Dear Jimmy, Send Fish Sticks

Dear Jimmy,

Allow me to introduce myself: My name is The Monster That Lives Under Your Brother’s Bed, but feel free to call me Bedder. I am the monster that lives under little Jaxson's bed, as you may have guessed. And I’d have you know that he has made me quite angry. Upsetting a monster (a hungry monster no less) is not a very bright idea but I suppose that makes sense since he is still a child of no more than eight.

However, I am a very reasonable monster (unlike my cousin, The Monster That Lives In Your Chimney, who once ate Santa for looking at him funny) and I’m willing to forgive him–at a price. You see, as I’ve stated previously, I’m rather hungry and your household seems to have a plethora of food at its disposal. For example: Fish sticks. Jaxson does seem to hate these, and I’m not picky. A mere 1,200 pounds of fish sticks a day, and I promise not to eat him. Well, not all of him. Toes grow back, right?

Now, you might be wondering why I’m writing to you, Jimmy, when it’s your brother who’s been so monstrously rude. Simple. You’re the older one. The responsible one. The one who knows how to open the freezer and operate the microwave. I need someone reliable to handle my dietary needs. And besides, I’m rather cross with you too — mostly by association. You do live in the same house. You do share the same air. So really, you’re not entirely innocent, are you? And if you refuse to help… Well, you do look quite delicious. So if you could just slip yourself under here, that would also be acceptable.

Now, before you exclaim that you will not feed me anything, I feel it is important to remind you of the…events of the past week. I think it began when I first decided to take up residence under Jaxson’s bed, two months ago. I must say that I was very tame. I limited myself to heavy breathing and the occasional grab for his ankle. But he took things to the next level when he went to your mommy and daddy, who are the natural enemies of all monsters, as they always insist, we do not exist (which is really quite rude).

“Jaxson,” mommy said, tucking him into bed. “Monsters aren’t real. There's no reason to be scared!”

“That’s right, Jax,” Daddy said, ruffling his hair. “It’s just your imagination.”

“B-but it grabbed my ankle!” he sniffled (have I mentioned that he has a really annoying voice? No? Well, it's true. And tell him to wipe his nose every once in a while, ok?).

I chuckled from under the bed. I couldn’t help it, and he quite rudely yelled at me. “Shut up, ugly!” And then proceeded to throw his stuffed bunny at me (Joke's on him, stuffed animals happen to be one of my favorite nighttime snacks).

Your mommy and daddy gasped and scolded him, and then left the room. I suppose it was after that night that he really started his campaign against me.

It started with cruel pranks that, in Monster law, are punishable by death.

“Oh, Be-edder!”

I didn’t respond as that breaks monster code, but I did grunt lightly.

“I’m soooo full. I think I must have gained at least thirty pounds from dinner.”

My mouth began to water.

“It's too bad I spilled all that barbecue sauce on myself and forgot to wash it off. Oh well, there's always tomorrow.”

A line of drool dripped down my chin.

“Goodness, it sure is hot in here. Someone must've turned the heater on. I’ll be cooked soon.”

The drool from my mouth collected into a puddle (which his mommy blamed him for, by the way).

Then the little bully swung his head upside down and gave me a savage grin. “Just kidding, Mr. Gullible.” I reached out to rip that little smirk off his face, but he moved out of the way just in time and giggled himself to sleep. Honestly, he's incorrigible. I don’t know how you stand him.

I suppose those wicked pranks were only meant to distract me from his real plan, and I regret to say it worked. The real intent was to rid himself of me. He started to ask his parents some very strange questions that, in hindsight, probably should have alarmed me more.

“Daddy, are monsters afraid of fire?”

“Mommy, can you set a monster on fire?”

“Jimmy, do we have any matches?”

“Granny, where do we keep the fireworks?”

However, at the time, I didn’t think much of these queries. I was too busy being enraged.

Your devious little brother launched his so-called “plan” five days ago — July 4th, of course. While your family was out feasting on scorched pig flesh, Jaxson snatched a single firework and slithered back into the house like the gremlin he is.

He’s got those toy trains, as you know. He wound one up as I watched, mildly intrigued, and then he strapped the firework to the caboose. (Not that I knew it was a firework — I assumed it was a snack. Foolish me.)

