Old man Cravetts was a crochety old geezer. Used to sit on his front porch and crochet everything from doilies and douche bag cozies to donut pillows and cat scrotum warmers. Now, since he was older than night time, Cravetts was feared and hated by the neighborhood children. Even so, he’d always try to crochet things for them as they rode by on their bikes throwing things at him he’d previously crocheted for them. “Ya know I try to be nice to those kids and they just don’t appreciate me,” he laménted as he cut into another bolt of heavy metal print fabric. “Maybe this Lars Ulrich afghan will get their attention.” He muttered cheerily to himself.One blistery autumn morning, Cravetts strolled out onto his front porch for another day of yarn wasting when there on his front lawn was little Bobby Youngonion lying unconscious and covered with blisters. “Now don’t lie to me you little wrapped scallion, I know you’re not unconscious and what are you doing all wrapped up in that blister pack? You want me to ship you off over fed-ex?” That was a little joke Cravetts often made because his over-fed ex wife used to eat children.
Well, Bobby was conscious, but barely, for when he removed the bubble packing from the boy he noticed he was covered with second degree burns! “Oh my gizzards” shouted Cravetts, “what happened to you boy?” “Ow,” bobby moaned, signaling for him to douse him with cool distilled water to prevent infection and then to call the local paramedics by twitching his left pinky. But Cravetts ignored Bobby’s instructions. “I’d better take you inside, slather you with butter, wrap you up in fabric bandages, nurse you back to health and raise you as my own son!” said Cravetts. “Oh god please no! Just shoot me now, you insane old coot” indicated Bobby by widening his right eye and then fainting.
Several painful weeks later on October 31st, while Cravetts took an epsom salts bath to sooth his painful muscles from hoisting the boy up to change his bandages three times a day, Bobby drifted into consciousness and managed to stumble out of bed and make his way to the front door. Still wrapped from head to toe in bandages, the boy stumbled out the door and down the street toward the “safe” neighborhood where all his friends were trick or treating gayly.
“Hey where ya been Youngonion!” one of his friends shouted. “Nice costume,” he added, but Bobby was beside himself from the pain and continued hobbling toward his home. When he arrived, his mother was waiting on the front step furious. “Where have you been for the past three weeks young man?” she shrieked wickedly. Bobby started to explain but thought his mother would see that he was critically burned and call the paramedics. But she did not because it was HALLOWEEN and so, instead of caring for his raw painful infected skin, she started beating him mercilessly as any good mother would do to a boy with healthy skin after being gone for so long. Then she shoved him up the stairs and into his room where he screamed in agony all night. “Oh be quiet up there you big phony” his mother yelled, never realizing her son was on the verge of death. Finally at 2:00 a.m., his raw infected body gave out and death mercifully came to Bobby Youngonion on Halloween night.
How he got burned in the first place and why a cat would need a scrotum warmer remains a mystery to this day. Oh yeah and that crotchety old geezer was a mystery too.
~numbsain
