The Egging: A Halloween thingy

Troy “The Boil” Doyle blamed society. Consequently, he felt justified in being a jerk, and there was no better time to let your jerk flag fly than Halloween. The little reprobate took full opportunity of the holiday to soap, smash, TP and make smaller kids cry through trick or treachery.

In preparation for his night of holiday hooliganism, The Boil rooted around in the fridge of his mother’s bakery-slash-seafood diner, “Carbs ’n’ Crabs,” until he pulled out a carton of eggs. As dusk turned to dark, he fled the restaurant with his stash of ovoid missiles. He was dressed for Halloween as a demonic delinquent, which was his regular look except with “T-H-U-G” written across the knuckles of his left hand and “G-O-O-L” across the other; The Boil was failing Grade 10 English.

Immediately, The Boil embarked upon his egging spree. Ker-splat! Against the front door of the McBeebly place. Shplook! On Mrs. Merderber mezzanine. Bla-shoom! A bullseye on the windshield of a passing Prius. Ch-ch-ch-chshplANGG! A palpable hit on Old Man Jacobson’s front yard oscillating fan.

Did he hesitate when he came to the gloomy, doomy rooming house of the Widow Wetchard? Did he pause as he pulled back his faux-tattooed, egg-enclasping fist? Did he think about the direction his life was taking? Of course not! He was a punk, a nogoodnik, a lowlife. Spare your sympathy.

But he did jump back a step when, just as the egg shellAMMed against the Widow Wetchard’s door, that very door flung open, as if triggered by some otherworldly power, and there stood the cronish form of the seldom-seen spinster herself. She pointed a bony but surprisingly manicured finger at The Boil and cried:

Ovulum albumen vandalus goo
My portal be runny and you shall be too.”

“Ahh, your mother was a pawnbroker,” jeered The Boil and raced down the street.

He was just about to throw an egg at the storefront window of Nickerson’s Knick Knacks when it slipped out of his hand and fell to the sidewalk. The Boil instinctively looked at his hand. It was… dripping.

“Huh?” he said, which is about what you’d expect.

He raised his other hand. The finger tips were oozing too, coated with a yellow, viscous slime. He flicked his fingers to shake off the substance, but the mucousy tendrils merely seeped further up his wrists.

“Blubba-blubba!” cried The Boil, and he began to desperately wipe his hands and arms on his shirt, his pants, his espadrilles. But to no avail. The translucent goop only spread further, positively Seussian in its relentless oobleckian advance, down his torso, to his thighs, bypassing his knees strangely enough, and straight down to his toes.

“Gemme my Mama!!” shouted the hysterical The Boil as he began racing down the street, leaving an eggy trail behind him. Trick-or-treaters pointed. Some laughed, some cringed, most Instagrammed.

“Look, Mommy,” said a little girl. “He is the eggman, he is the eggman.”

“He is the walrus,” her mother corrected. “Now, shoo, shoo, sh-shoo.” Stupid mother…

In panic, screaming and blubbering, The Boil kept running, always running, very runny. “Stop it! Stop it!” he screamed at passersby, but with his egg-gummed mouth, it sounded like he was saying, “Omelet! Omelet!” so they only replied, “Yes, you are,” and continued on.

Frittata at last, The Boil lurched towards his mother’s diner, the egg coating growing thicker and denser, Trump-like, making movement and breathing ever more difficult. The diner was closed, but The Boil managed to scramble through a partly opened window in the rear. A mere shell of his former self, he stumbled blindly in the kitchen, bashing into the bins of flour, coating himself with the white powder until, with one last gurgle, he collapsed in a yolky heap onto the griddle.

That’s where his mother found him early the next morning, though by then he was unrecognizable. Distraught, horrified, annoyed by the mess, she called the police. They arrived within minutes, eager to crack the case.

“Turn him over – easy,” said the chief inspector. He prodded the flour-and-egg-coated body with a spatula. “Hmmm, looks like he’s been badly battered.”

“Beaten, sergeant?” asked his colleague.

“So it seems. Let’s whisk him out of here and… unless… unless… Anyone else hungry?”

Because breakfast, after all, is the most important meal of the day.

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About rossmurray1

I'm Canadian so I pronounce it "Aboot." No, I don't! I don't know any Canadian who says "aboot." Damnable lies! But I do know this Canadian is all about humour (with a U) and satire. Come by. I don't bite, or as we Canadians say, "beet."
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36 Responses to The Egging: A Halloween thingy

  1. Paul says:

    Yum! Yum!

  2. Ned's Blog says:

    I’m scambling to share this, even though I risk having egg on my Facebook…

  3. pjoy93 says:

    Eggsellent tale, and fine warning to the benedicts of our society. He has been served!

  4. Gary Ross says:

    The yoke is on The Boil.

  5. Ker-splat! Shplook! Ch-ch-ch-chshplANGG!
    Were you on the writers team for Batman and Robin cartoons?

  6. Carrie Rubin says:

    Always a winning Halloween story that throws in a bit of cannibalism… 😉

  7. franhunne4u says:

    Did his mom call him Humpty the Numpty when he was a little kid?

  8. gavinkeenan says:

    Shameless. You should write more hard-boiled fiction.

  9. Dina Honour says:

    Very Jasper Ffordian!

  10. Oh, brother. What corn. It reminds me of the old joke:

    An electrician stumbles home at 3:00 a.m. drunk. His wife says, “Wire you insulate?” He says, “Watts it to ya? I’m ohm, ain’t I?

  11. ksbeth says:

    make him into a hobo skillet.

  12. R. Todd says:

    The puns, the alliterations, the pure genius that is this story… So much so, I feel the need to re-blog this.

  13. R. Todd says:

    Reblogged this on Thoughts from the Front and commented:
    If you don’t follow Ross Murray, I give you this story in order to convince you that you are truly missing something fantastic from your life.

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