Eerie fic: Bonfire
The three boys stood across the street from Pete's Puppet Pals, and watched as it burned.
"Shame," said Dash, turning his palms towards the warmth of the blaze. In the heat haze, the marks on the backs of his hands seemed to shimmer.
"Really?" snapped Mars, who held his arm awkwardly across his body, and couldn't currently feel his fingers. "Suddenly you have sympathy for the local business owner trying to make it in a competitive marketplace?"
Dash shrugged. "Stealing children and turning them into wooden dummies to keep your overheads down is pretty brilliant, you have to admit," he said.
"A business plan doesn't actually work if you're literally destroying your customer base in order to make your product," Simon pointed out.
Dash scowled. "I know that! I'm not an idiot; I did pick up some stuff working for the Donald, you know." He turned back towards the conflagration, just as a window exploded outwards, showering the pavement with shards of glass. "It's just... I used to like Pinocchio. Great songs."
"Mmm," said Mars. "Pity Disney didn't include a number warning us about murderous ventriloquist puppets wielding razor-blades."
"I imagine it didn't fit their brand," said Simon.
In the orange-lit interior of the building, something grey-black and vaguely man-shaped writhed against the far wall, pinned there by huge masonary nails they had driven through it's hands and feet earlier that evening.
"I never liked puppets," said Marshall with feeling.
Dash hummed a few bars of "I got no strings." Marshall kicked him. Simon laughed.
"We should have brought marshmallows," he said. The older boys stared at him. "Or hot dogs, maybe," he added.
That summer, the three of them camped on Wolf Mountain, and toasted everything they could find on hickory sticks that looked just a little like doll-sized limbs.
"Shame," said Dash, turning his palms towards the warmth of the blaze. In the heat haze, the marks on the backs of his hands seemed to shimmer.
"Really?" snapped Mars, who held his arm awkwardly across his body, and couldn't currently feel his fingers. "Suddenly you have sympathy for the local business owner trying to make it in a competitive marketplace?"
Dash shrugged. "Stealing children and turning them into wooden dummies to keep your overheads down is pretty brilliant, you have to admit," he said.
"A business plan doesn't actually work if you're literally destroying your customer base in order to make your product," Simon pointed out.
Dash scowled. "I know that! I'm not an idiot; I did pick up some stuff working for the Donald, you know." He turned back towards the conflagration, just as a window exploded outwards, showering the pavement with shards of glass. "It's just... I used to like Pinocchio. Great songs."
"Mmm," said Mars. "Pity Disney didn't include a number warning us about murderous ventriloquist puppets wielding razor-blades."
"I imagine it didn't fit their brand," said Simon.
In the orange-lit interior of the building, something grey-black and vaguely man-shaped writhed against the far wall, pinned there by huge masonary nails they had driven through it's hands and feet earlier that evening.
"I never liked puppets," said Marshall with feeling.
Dash hummed a few bars of "I got no strings." Marshall kicked him. Simon laughed.
"We should have brought marshmallows," he said. The older boys stared at him. "Or hot dogs, maybe," he added.
That summer, the three of them camped on Wolf Mountain, and toasted everything they could find on hickory sticks that looked just a little like doll-sized limbs.