Wednesday, January 11, 2012

Tales From The Workforce Part 7

This was originally published in Married Punks #13 in 1998.  The series would later be made into a manuscript, which I will be publishing soon.

Tales From the Workforce Part 7: Vomiting Ghoul

Halloween brought a tradition to the resort that is practiced all over the country: the haunted hayride.  Here, grandparents and grandchildren, young couples looking for an excuse to cuddle, and kids who think that they are braver than what they truly are sit inside a hay lined wagon and journey down a dark trail.  The passengers wait in eager anticipation for poorly made-up monsters to jump out and scare them.

My friends and I decided to really create something scary.  I got my battle axe, which I had scrounged from my dad's bar, and I made up a batch of fake blook like is used in the movies.  Then, I along with Jack, Fred and Tony found a spot along the trail where we could set up our little spectacle.

The rules of the resort stated that we could not jump on the haywagon, nor could we touch anyone on the haywagon.  No problem; we had a cool plan that required none of that.

By the side of the trail we built a huge bonfire.  When the wagon would reach the bend before the fire, Fred was to come running after it.  He would be screaming for help.  As soon as he would reach the back of the haywagon, he would make as if to board when I would pop out of the woods with my axe, "bite" his shoulder while letting the fake blood run out of my mouth.  After that, I would "hit" him on the head with my dull axe.  That was our plan.

Jack and Tony were to wait until the wagon reached the bonfire, and then Tony would rush the wagon from around the fire; his face painted to resemble a skull.  Jack, shirtless and sporting a similar paint job, would leap out of a tree, roll past the fire and rush the wagon also.  That was the cool, kick-ass, cannibal attack plan.  At least it was until Kyle showed up.

Kyle, drinking a wine cooler, was drunk off his ass.  Upon seeing us, he immediately took off his shirt and demanded to be part of our production.  He was our friend, so we agreed.  We painted his face and told him that he would run out with Tony.  We also went over the rules with him.

The haywagon was nearing us.  Jack went off into the woods to urinate while Kyle emptied his alcohol-filled bladder beside the fire.  Then we took our places...

"Help me!" Fred screamed, running out of the woods and after the haywagon full of screaming passengers.  "He's going to kill me!"

I burst out of the woods, covered in blood and snarling.  It was great!  Fred attempted to grab onto the wagon, and that is when the plan started to fall apart.

I pulled Fred away from the wagon and pretended to bite him as he howled in mock pain; blood running down his shoulder.  The people on the ha ywagon were flipping out!  They didn't know if all of this were real or not.

I brought the axe down ... a little too far, and knocked Fred in his head.  He yelped in real pain this time, which I thought was fake anyway, and I pushed him to the ground.  There was a muted, hollow thunking noise as his skull crashed into a large rock.  He did not yelp this time; he only groaned.

The hay wagon kept going and approached the bonfire.  Jack, totally off cue, dropped from the tree and rolled right into Kyle's urine.  "Why am I wet?" he yelled, standing up and angrily brushing himself off.

Tony, meanwhile, followed the plan and scared people.  Kyle did not.

Kyle jumped on the wagon and leaned down between an old woman and her granddaughter.  He made some ghoul-like noise; his long hair billowing iback and forth as he shook his head like some out of control monster.

The combination of Kyle's head motion and the hay wagon bouncing must have unsettled his alcohol-filled stomach because he let loose with a flow of oddly textured vomit that would have made any frat boy proud.  The grandmother and granddaughter, who received most of the vomit on their heads, thought that it was part of the ride and applauded in delight.  Perhaps they were drunk, too.

Later that night, I was chewed out by my boss, who could not tell the people what really happened, and was barred from letting non-employees participate in next year's hayride.  I quit a little while later after the British owners fucked over my dad.  To quote Danzig, "I hate the fucking British."  Not really, but I did then.

Next time, it's the return of Kyle and the beginning of my stint in the convenience store.

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