Nothing represents America better than to have a day recognizing Moloch, the Prince of Hell, taker of children, he who demands endless human sacrifice, and the original and almighty entity behind all human evil. What, you don’t know what I’m talking about? MLK day?
“There’s the M, what’s left of it. And the L, and the K.”
“What the hell does that mean?” Deborah demanded.
“Moloch,” I said, feeling a small irrational chill just saying the word here in the bright sunshine. I tried to shake it off, but a feeling of uneasiness stayed behind. “Aramaic has no vowels. So MLK spells Moloch.”
“Or milk,” Deborah said.
“Really, Debs, if you think our killer would tattoo milk on his neck, you need a nap.”
Oh, the perils of misinterpretation. Considering Moloch is just a little bit older than Martin Luther King, Jr., it’s safe to conclude that he is the rightful owner of the clump of letters known as MLK. I’ve accepted who the true MLK is since reading Dexter in the Dark, and I’d implore that everyone, moving forward do the same as well. Until lazy linguists specifically clarify that the third Monday of every January is the recognized Martin Luther King, Jr. Day, anytime anyone boasts how they have MLK Day off, I have to assume they’re celebrating the Prince of Hell, Moloch’s Day.
