Okay, five minutes until end of shift, let's make this one a whopper...
I was not the top scarer of Scarefloor P when the scare scheme was the primary energy source. Now, when the Scarefloors were being phased out in favour of Laughfloors, or Laughies as people were calling them, scarers like me were being laid off rapidly of they didn't do well enough under the joy scheme to retain their position.
I was the best of what remained. I wasn't a P.T. Sullivan (dimly, I scratched a flea that was buzzing loudly on my fur), but I had a modest scare record of 900 scarequotients a day.
As I pushed the door open softly and sneaked in, mind occupied with thoughts of his increasing student debt having been all for naught, I failed to notice the smell of blood and incense until I was staring at a child who was fully awake and looking at me with a fanatical fervour.
"Hey look, Mr Potato Head, the Dark Lord has shown us his servant, oh what is your bidding, oh great master..."
The kid was a cultist. I hadn't seen these before, but they're not unheard of. France in the bad old days, before the company had become... Safer around kids, and there weren't stories of giant... Wolves, bears, demons, witches... kidnapping kids, never to be seen again (killed to keep the Monster World safe from their... abilities), you would occasionally see a religious nut who worshipped a monster that tried to scare them.
I looked at the 'Mr Potato Head'. I saw a potato with clearly a human baby's eyes (scare long enough and you know what human eyes look like. Always look them dead in the face and just stare, motionlessly, and proceed towards them slowly if you can't muster a good roar) nailed into it, blood everywhere.
Bones were used instead of arms, and the putrid smell (and the actuality) of decaying flesh was strewn about. I noticed that there was a hemicicle of chalk around the door, and the kid's words filtered into my mind.
I froze.
Every instinct in me told me to freeze up, so I did.
And then the kid got up, walked up to me, and poked me.
I screamed, and fled back through the door, slamming it shut behind me, my forked tail knocking the kid into the wall, giving me time to shut the door.
I screamed "dead door, cut the power, shred it, NOW!", and slumped to the ground, sobbing.
The company shrink eventually diagnosed me with the newly dubbed Scarer Guilt, where monsters felt a crippling shame for their actions, for scaring young creatures not entirely dissimilar in appearance from monster children. It's not natural, the job of a scarer, the psychologists say, and the psychological stress had gotten to me.
Which was bull (actually, my psychologist was bull-like in appearance, he had hooves and all, I think he's from the country Pain originally, based on the accent, he's got a lot of trophies for some marathon race thing on his office wall) But I took my tablets, and took my pink slip happily.
I now work for the CDA.
Somebody's got to protect the world from these... Humans.
They call us monsters? Bah. Hypocrites.
I have seen things, seen them with my eyes. And I refuse to let such creatures, such monstrous beings infect our world with their sickness.
I am Beeb Bubba. And I am number 666 of the Child Detection Agency. I am the shining light of monster kind. Humans are the darkness I will vanquish if they set foot in our land.