from hearing the desperate screams of the little ones; there is no chance that anyone will hear them and come to their rescue.  Like a perfect side dish I turn on the annoying chirping cricket clock in the spirit of the Chinese Water Torture.  For dessert, I treasure each tear that forms as the children give in to the Sandman’s despair.

                Finally, like a parting apéritif, I dim the lights, which have charged the glow-in-the-dark sheep on the wall, a cruel reminder to helpless children that, at this very moment in time, there are toys in the world that are not being played with.