Sally Shops for a Halloween Feast – Part Four © WTW, 2014
by William Whiting
When we last left our anti-heroine–and her hapless prey, poor Geoffrey—he had escaped from the trunk of the car. He was hiding amongst the bramble wrapped in nettles—singing hymns about silent lambs. Sally had launched an aerial search, but to no avail. She decided to get back in the car and drive to the country house so she could unload her baggage full of bones.
Even though Sally had a perfectly workable set of keys, she decided to break-in all the same. Old habits die hard. Geoffrey might have eluded her for the moment, but he wouldn’t get very far bound and gagged. She merely needed to apply herself and locate his whereabouts. Meanwhile she had steamer trunks full of bones to unload—left over from old Scarsdale investment bankers she’d feasted-upon.
Not far off, hidden away in the fields—plants were being anything but kind to poor Geoffrey. He was already breaking-out with poison ivy, while infested with chiggers and itching like the devil. He was worried sick about his kitties as he began to reclaim his memory. Unbeknownst to Geoffrey, his mean old landlord had given up on his return, and rounded-up Geoffrey’s thirty-seven cats— piling all of them into a rented van, where he drove them out into the countryside to set each and every one loose.
After Sally ground up all the bones in a chipper, she decided it was time to climb back onto her flying broom from Broom made of broom, and make a more thorough search of the countryside to find where her delicious man-dish had gone. She wanted to reach him before another good Samaritan came along. Sally didn’t want to risk that kind of press. She eluded the limelight, knowing her appetites were frowned upon—even if she wasn’t remotely remorseful. While circling around and dive-bombing areas of interest, Sally witnessed a phenomenon she’d never seen before: there were a great number of cats herding themselves together in one direction as if they had a single-mindedness of purpose.
As everyone knows, cats are so rarely ever herded—let alone by other cats. This peculiar sight peaked Sally’s interest. One after the other, Sally witnessed each of the cats, nose to tail working their way through a dry autumn cornfield toward a collapsing barn. She touched down with her broom from Broom made of broom, and decided to quietly follow them. The cats were all heading toward the barn. Peeking inside, what Sally saw set her heart a-flutter. There was her Geoffrey, still bound and gagged, somewhat worse for the wear but intact—surrounded by mewing kitty cats crawling all over him. Geoffrey’s bliss was broken at the sight of Sally, who likes nothing more than seeing fear in the eyes of men.
Sally gently shooed all the cats away. She’s an animal lover, and would never harm a kitten. And they all ran away as Geoffrey wriggled and silently screamed. Sally gathered him up in a burlap gunnysack and hauled him out of the barn using a rickety old red wagon. When Geoffrey would put up too much of a fuss, Sally’d conk him over the head with her broom until he’d quiet down.
As for the kitties, they were all eventually captured, neutered and released by well meaning animal advocates, dedicated to seeing to it the world never runs out of cats. The indigenous wildlife surrounding the farm, of course now face utter extinction. No one ever said life was fair.
Back at the country house, Sally hid her Geoffrey in the dampness of the root cellar while she dug him a shallow grave. Her intentions were to place the unconscious Geoffrey inside that fresh grave and pile paving stones on top once she regained her strength. That should quiet him down—and also tenderize his flesh. Sally relaxed on the side porch with a bottle of Fireball Whiskey. She’d had a difficult day chasing and recapturing her Geoffrey. But unbeknownst to Sally, off in the backyard, the garden floor was starting to quake and move. Perhaps Geoffrey was displeased with his below ground accommodations? Sally really should go back and check on the grave, and pack down the earth with her shovel. but perhaps another nip or two of whiskey. Click here: Burying Geoffrey
To be continued…