Prop Man
by
Guy Medley
Artwork by Jimmy Boring
About two years ago I started to write a short Halloween story to put on the blog. For some reason, most likely laziness, I never completed it and it lay forgotten in a notebook. So, this year, as Halloween approached, I remembered it and dug it up and made a few changes and decided to finally post it. It's not spectacular, or particularly good, just a weird, somewhat humorous tale of holiday decorating gone perhaps a bit too far, depending on one's particular tastes in such things. I hope you enjoy it, and maybe get a little chuckle out of it.
Gunther had worked feverishly the past week, setting-up and
perfecting every little detail of the Halloween display that had slowly
transformed his meticulously manicured front lawn into a necropolis of
unimaginable horrors.
Still,
there was much more that needed done yet, and time was quickly running out. The
judges would be by tonight to evaluate and score his hard work, and this year
he was certain he would take the top prize for best display. He had worked
tirelessly, put many months of painstaking planning and effort into it. He just
had to win. He was determined he would.
Gunther
looked out through the large picture window at his work so far, only to witness
a handful of thieving crows atop his centerpiece, missing the irony it being a
scarecrow. They went about happily plucking delectable eyes from the holes of
the masked corpse, trailing optic nerves wiggling free from their sockets like
groups of long bloody worms.
“Oh,
you little bastards!” he yelled, running for the door. Gunther flew from the
porch, arms waving furiously, scaring the vile creatures off, fearing they had
ruined his wide-eyed scarecrow and any chance he might have had at winning
first prize.
Gunther
thoroughly inspected the damage to the
figure, which stood proud and impaled upon a blood slicked post, front and
center facing out toward the street. He was relieved to find the scavenging
crows had in fact, if anything, improved upon the look he was striving for.
Newly dislodged chunks of gore dangled from ragged eye holes between the
battered and frayed burlap mask, giving the totem a new sense of wicked blight.
He liked it. No, he absolutely loved it!
He
raised a friendly hand into the crisp autumn air, saluting his new carrion
eating friends, who still circled high overhead, no doubt eyeing other
prospective meals from neighboring sections of his yard display. Perhaps taking
a newfound fancy toward the neatly de-skinned gentleman that hung festively
from the corner oak tree on an oversized and rusty meat hook.
Gunther
went about his preparations with military-like precision. No detail, no matter
how slight or seemingly insignificant, went unnoticed, unattended to.
The
yard was festooned with a plethora of Jack-O-Lanterns that Gunther had made
himself, lovingly hollowing out dozens of skulls. He lit candles within each
one, the flickering light dancing playfully about, glowing a beautiful sunset
red through the voided eye sockets.
From
the depths of the basement, he carefully carried up his old woman corpse. She
was his oldest, most fragile piece, having dried to a delicate dusty shell that
smelled like nutmeg and old leather shoes. She was his favorite, so
grandmotherly in appearance and smell. He supposed she very well could have
been, most likely had been, someone’s grandmother at one time. But now she was
his, and during Halloween she had always taken on the roll once again for
children all over the neighborhood. Gunther set her in a creaky old rocker on
the front porch, leaving the lattice work of a year’s worth of spiders webs
intact to complete the look. He fluffed up the ancient lace collar of her
dress, picking away the stray strands of brittle grey hair that tangled in the
pattern, fixing what was left of the hair that still clung in a tight bun to
the dry skin of her scalp. She had always been the perfect prop to use as candy
distributer. Gunther placed a large silver bowl full of treats in her bony lap
and gingerly contorted her dry brittle fingers so that they appeared to be
grasping the sides. Her eyes had long since sunk and withered to dust, deep
grey wrinkles taking their place like puckered lips, as if her eyes were now
smiling.
Gunther
had filled the silver bowl, like always, with his best Halloween treats,
relishing the sound they made as they plopped against the cool metal. Candied
eyes, caramel coated fingers, brightly colored kidney balls, and of course his
favorite, chocolate toffee stuffed tongues. It was a festive treat bowl if he
ever saw one. The trick-or-treaters would no doubt swarm his house once word
got around tonight.
Just as
Gunther was inspecting the last of his work, approaching footsteps echoed along
the sidewalk, crunching through dry leaves. From the darkness appeared five
well-dressed individuals who stepped up to his front gate sporting wide smiles
each. The judges had arrived.
Gunther
was all smiles, ear to ear, as the judges ooh’d and ahh’d over his yard
displays, commenting over and over again at how incredibly life-like everything
was. They praised his custom Jack-O-Lantern skulls and their uniqueness, and
were especially pleased with the masked scarecrow centerpiece, looming over it
all. It looked as if his hard work and perseverance was going to finally
pay-off.
One of
the judges let out a shrill scream, followed by nervous laughter. “Sorry,” she
said. “It just moved and brushed against my leg. Very effective.”
Gunther
looked quizzically at the object in question, a twisted corpse rising half out
of a burial plot. The corpse, which obviously now seemed wasn’t a corpse at
all, moved again, twitching a bloody
arm, its fingers raking through the grass. As he approached it let out a soft,
exasperated moan. It was ruining his display and he was none too pleased and
morbidly embarrassed.
“Excuse
me,” Gunther said, mortified by this most unfortunate oversight. He grabbed
hold of an axe that was lodged firmly into the torso of a young girl laid atop
a fake boulder, and with a grunt pulled it free and returned to the twitching
grave corpse.
With
the axe raised high over his head, Gunther brought it down swiftly, forcefully,
and repeatedly with maniacal determination, slicing into the corpse’s back with
bone crunching whumps. Blood and gore flew about in a widening arc, covering
himself as well as the five judges, who all gasped in wide-eyed unison.
Intestines oozed out from the corpse’s gaping mouth, and alas the cursed thing
twitched no more.
The now
bloodied judges stood frozen in place, silent, looking at the axe now buried to
the hilt in what little remained of the grave crawling corpse. And, as if a
switch had been thrown, they all simultaneously began to applaud and cheer,
elated in the efforts Gunther had endured to deliver such a realistic and
original interactive yard display. Smiles erupted from faces running and
dripping with blood.
“This
is a first rate display,” said one judge as he wiped away blood from his
forehead.
“First
prize without a doubt,” said another.
Gunther
beamed with pride, his first place ribbon pinned proudly to the front of his
gore splattered shirt, and he began thinking about the Christmas display he had
planned.
First of all, Joe Hill is not his father. Lets get that out of the way right now. I'm SO tired of people constantly comparing him to Stephen King. Yes, Joe is a brilliant author, and that's where the similarities end. He has his own very distinct style and voice. A talent that has been successful in the comic and graphic novel markets. Is a master of the short story. He's really become one of my favorite new authors. The Fireman is an epic work of survival in a world gone to hell, almost literally. It's about the fragile state of community during a crisis that nobody knows how to fix. About finding love in the most unlikely of places. If you can only manage to read one book this coming year, pick this one up. You just may become a Joe Hill fan, and that can't possibly be a bad thing.
