MicroHorror

“Fucking kids!” Winston declared, looking down at the mangled mess that was his beloved pumpkin patch. He ran a thick-veined hand through his graying brown hair. “Got no respect at all for other people’s property.”

“Dad,” Bo cried, shaking his spiked-haired head. “You don’t know that kids did this.” He paused, putting his hands in the pockets of his baggy jeans, shrugged his thin shoulders and said, “It could’ve been animals.”

“Animals?” Winston laughed. He gawked at Bo and said smugly, “Boy, kids did this and I’ll prove it. I’ll hide in that old shed tonight–” he pointed an askew finger at a worn-out brown shed–“And wait on those disrespectful little brats.” A wiry smile crossed Winston’s weather-tanned face. “Then I’ll jump out and scare the shit right out of their disrespectful assholes.”

Bo looked doubtful and bored with the conversation.

Winston breathed deeply, raising his massive chest. “Trust me, son,” he began. “Fathers always know best.”

That night Winston waited until he heard the muffed and hushed voices of oncoming intruders. “It’s about time,” he whispered, moving slowly to a grime-covered window. He saw two small figures coming through the moonlight. As they got closer he could see a little boy that was wearing an oversized boot with a huge steel-toe cap on it, and a small girl who wore the boot’s mate. “Kids,” he murmured, softly. “I knew it.” He positioned himself by the door.

The kids began kicking the remaining pumpkins. Seeds and orange goop covered their clothes and flew through the cool night air. They giggled softly and smiled mischievously, and didn’t even jump when Winston ran out of the shed yelling at them.

“Aarrrh!” Winston bellowed, waving his arms in the air like a madman. “Get out of here!” His heart was racing, but these kids were standing there, unalarmed and definitely not scared. He grew red with anger. “What’s your parents’ name?” he asked sternly. “Someone owns me money for my pumpkins you two have destroyed!”

The boy and girl didn’t say a word. They just looked at Winston like he was the Easter Bunny, Tooth Fairy and Santa Claus all rolled up into one.

Winston huffed, “Answer me!” He gnawed at his bottom lip. The kids stood there, eyes unblinking. “Fine!” Winston growled. “I’ll just go and call the cops.”

“Please don’t,” the girl chirped. “I’ll tell you.”

Winston walked over to her.

The girl smile shrewdly and kicked Winston in his shin with her steel-toed boot. Once. Twice. Three times. He fell to the ground in a thud.

Winston’s eyes filled with rage. “I’m gonna wear your ass out for that!”

“You shouldn’t cuss,” the little boy said. “Because Daddy says that’s the Devil’s language.”

The little girl knelt down and patted Winston’s sweaty head. “Do you know what else Daddy says?” she asked, smiling hellishly.

“No,” Winston croaked, his eyes filling with fear. He tried to get up, but the boy kicked him between the legs.

The girl stood up and looked at the boy. He smiled like he’d been caught stealing a cookie out of the cookie jar. “Daddy says,” he stated, “that kicking pumpkins is the closest thing to kicking in a real person’s head.”

Winston drew deep, uneasy breaths. “Now, you kids quit playing this silly little game of yours, and go and get me some help.”

The girl looked around and surveyed the pumpkin patch. Fifty or more pumpkins were busted opened and bleeding out their remnants. “Brother,” she said, turning her attention to the little boy. “Daddy said that once we perfected kicking in pumpkins that we could try the real thing, and don’t you think that it’s time we try?”

The boy shook his small head proudly. He looked down at Winston who was shaking his head no. The boy drew back his steel-toe boot and said, “Like Daddy always says, ‘Fathers do know best.’”