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Ahem.

A pre-Halloween anecdote on the doomed future of humanity.

By Jonathon8.

 

Sitting at the bus stop the other day, not enjoying the afternoon sun or the fact someone stole my favorite t-shirt from the laundry room last week and I have to go fucking clothes shopping…

[I’m claiming the laundry as my bloody hunting ground – petty thieves can piss off elsewhere, but better not take my semi-dried clothes with them in future.   I see anyone wearing that particular The Cure design, and – well, steal a dead man’s t-shirt and you’re asking to be a dead man…]

 … and along comes these moms with various child-appendages attached.   They’re standing there talking and fiddling with strollers and shopping bags and cell phones, when a small satellite detaches itself and makes a fucking bee-line for me.

[It’s like cats.   My landlord’s allergic, and he’s the only person the Cat delights in being physically affectionate with…]

Geez – like I’m in a position to judge age.   I don’t know.   Four, maybe.   Fat little cherub of a kid with shiny cheeks and what is hopefully chocolate smeared all down its front.

[Cherubs- now that’s an aesthetic I never fucking get.   Pudgy naked toddlers with embarrassing curls and useless-looking wings: how is that ‘cute’?   I swear – on some mythological plane somewhere, Eros (or Cupid, if you insist) fucking dies a little inside each time someone manufactures another fat winged baby and names it after him…]

 

So the kid comes over and stands in front of me.

And I say, “What?”

And the kid looks at me.

And I say, “Fuck off.”

And the kid looks.

And then it says, “What are you?”

And I say, “I’m your worst nightmare.”

[The moms are still talking after a cursory look around to see their beloved offspring aren’t playing in the traffic or stepping in dog turds. Good danger assessment there, ladies…]

It considers this for a minute.

And then it says, “Why?”

And I shrug and say, “It’s what I do.   I’m the fucking boogeyman, kid.   I’m what your parents warn you about.   I’m the stranger you should never talk to.   I’m the monster in the stories who eats little kids who ask too many bloody questions.”

It considers this.

Then it says, “I have a firetruck at home.   It has a button and it makes a ‘woo-ooo, woo-ooo’ noise.   And I have shoes with lights in ’em that I walk in, only mommy says they’re gone, and we’re going to Auntie Tara’s next week, and her dog is called Max, and yeah.   I like, I like – I like Spiderman.   You have pointy hair.   Okay.   Bye.”

 

NEXT ENTRY…

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3 Comments

  1. Well at least you weren’t poked with a stick!

  2. Should have bite it!


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