Summary: A little Halloween story
Feedback: Always welcome
The victim lay on the butchery table, the corpse pale; the skin peeling and still warm, a trail of steam rose from the open and seeping wounds.
The scalp had been peeled back and the innards lay discarded on the table in a goopy runny mess. The carnage smelt of rotting eggs and as the crazed butcher brought down his knife for another slash to the tender flesh of his victim I called out, "Stop." but I knew it was too late.
The man turned toward me slowly, his face hidden by shadow, the knife still clutched in his hands. As he stepped toward me I could see his face was painted, dark blues and reds adorned his cheeks and his wavy auburn hair hung like a curtain around his face, a few feathers clung to the unruly mess.
"OH, come on, man." Blair dropped his knife, sweeping the mess on the table into the trashcan. "I got a knife man, you trying to make me cut myself?"
When I didn't answer he advanced from around the counter, stopping to rinse his hands and dry them on a towel. "I so do not want to spend Halloween night in the ER with all the other looneys."
"But, but I could have made pie."
The dishtowel sailed toward me, hitting me squarely in the face, brushing my glued on beard before dropping to the floor.
"Come on, Prospector. Time to take Jack here to the party."
I waddled behind my Indian Chief as he picked up the jack o lantern and headed for the door, his tunic blowing as he stepped through. I had to turn my rotund body, stuffed pillows pressing between the jambs, the bib of my overalls getting caught on the door handle. Blair came back for me, juggling Jack, trying to pry me through the door.
"Hey, I can make pie."
With a final shove I was free, but Jack tumbled toward the hall floor. Blair made a wild grab but in the end my fatness saved him. I leaned toward Blair and the pumpkin rolled down my torso and landed with a muffled thump near my feet. It was useless to try to bend over to retrieve it, I didn't think I would be able to sit in the truck and Blair had been joking all evening that he was going to have to roll me into the bed and cover me with the tarp on the way over to the station.
"I got him, I got him."
The trip to the truck was uneventful but as I tried to raise myself into the passenger seat a new problem became clear. A snicker accompanied by a sudden cough sounded to my right and as I rounded on the Indian he stepped back, both hands raised.
"Hey man, don't worry about it. I can sew a patch on real quick, it'll look authentic."
As a cool breeze circulated around the new opening in my pants, I shook my head and headed to the back of the truck. Blair ran into the building as I heaved myself up and over the tailgate, shimmying back to rest my upper body on one of the wheel wells.
"Uh, Jim? I was just joking about riding in the back, man."
"Shut up, Sandburg."
He jumped in, taking the wheel and started the ignition with a bit too much force, turning to give me a nervous look through the rear window, before pulling from my usual spot.
The chilly wind whipped at my face, forcing me to hold onto my hat and fake beard.
"All I know," I growled. "There better be pie."
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