Flaky stands outside Russell’s home, staring at the door. She sweats nervously, clearly on the verge of a breakdown, before finally committing. She presses the doorbell.
Russell drowsily stands up from his couch, stretching and yawning, before approaching his door. He swings it open and waves to the nervous wreck on his porch.
“H- hi, Russell…” she groans, looking at the ground with her arms together. “W- would you mind… dealing… with t- the…” she says, before gagging. “The… Would… would you mind dealing with… the possum… outside my house?”
Russell nods. “Is it dead?”
“N- no… it’s… it’s twitching-“ she says, before covering her mouth rather violently.
He frowns. “It might be dead.”
“Wh- what if it isn’t?”
He grabs her hand, dragging her along. “Let’s have a look.” he says.
They arrive outside Flaky’s domicile, standing on the sidewalk. Flaky stands behind Russell, the two of them staring at the already-dead possum in her yard.
“Argh, she’s a goner. No problem…” he says, lifting the possum from the ground, groaning as it twitches a bit, tossing it into a garbage can on the curb.
“W- won’t that smell?” Flaky worries, cowering beside her home.
“I hope not.” he says, walking back home. “Thanks…” Flaky moans meekly. She attempts to stand up, but her spines lodge into the brick and mortar of her home, not allowing her to move at all. After kicking the wall, she finally dislodges herself, embarrassed, and approaches her porch. She glares at the spot where the possum laid dead in her yard, before going back inside.
Russell continues a leisurely stroll back to his home, taking in the cool autumn air. He looks around him and admires the various Halloween decorations: perfectly carved pumpkins, poorly carved pumpkins, uncarved pumpkins, Christmas lights, and small brush fires. He takes a deep breath of only semi-toxic smoke and continues walking.
Eventually, he arrives at his home again, turning around to see Flaky barreling towards him at an alarming speed.
“What now?” he asks.
“There’s another possum!” she screams. “You sure it’s not the same?” Russell asks, confused.
“I looked in the can!” she bellows. “There’s another possum!”
“Why don’t you ask someone else to clean it up, or do it yourself?” Russell proposes.
“It’s… it’s dead! I can’t touch it!” she says, flailing her arms around dramatically.
“Well, I’m sure one of your neighbors can.” Russell says, his face in his remaining hand. “P- Petunia? She’d die. And… and Nutty? He’d eat it…”
“I don’t think he eats corpses, lass.” he groans, preparing to go back inside. Flaky grabs his arm and begins dragging him back towards her home. He decides it’s not worth the effort to resist and follows along.
Flaky, who is facing the wrong direction, bumps directly into Mime, who is standing idly on the sidewalk. “What’re you doing out this late, lad? It’s not Halloween yet.” Russell says, helping Flaky dislodge herself from the concrete.
Mime begins miming the action of frenzied stabbing.
“That’s interesting.” Russell says. “Nice makeup.”
Mime looks up and smiles, his face and shirt soaked in blood. He nods.
Russell raises an eyebrow and continues walking. “Arr, have a good evening then.”
Flaky follows as close as she can. “Wh- what was that? He wasn’t… he wasn’t here when I-“
“People walk here sometimes, it’s true.” Russell says, finally arriving in Flaky’s yard. He lifts the new possum once again, twirling it around by the tail and pitching it into the already-open garbage can. “That’s… horrific…” Flaky groans.
She once again waves nervously as Russell walks home, grumbling indistinctly. He continues admiring the Halloween decorations. Mime’s are particularly interesting – a realistic depiction of Cuddles, completely disemboweled.
A foul stench hits Russell much like a truck as he continues walking. He turns around and sees flies circling the decoration.
“Oh.” he says. “Oh no.”
He looks into the window and watches in horror as Mime plants himself against it, waving with a wide grin on his face.
Russell begins running as fast as he can on peg legs (not very), screaming as Mime exits his home and mounts his unicycle, clutching a used potato peeler in his right hand and the handlebar in his left.
Across the street, Flippy awakens in a cold sweat, breathing as deeply as he can, his eyes narrowing and his eyebrows curling. He begins hearing gunshots, the screams of his comrades… explosions, death. He quickly rises from bed laughing as he dislodges his window, throwing the insect netting to the ground. He tumbles out the window, executing a perfect safety roll to avoid self-injury as he charges across the street, his machete drawn.
He makes eye contact with Mime, noting the bloodied potato peeler in his hand, and begins sprinting towards him at full speed. Mime begins furiously peddling, unhinging his jaw as if to scream as Fliqpy cackles.
Russell turns around, screaming even louder than before, charging into a random house nearby. Giggles, who is drowsily watching TV on her sofa, begins screaming before Russell shuts up, desperately shushing the chipmunk.
They both look out the window as Mime is launched from the unicycle by a pebble on the sidewalk. Fliqpy finally catches up to him. Russell and Giggles look away.
The sounds of piercing flesh are heard. Flippy finds himself again. He begins panting, the horrifically mutilated body formerly belonging to Mime curled up below him, a bloodied mess. He stands up, unsteadily, before holstering his machete. He begins looking around, panicking as he grabs both sides of his head tightly. He looks around, noting the distant, yet visible corpse of Cuddles. He begins quietly chuckling as he faints.
Russell steps out, approaching Flippy’s unconscious body. He sighs, checking for a pulse. Upon finding one, he lifts the soldier onto his back, carrying him towards his home.
When he arrives, he carries him in and sprawls him out along the couch, tucking him in under a fleece blanket. He pants as he walks towards the front door, slamming it behind him. He keels over and vomits in Flippy’s yard, standing up and wiping his face with the back of his hand before puking again.