A Sticky Situation: I Caused the Great Molasses Flood

👹 Tonight, the Emperor of the Underworld himself graces you with a tale of chaos, foolish humans, and syrupy disaster. You’ve heard of the Great Molasses Flood of 1919—but you’ve never heard the *real* story.  
Find out how one sip of terrible beer and a bruised ego unleashed a 25-foot wave of sticky doom upon Boston. Was it bad engineering... or *dark magic gone deliciously wrong*?  
Prepare yourself for a story filled with dark humor, chilling truths, and the kind of malevolent charm only the King of Darkness can deliver.  
Follow if you dare — and remember: every disaster has a devil behind it. 🔥

#PodcastStory #DarkHumor #MolassesFlood #BostonHistory #SupernaturalTales #DarkLordChronicles #UnderworldEmperor #HorrorComedy #StorytimePodcast #DevilTellsAll #TrueChaos #SupernaturalStories #ComedyPodcast #HistoryWithATwist #DisasterStories

Transcript

Good evening. It is I. Your boss. Your ruler. The emperor of the underworld. Master of all things unholy. The king of darkness. The one that showed you everything you love in this world. Drugs? I made those. STDs? I created those. Porn? I starred-I mean, I created it. You take any of those things out of your life, and what would you be? Nothing! Just a sack of skin and bones ready to see me. Oh, don't worry. I don't judge your appearance. I judge the heart and your actions. And I like what I see. I just came back from collecting an unfortunate soul that wrecked from the results of a police chase. Honestly, do you really think the American government is going to simply "give up" from chasing you after you've finished robbing three banks? What is with you humans and your obsession with money, anyway? Little pieces of paper with dead people on them whose souls I most likely collected eons ago. Paper that is so insignificant that a mere flame or breeze can stop them. And yet, many of you would end your very life at the chance to hold them. To add them to your banks accounts like a sick trophy collection. Buying things that none of you can take with you once you're gone. All of you sicken me. What a waste of time and breath. Now I know why so many of you are so unhappy. 

But I digress. I know why you're here. You want to know yet another one of my stories about how great I am. As if my accomplishments have anything to do with your lives! But if I am nothing, I am honored, so I accept your meaningless praise. You all are like dogs that are tricked into taking medicine with peanut butter. Sigh. I suppose I could tell you of the lesser known story from Boston, Massachusetts, called the Great Molasses Flood from the year 1919. 

At that time, I was waundering around the city, anxiously awaiting the plethora of souls from World War I. I knew that the start of the war would have so many casualities that I lusted after. What can I say? Souls to me is like crack to a baby. Or was the phrase "candy to a baby?" Whatever. You humans and your idiosyncrasies. Anyway, I knew that the war needed more workers to produce metal for guns, armor, and ammunition. So I knew the best place to look for souls were children working in these factories.

During those days, able bodied children could work in these factories like adults. Due to the nature of the work, many would be amputated by heavy machinery, but other accidents were much more fatal. I know, I know. You're thinking, "I thought children were innocent?" Wrong! You all must not have watched the movie "The Good Son" starring Macaulay Kulkin and Elijah Wood. Google it, you idiots! As I was saying, I was looking for new souls when I started feeling a like thirsty. Normally, I would go for some wine, but I was in blue-collar work now. The working class doesn't drink wine, but beer. So, to keep with the theme, I decided on drinking beer, too. Now, I'm a being of exquisite taste so that pisswater that you humans drink today wouldn't even be feasible for my demons to drink, and believe me, they drink blood. No, I wanted a beer that was crafted from molasses. 

So, I strutted my way over to the Purity Distilling Company, where they had *tons* of the stuff stored in a massive, questionably-built tank right in the middle of the city. Now, normally, I wouldn’t interfere with the brewing process—I respect the art of fermentation—but let’s just say I was *heavily* under the influence of my own ego that day.  

I walked in, demanded a taste, and the workers—because they were human and therefore easily intimidated—hurried to oblige. I took a sip. And let me tell you, I was *disgusted*.  

“This,” I sneered, “is garbage. I’ve had better drinks in Hell—and we distill our liquor from the tears of the damned!”  

The head brewer looked nervous. “Uh… well, we could, um, tweak the recipe?”  

“Tweak? No, no, no, my dear fool. We *revolutionize*.”  

Now, I may be the Lord of Lies, but I take my beverages *very* seriously. I wanted *stronger* beer. I wanted *better* molasses. I wanted something so potent that a single sip would make a man rethink all his life choices. So, naturally, I worked my magic. I made the molasses richer, thicker, more *alive*.  

And that’s when things started going south.  

Apparently, I *may* have overdone it. Just a little.  

Because a few days later, as I was lounging in my usual cloud of malevolence, I felt a *rumble* in the city. At first, I thought it was an earthquake. Then, I realized—nope. That was *my molasses*. The tank couldn’t handle the *demonic density* I had infused into it. The whole thing burst like a piñata filled with sticky doom.  

A 25-foot wave of *supercharged hell-molasses* came crashing through the streets of Boston at 35 miles per hour, sweeping up buildings, carts, people, and probably a few very confused pigeons. It *engulfed* everything in its path. People tried to run, but do you know how impossible it is to outrun *liquid demon goo*? Spoiler: *very*.  

The best part? The smell of molasses lingered in Boston for *decades*. Literally. My mark was left permanently—like a bad tattoo on the city’s history.  

Of course, the humans called it an accident. “Faulty tank construction,” they said. “Thermal expansion,” they theorized. Pfft. Fools. You really think it was just *bad engineering*? No, no, no. That was *me*, baby. The real architect of chaos.  

And yet, despite my masterpiece of destruction, do you know what lesson humanity took from this? *"Oh, we should probably build stronger molasses tanks next time."*  

Not *"Maybe we shouldn’t store millions of gallons of a thick, syrupy substance in a rickety tin can in the middle of a city."* Nope. Just *better tanks.*  

And *that* is one thing I...tolerate about you humans. No matter how many lessons I throw at you, you always miss the point. Always. It’s honestly *adorable*.  

That's all the precious time I have today for you fools. If you like what you heard, please feel free to follow me if you're not doing that already. And please, tell your friends about me. Advertising can be such...hell.