Trick or Treat
One of the groups I belong to on Facebook posted a Writing Prompt on their page.
“For the last 10 years, kids have been festooning your home with toilet-paper sashes on Halloween night. Unfortunately for them, this is the year you finally decided to get even. Write about your night of retaliation.”
In the space of a few minutes, this is what I came up with.
I wait within the shadows of the old oak, the fuel tanks heavy on my back. Despite the chill in the air, I am sweating heavily, my clothes sticking to my skin. My finger slides restlessly over the trigger, eager for some action. It’s been awhile and just as I start to think this year they won’t come, I hear them, those little bastards. TP my house, will they? Well, not this year.
I hear their giggling first, then the crush of brittle leaves as they try to move quietly into my yard. I lick my lips in anticipation, taste the salt beads adorning my upper lip. I watch as they creep across the yard, stealthy as shadows, and approach the jack o’lantern on the porch. One steps forward and picks it up. My hatred for them burns like the candle within that orange head. I watch as he raises it high over his head. There’s only the slightest pause, a nervous glance over his shoulder toward my front door, before he smashes it to the ground. it shatters on the concrete, and oh, what I wouldn’t give to shatter his skull on the sidewalk.
They gather round the pulpy remains, stifling their laughter so as not to alert the man within, but little do they know. I continue to watch as from their backpacks they remove their paper grenades. My finger twitches, but I release the pressure just in time. I watch as they position themselves around the yard, taking up strategic positions. There’s a poetic beauty in the way the move, all in perfect sync. As one, their arms pulled back, preparing to launch their bombs. Now was the time.
I step from the shadows. “Not this year, you miserable punks.” I laugh as they all give a start, taken by surprise, and before they have a chance to recover, my finger tightens on the trigger. The flame erupts from the nozzle, leaping forward, hungry for the taste of flesh. The night is filled with the heavenly chorus of their screams, and soon the smell of their charred flesh rises on the breeze. They try to run, but the demon’s breath follows them. No one will escape this night.
Silence eventually returns, save for the occasional crackle of their fat while it burns.
Tomorrow is going to be a bitch, I’m thinking as I turn to climb the porch steps, having to bury their remains. At the door I stop and turn, my gaze shifting from one smoldering corpse to another, when another thought comes to me. Why waste it? There’s plenty of room in the freezer in the basement. Yeah, I’ll be eating good for awhile.