Then he lit it and released the train. It rolled toward me like a gift. And then — BOOM. Sparks. Smoke. Heat. I was choking on fire and light. I could feel the explosion rushing down my esophagus, and I coughed up smoke for hours. Hours!

“Happy Independence Day, Beddy-boy,” he cackled.

It didn’t banish me. But oh, Jimmy… it humiliated me. That was the moment I realized: I had underestimated the sticky-fingered menace you call a brother.

Stupid, little Jaxson realized his ploy hadn’t worked rather quickly and concocted a new plan to expel me. Several plans, really.

The next day, he came to the bed with a sandwich in his hands and placed it on the ground. “I’m real sorry for being so mean to you, Mister Bedder Sir. But I made you a snack to make up for it!” He said sweetly. I should have caught the malevolent glint in his eye (but who can blame me, the child always looks slightly deranged).

I snatched the sandwich up with one clawed hand and crammed it down my throat. As if my poor mouth hadn’t suffered enough already. Apparently, Jaxon had gotten into the leftover stash of pop-its because as soon as I took a bite, tiny explosions racked my head. My teeth, being stronger than a human's, didn’t shatter but did suffer a few cracks.

Oh, but that's not all, Jimmy. There was Glitter. Glitter! So much of it. He had coated the inside of the sandwich with that evil substance. Have you ever eaten glitter, Jimmy? Well, if you haven’t, then let me tell you how it sticks to your gums for the rest of eternity. And let's say, hypothetically, that you acquired a few cracks in your teeth. It gets stuck in those cracks, Jimmy, and it never leaves.

When that didn’t banish me, that snake Jaxon decided to light a few candles around my bed. A few dozen. The smell of flowers and pumpkin and sugar, and all things sweet and bright made me gag for hours. Luckily, his mommy saved me.

“Jaxson! What on earth are you doing? This is a terrible fire hazard! Put them away now.”

“But mo-om!”

His mother gave him the terrible glare that only mothers can pull off (I tried it on Jaxon once, but to no avail. It seems only mommy has that strange power). “Now!”

“Yes, mommy,” Jaxson said quickly.

I could’ve stomached the glitter, Jimmy. I could’ve swallowed the pop-its and even gnawed off one of Jaxson’s fingers to hold me over. But then… he did something truly vile.

He cleaned his room.

And not just a half-hearted sock shuffle — no. He summoned Mommy. You know what that means. Mothers, Jimmy, are the apex predators of domestic cleanliness. They can sniff out every spiderweb, every crumb, every monster; even if they claim we don’t exist. So either Jaxson was desperate… or possessed. I’ve never seen a child ask to clean his room.

Mommy practically skipped in, vacuum in hand, eyes gleaming with vengeance. “Jaxson, you start in the closet and I’ll vacuum the rug!”

“Yes, Mommy,” he muttered, skulking like a grumpy ghoul.

The next hour was pure terror. Her hands swept under the bed like searchlights, dragging out socks, mold, and at least three of my spider roommates. “Jaxson! Look at all this water! I’ve told you not to have water in your room!” She mopped up my drool pool, Jimmy. My drool pool. I’d been curating that puddle for weeks.

And just when I thought I was safe, she grabbed my leg. “Jaxson, I’ve told you not to leave your stuffed animals under the bed.” She dragged me out even as my claws scrambled for purchase on the wooden floor. Once I was taken from my home, she squinted at me. “I don’t recall this one. Is it new?”

Jaxson, that traitorous imp, lit up like a firework (I despise those things now, by the way. Your little brother has given me PTSD). “Er, yes! I got it at the Fourth of July parade!”

Mommy didn’t look convinced. “Huh,” she said. And then — she tossed me aside. Like trash. Like a sock with no match.

That was it, Jimmy. The final insult. I fled. Dignity in tatters. Droolless. Defeated.

So, congratulations. Your brother won. He got rid of me.

But I’ll tell you this, Jimmy: monsters don’t stay gone. We relocate. We regroup. We remember.

So, you’d better get me those fish sticks. Because your bed? It’s looking awfully roomy.

Warmest regards, Bedder (AKA The Monster That Lives Under Your Bed)