Tales in Hot Pink is a weekly column by our fearless leader. Like all management, he is not required to tell the truth, represent himself accurately, or trouble himself with reality in any way. And, in keeping with our corporate style, he is not bound by good taste or specific subject, so he may ramble wildly from topic to topic. As his employees, we encourage this, because the day is long and we are frequently bored.
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Victim
Two in the morning. The house is quiet. No late night TV, no music, just silence. I'm reading, getting drowsy, when it starts. Thud. It's a dull sound, muffled, but loud enough to get my attention. I stop reading. Thud, it goes again. It seems louder, but maybe it's because now I'm listening for it. I think it's coming from the fireplace. Thud. It's not an indoor noise that I'm familiar with, like the water cleanser or the heating unit, it sounds like someone's outside, beating on the chimney with a croquet mallet. I'm wide awake now, and I stand up. Thud. Of course, who on earth would be outside at two in the morning, and why would they be pounding on my house with a croquet mallet? It was ridiculous to even consider it. Nobody plays croquet in this neighborhood. Thud. I kneel in front of the fireplace and peer into it. I have no idea what I'm looking for. We haven't used or even opened the fireplace since we moved in, so I wonder if maybe it needs to be cleaned. Or maybe there's something rattling around in there, like a branch or a bird or a squirrel… Thud. That's no branch or bird or squirrel, I realize. They'd thrash, flutter, squeal…they wouldn't tap or bang like a metronome. So, I get my coat, curse because we still don't have a flashlight in the damn house, and I go outside. It's raining lightly outside, misting. I'm on the lawn, about to round the house to inspect the chimney, when suddenly I realize… I'm the idiot. I'm the one in the movie who goes to investigate the noise and turns up ten minutes later in the linen closet skewered on a sharpened broomstick. I'm the one the heroine finds in the barn, hanging from the rafters with a shocked look on my face like I woke up the day after the election to find out Pat Buchanan was the new President of the United States. I'm the one who dies because the dog never showed up for dinner. I'm the one foolish enough to suggest drug use or premarital sex deep in the woods, far from civilization, shortly after being told that a lunatic who likes to eat brain matter recently escaped from the local asylum. I pause, standing on the lawn, in the moonless dark, and I wonder what to do. It's too late, of course. I've already committed myself to being the idiot I've always laughed at in countless horror movies. The twisted maniac is just around the corner of my rural home, banging on my chimney and foaming at the mouth, probably muttering over and over, "It puts the lotion on its skin", and he's going to get me no matter what I do. It's not like I can kill him. The idiot never kills the maniac. That would be like Bill Gates whooping Mike Tyson's ass in a title bout. It can't happen, and I sure as hell wouldn't put money on it. Furthermore, it's a well known fact there are only three ways to kill a maniac: beheading, a fall from a great height, or impaling with a sharp object. And beheading isn't very popular anymore. Nowadays, the only guaranteed way to ensure your safety, at least until the sequel, is to cause the maniac to fall from a great height, resulting in his being pierced with a sharp object, preferably a wrought iron gate. And I, being the idiot, was standing on my front lawn, many miles away from anything that could be considered a great height. I had foolishly left the house armed with nothing whatsoever to impale maniacs with. All I had in my coat pockets were a year old roll of breath mints and a ticket stub from a Leo Kottke concert. Even though it's a well known fact that maniacs despise both fresh breath and Leo Kottke, I had nothing I could save my life with. "Ah, screw it," I decided, moving forward to round the corner. Nobody lives forever, because if they did, we wouldn't have anyplace to park. I hoped that I wouldn't scream like a girl. There was no maniac. The thudding sound continued, however, in spite of his absence. That meant the house was haunted, and my chances of survival were greatly increased. I had an opportunity to redeem myself. I could go back inside, pack up, and skip town. I could prevent becoming the idiot. In haunted house movies, the idiot always stays, even though the house gives explicit instructions for him to do otherwise. First it's a thudding in the chimney, then unexplained cold spots, then a bubbling green pit of acid in the basement that eats family pets. At that point, it's too late. The house is really pissed. The idiot will have to throw furniture throw windows because they won't open, just so he can escape into the thunderstorm that's always raging outside. And he never thinks to get his jacket. That's a good way to get pneumonia. So it was settled. Sure, the thudding in the chimney could have something to do with the rain. Maybe there was water dripping down the shaft, hitting the metal grate above the damper, but I didn't think so. The noise was probably the house's way of telling me it was tired of my long showers and my poor decorating sense, and it was time for me to get the hell out. If I ignored this sign, there'd have to be flies and black stuff oozing out of the toilets, and nobody wants that. Then I thought about moving. The boxes, the breakage, the weight set, the entertainment center, the dining room table… I decided if the house wanted to drip blood from the walls, it could. Maniac or no maniac, haunted house or not, there was nothing scarier than having to move again. I went back inside. The thudding softened and finally stopped about fifteen minutes later, either because of my extraordinary resolve and refusal to stop reading, or because the rain had called it quits for the night. In real life, sometimes the idiot wins. |
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| A collection of more diseased madness below. Check
out a few, and then buy The Reluctant
Prophet. We won't tell
anyone what you spent your grocery money on. No one needs to
know. We can keep it just between us.
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