Tuesday, December 28, 2010

A Parable For Our Times

Well, what is a horror writer to do? Most of my stories are even close to 'PG', and I do like to make this blog family friendly. So, I searched through my old tales, and I have one that you may find somewhat amusing, somewhat poigant, and hopefully entertaining - if you like puns.

It is a bit appropriate for a Lovecraft blog, as much of his dark fantasy was about dealing with his inner bigotry of "others". So, with all apologies to Veggie Tales, I present:

From the Dark Side of Produce: When Vegetables Go Murderous.

The Story of Hashed Brown.

Spuds McTurkle was from Idaho, and very proud of it. Look, California could keep it's dancing raisins. Spuds was from the great state that had upturned his legendary dad: "Idaho Tate".

Scallions, however, were not hill vegetables. They were only half-roots, and he had no use for them or their odor. The old saying went: Put a scallion in the bin, and the whole lot will smell like bad garlic.

Spuds avoided their kind.

Until one day and that fateful bus trip to Ohio.

He'd always had his eyes on Ohio. It was high in the middle and round on both ends just like Spuds. He knew, just knew, that his destiny awaited there.

But the scallions, as was their ilk, were waiting. They'd had a contract out from McDonald's, and they wanted a piece of the golden arches in their pockets. Corporate didn't care where the french fires came from, and the public demand was fry high.

Though he only vaguely resembled a turnip, this day Spuds walked into a dark corridor, as if he were fresh from the farm and had tumbled off the truck. The place was bigger than all out doors,a nd as confusing as a corn maze, so Spuds took one fatal, wrong turn and ended in a corridor as dark as the underbelly of a furrow.

Instead of finding the ticket counter, he found scallions - with a potato slicer.

They fell upon him. His mottled skin was peeled from his body as fast as a pitchfork tine could flip a new potato. They went for the eyes, and slit them into a wet pile. As they slashed, the stench of raw potato was in the air.

Into a gunny sack the raw potato chunks went, and Spuds - just like that - was parted from the good earth forever.

- Chris Perridas

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