Seasonal Angst: High Drama in the Diorama by Bud Pharo

“I hate this fucking job!” Rob, the disgruntled night security guard, muttered to himself as he did his rounds in the empty department store.

When his parents told him to put down the Xbox controller, pack up his meager belongings, and get out, they called it “tough love.” But at 37, it felt a lot more like tough shit. How could his doting parents suddenly become so heartless? The timing couldn’t have been worse; he was just about to become a successful social media influencer. Unfortunately, that depended on his finding something upon which he could be influential, which has, so far, eluded him.

Since being kicked out of the nest on his ass, he’s had to sleep on a gamer friend’s Cheetos-infested sofa while subsisting on fast food, cheap booze, and an unhealthy dose of anger. Despite his dismal circumstances and poor diet, he would never consider eating enough humble pie required to move back home—after all, he had his pride.

However, in reality, he didn’t have all that much pride, but what he had in abundant supply was stubbornness, which meant he would never give his parents the satisfaction of being right about their ne’er-do-well baby boy. Hence, his current shitty job, miserable disposition, and general apathy toward anything that was not grain-based and sold by the bottle.

He turned down the dimly lit aisle toward the Halloween displays and continued his doleful soliloquy. “I’ve been here six goddamn months—I should’ve been a supervisor by now!”

“Hey, Rob, I know from experience that getting passed over sucks,” the large, animatronic witch said. “I thought for sure I had the Hansel & Gretel gig, but no—they gave it to that Gingerbread Hag. I think she might have been banging one of the Grimm boys.”

Rob stood dumbfounded. Did that display just talk to me?

The witch smiled. “But hey, look at how far we’ve come—I’m a Halloween display in a third-rate department store and you’re a hapless booze-fueled security guard—what’s not to love, am I right?” She gave a derisive chuckle. “I used to be somebody! I used to be feared—now kids walk past, point at me, and laugh—the little bastards.”

The guard stared in disbelief at the imposing figure as he stumbled backward while attempting to free his pepper spray from its holster. “Wait, wait—you’re only supposed to move your head and say a few threatening witchy things.”

“Chill, I’m not going to hurt you. I just want to ask you one simple question. It doesn’t require a great deal of intellectual analysis, which I know isn’t your strong suit. So how about it?”

He relaxed his grip on the pepper spray. “Well, okay, I guess,” he said, confusion etched across his face.

“Rob, what the hell is that all about?” the witch asked, pointing a warty finger at the Snowman Village diorama set up on the next aisle. She shook her head in disgust. “It’s not even Halloween yet!”

He furrowed his brow. How could she—it—know my name?

“Keep in mind, Rob darling, that if I don’t like your answer, I just might do one of those ‘witchy things’ and turn you into a mouse. Do you think your teeny-tiny mouse dick will impress the ladies?” She threw her head back with a wicked laugh. “Now, why is that fucking Snowman Village set up already?”

Rob shrugged. “I don’t know what they were thinking; I guess they… they… they just brought them out early,” he stammered.

“Ah, yes, let’s blame the infamous ‘they’ for this seasonal fuck-up,” the witch said, shaking her head in disappointment. She tapped a finger on her pointed, warty chin. “Now, let me think, what type of mouse?” She paused and gave a snaggle-toothed smile as she watched Rob’s eyes widen as he cowered against the scarecrow display across the aisle.

“Please, please just leave me alone, please!” he begged.

“Hmm, house mouse, nope—too simple. Maybe a church mouse—nope, too quiet. Oh wait, I got it—one of those lab mice. You’re a natural for the part. The maze will remind you of these aisles, but instead of cheese at the end, there’ll be booze.”

Growing more confused by the second, the security guard plopped down into a pumpkin-colored beanbag chair, massaged his temples, and hoped this would all go away. Then the thought occurred to him that maybe this bizarre hallucination resulted from too much cheap whiskey. He quickly dismissed that idea and took a pull from his pocket flask.

“Never mind, we’ll just handle this ourselves,” she said.

As he contemplated whether his lactose intolerance might hamper his life as a mouse, he realized what she had just said. “We? What do you mean by ‘we’?”

