Interview: David Wellington
Night of the Sugar Eating Fiends
"They're coming! Barricade the door!" I threw the hammer to Zombos and held a plank of wood in place across the doorframe. "The nails, the nails! Who has the nails?" screamed Zombos as the sound of pounding increased.
We turned to Chef Machiavelli. He stood like stone with his hands over his ears. His eyes stared into oblivion. His mind had retreated to a safer place where the Food Channel was running an all-day marathon only he could see.
"Here!" shouted Pretorius, our groundskeeper, over the ever increasing pounding on the front door. He tossed over the box of nails. Both Zombos and I reached for it too soon, jammed our fingers, and sent the box flipping end over end, spilling nails out of reach.
"Oh, Lord. We are toast," sobbed Zombos. But then the pounding stopped. We breathed deeply, waiting for something else to happen. I was shaking, and Zombos showed his age more than usual.
"Who's the damn fool who put those toothbrushes into our trick or treat bags anyway?" asked Pretorius.
Zombos and I looked at each other. At the same time we uttered the same name. "Zimba." Only Zimba, Zombos' wife, would dare to commit such a heinous act on the spookiest night of the year.
"Hell of a damn thing to do," said Pretorius. "You might as well go dancing over graves or give McDonald's McDollars if you want to rile up the little monsters and invite doom."
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Interview: David Wellington
Night of the Sugar Eating FiendsRead More »