HE WHO WALKS BEHIND THE ROWS IS NOT FUCKING AMUSED.
Blood Pit Supply Chain & Maintenance Local #91 looks up from the latest Grainger catalogue and glances out the window, draped prodigiously with cobwebs and spider nests this time of year, into the golden late-afternoon sunlight slanting along the green-falling-to-dessiccation of the Corn Maze.
He frowns slightly at the thought that has just been flung his way by Herself, with the force of thousands of others behind her. It is a strong thought, and a right thought, but it is not a happy thought.
He puts down the catalogue, bookmarking it with a small-handled fillet knife and stands, pulling on sprung workboots and gloves that have outlived dynasties, more comfortable than anything with so many scars would be expected to be, and steps outside.
There is a very surprised man in a sport coat, his jewel-toned polo shirt open at the neck, standing there. It is almost always a man when a summons like this is raised, and BPSC&ML#91 is still disappointed by men.
"Who? What? Where?" The man looks around in shock, the beginning of fear kindling far too slowly.
YOU WOULD MAKE A HALF-ASSED JOURNALIST, NOT ASKING ALL THE QUESTIONS LIKE THAT. HOW DOES NOT MATTER. WHY IS OBVIOUS TO EVERYONE BUT YOU.
The man makes to run, but smooth-soled office shoes do not offer much purchase in the dry grass, and he cries out when the hands descend on his shoulders, holding him with inexorable inevitability.
LOOK AT THE CORN.
The man stares. Gapes, really.
The corn, helpfully, rustles in the light breeze off the blood pits. Faintly, so faintly, one can hear the joyous cries of the birthday celebrants playing tag with the shark, or perhaps playing fetch with the bats, or maybe watching the kraken tentacle-paint. But, much closer, is the corn. It rustles like a greedy old miser rubbing dry hands together at the prospect of taking something they don’t like from a person who loves it. Because that is what the corn does, at least when it isn’t laughing at crows.
IS IT SEXY?
"Nuh nuh nuh no…."
WHO WOULD DRESS SO?
"I… I don’t know. It was just a—"
IT DOES NOT MATTER. IT WAS DONE. IT IS A THING YOU DID. AND THIS IS THE THING WE DO.
There is a shove. A scream, quickly torn apart and silenced. An impractical shoe that will need to be put into the bin. And a door closing afterward.
This is the sort of thing Chuck Wending ought to see.
Sexy corn. Sexy CORN. SEXY corn. SEXY CORN.