2nd place in Derby #117: Halloween, with 1228 votes

Visitor around here, ain’t ya? Don’t get many strangers here in West Boo-foo, no sir.

Bet your probably asking yourself the same question most everybody asks themselves when travelin’ through here this time of year. “How come there ain’t any of them jack-o-lanterns out on the porches for Halloween?”

Well, I’ll tell you what, stranger. You buy an old man a cup of coffee, and I’ll tell you. Hope you brought some clean underwear with you, though. This here story’ll make a mess of your pants, I reckon.

See, years ago, we grew pumpkins here in West Boo-foo. Not just any old pumpkins, though. We were known for havin’ the best dang pumpkins in the world. Big ones, little ones, orange, white, all types. Now, I know our town doesn’t look like much, but time was that people would come from miles around just to buy a pumpkin from one of our patches for their Halloween parties and what-not. And they wouldn’t just buy pumpkins, neither. Streets would be full of travelers, like yourself, buyin’ up pies, seeds, jellies, marital aids. If you could make it out of a pumpkin, you could buy it in West Boo-foo.

Until the Henderson boy went missin’, that is.

Lord, they looked for that boy for weeks. There were search parties and bloodhounds. Hell, they even got one of them big city helicopters flyin’ ‘round at all hours looking for the kid. Couldn’t find hide nor hair of him for days.

Mornin’ of Halloween came and the Henderson boy showed up on his front porch, just sittin’ there plain as day, surrounded by pumpkins. The parents were relieved ‘til they got a closer look at him.

Someone, or, in my opinion, someTHING went and hallowed that boy out. Yes, sir, I tell you straight, that child was empty of all his innards, ‘cept for his bones. The top of his head was cut off, and somethin’ had stretched his face into a some kind of sickly grin. And to top it off, the “coop de grace”, as you city folk might say, someone had placed a burning candle in the kid’s gut. A lot of folks say that, if you go by the old Henderson place today, you can still smell that awful stench. It was that danged atrocious.

They burned the patches the next day. Every last one. Folks couldn’t so much as look at the color orange without despairin’ something miserable. Whole town almost shut down after that.

People got their theories, you know. You ask me, though, I think it was the pumpkins themselves that did it. I reckon they got sick of us using them for gain and fame. ‘Course, I’m just some storytellin’ old man. What do I know about anything?

I’ll tell you this, though. You see any pumpkins growing wild out here, smash ‘em or run away. That’s my advice.

Appreciate the cup of coffee, mister.

Wear this shirt: To warn the others of the coming Orange Doom.

Don’t wear this shirt: In a farmer’s market. The other fruits may get wise.

This shirt tells the world: Maybe you should stick with apple pie this year. You know, just to be on the safe side.

We call this color: Wicked Stem Brown

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