“Slim, why don’t you tell him what you think?” The witch turned toward a tall, dark figure standing just behind Rob.

“Holy shit! It speaks too?” he asked, craning his neck to see the black-cloaked Grim Reaper holding an orange Fender Stratocaster, on which he played random Halloween-themed rock parodies ad nauseam. He took another, longer pull from his flask.

“Well, it’s a full month too early for these holiday interlopers,” the Reaper said. “These Frosty wannabes and the rest of their Christmas ilk already have the longest holiday season; now these greedy bastards want the Halloween season too!” The Reaper’s ominous, fiery red eyes glowed in their cavernous sockets.

Rob felt the Grim Reaper’s stare bore deep into his soul. Was he coming for me?

The witch came to his rescue. “Easy, Slim; he doesn’t realize that snowmen are the vanguard of Christmas creep! We’re going to handle this ourselves,” she said, glowering at the snowman village in the next aisle.

Upon hearing the witch’s threat, the largest snowman yelled back, “Sorry, you green-faced bitch—I mean witch—but we’re going to be here until New Year’s Day! So piss-off, you hideous Halloween hag!”

The witch gave a snort. “Nice alliteration, you icy bastard, but you guys still need to leave before we come over there and make you!”

The snowman laughed. “If you come over here, I’ve got a big surprise waiting for you!”

The Reaper jumped to the defense of his friend. “Oh yeah, I’ve got a big surprise for you too, you frigid fuck—right here!” he said, lifting his cloak and grabbing at the fleshless pelvic area where his phallus once resided. “Oops, I guess that gesture was more effective when I was alive,” he said, somewhat embarrassed.

The witch winked. “That’s okay, Slim; it’s the thought that counts.”

The Reaper tilted his head and chuckled. “Oh, yeah, I keep forgetting that my manhood wasn’t actually made of bone,” he said.

She turned her attention back to Snowman Village. “This is our time, not yours!” she yelled, shaking her fist at the snowman. “You need to leave now, or we’ll come over there and kick your snowball asses!”

The snowman yelled back. “Hey, if you want to square up and throw hands, bring it!”

“That’s absolutely fucking hilarious!” the Reaper snorted, unable to control his laughter. “You have broken twigs for arms, a carrot nose, and buttons for eyes, and you want to throw hands—that’s bold talk from someone who lets neighborhood dogs piss all over him. Or does the yellow snow streak just mean you’re a coward?”

“Well, c’mon, you bony bastard, what are you waiting for?” the snowman fired back.

The witch chimed in, “Are you sure you don’t want to wait for your boss—that jolly red-suited, ruddy-faced, eggnog-guzzling asshole with his indentured elves and reindeer posse?”

“Nope, bring it on, crone!”

“Oh, it’s on!” she yelled as she and the reaper trudged toward the next aisle.

Seeing the Halloween displays move off their platforms, the guard snapped out of his trance. “Stop! Hold on a minute. You guys can’t fight in the store,” he shouted in the most authoritative tone he could muster. “Please stop; I’ll lose my job! I can’t go back to living with my parents!”

While attempting to get between the holiday combatants, the guard tripped over an extension cord and fell headfirst into the snowman display platform, knocking himself unconscious.

“Do you think he’s dead?” the reaper asked.

“Well, isn’t that more your department?” she replied, shooting him a quizzical look.

“Either way, we need to get back to our aisle and go radio silent for the duration.”

###

In the morning, the store manager found the drunken security guard asleep, sprawled across a pile of dismembered snowmen, cradling the remnants of a broken orange Fender Stratocaster in his arms. The empty flask beside him and his urine-soaked pants told a sad story the manager had long suspected.

The Human Resources Department suspended him, making continued employment contingent upon successful completion of alcohol rehabilitation and counseling for his apparent latent anger issues toward the holidays.

Once the commotion died down, the Grim Reaper, sans guitar, looked toward the witch, gave her a bony thumbs up, and said, “See, I told you that would work!”

What remained of the Snowman Village diorama was put in storage until after Halloween.

Bud Pharo

Image: Halloween shop display from Google images.