Halloween (short story)

It was a Sunday morning in the hump of October. Frankie Ramut, a lifelong pedestrian by choice but sharp as a cornflake, scurried along the filthy pavement of a dead-end, one-way street. He happily eyed such Halloween oddities as a jack o’ lantern styled after Miley Cyrus and a ten-foot, red-faced Frankenstein’s monster which could have cost an arm and a leg. Laughing to himself, he waved to the road’s token doctor, a twenty-year old podiatrist named Mord Braun.
“G’morning, Doctor! What’cha up to?” breathed Mr. Ramut.
“Talking to my girlfriend,” the young man muttered.
“Oh! Good to hear! It’s the seventh anniversary of my wedding.” Ramut’s eager face paled, his all-too-recent separation nailed into his tidy little mind.
“Hmmm.” The decent doctor emitted a dinky yawn. “I read an eloquent anecdote on the family of Oscar Wilde last night. What do you grasp of the man?”
“Dr. Braun, sir, I…” Ramut steadily realized that the physician was attempting to change the subject.
“What do you grasp of Halloween?” questioned Ramut.
“The consumerist wild animal park? Why, Halloween is where mankind’s attention-whoring is demonstrated on every last street. And you know what the saddest aspect is? It’s global. The cockneys have Guy Fawkes’, the Israelis have Purim, the Chinese…”
“There’s nothing atrocious about entertainment,” sighed Frankie Ramut.
“Indeed, but you see, most Americans live on entertainment like many live on McDonald’s. Shopahol is as inebriating as alcohol.”
Ramut studied the overtly successful Dr. Braun, clad in an amazing suit and a pair of slacks. “What about…workahol?”
Annoyed by Ramut’s benign ignorance, the well-groomed dictator, I mean, doctor pointed an index finger towards the tiny street’s egress.
“See you, Dr. Braun,” mumbled Ramut as he stumbled off the street. What a jerk, Ramut thought, and admired a faux black feline electronically purring atop a gray lawn. The doctor casually snickered, and attempted to inflate his Frankenstein’s monster a tad.

* * *

Having entered the doctor’s house, Ramut held up a new bowl of Butterfingers belonging to Dr. Braun himself.
“That’s not a barrel of fruit,” he said in a monotone.
“Those are for…I’d be more than pleased if you minded your own business, Mr. Ramut.” He immediately grabbed a Butterfinger in a childish manner.
“Dr. Braun, I can no longer trust you, for you lied. Liar.”
A pause attributed to both men.
“Liar,” repeated Ramut. “You’re a liar, a hypocrite…”
“Mr. Ramut, I’m shocked. Such dangerous words from such a passive pauper.”
“You don’t know me!” snapped Ramut. “You were full of yourself, Doc. But all of a sudden, I’m full of yourself and you’re full of myself.”
“What the…” he began but realized something was up. “Doctor…I mean, Mister Ramut, you’re a schmuck!”
“Curious words spewing from the tongue of a medical prodigy, in and out of Yale, but barely old enough to vote.”
“Mr. Ramut! You may be smart now, but boy are you mean!”
“Ho hum, a sentence of monosyllabic words…what is this? Why, you’re correct. An individual like me, once innocent as a toddler, is now guilty as a thief.”
The doctor yawned in a much sloppier manner than earlier. “And I feel innocent! Far too innocent to drive you out of my house! Come! We’ll have some candy.”
“No thank you, I must be on my way home,” sniffed Ramut and, head in the air, walked home and subsequently disposed of his Halloween decorations.

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