“Well, I learned one important lesson,” said Michael Miller, who moved into Keswick Forest from Indiana last February. “You can’t call 9-1-1 for this sort of thing.”
Miller pointed to the fetid orange blob on his otherwise tidy front porch. “Apparently this isn’t considered an emergency.” He shook his finger incredulously. “That was three perfectly good pumpkins just four days ago!”
He quickly added. “They must have contracted the COVID. Or Ebola. Ebola melts your insides, right?”
Excited in early October when he spotted pumpkins in the supermarket and needing a change of season after “months of the eternal, hellish, infinite furnace that is this sweat-stained state,” Miller quickly bought three pumpkins for his family to carve.
“We had a wonderful time carving them this past weekend. And then, just like we used to do out in Indy, we put them out on the porch. I figured they’d be out there until Christmas.”
He quaked a little. “But after a day, we noticed they started growing this freaky hair.” He paused. “You know how when you look at a pile of swarming ants, you get tiny pins and needles in your neck and then a chill goes down your spine, makes you shudder and you have to suppress a high pitched scream? That’s how it was when you looked at the pumpkins. It was like looking at infectious death in the eye.”
He quickly added, “The next day I went outside to spray them with my last can of Lysol and they had collapsed in on themselves.”
Miller took a step of his porch when a cloud of bugs suddenly rose from the nearby orange goo. “I’m afraid it’s turned into a toxic sludge that will melt through my porch furniture and then through the earth’s crust to release the Balrog.”
Miller passed an anxious hand through his hair. “I frankly have no idea what to do now. Up in Indy, you could leave your pumpkins on your porch until the local teens stole them and smashed them on someone else’s lawns. They really should warn you about these sort of things down here, but they probably don’t because it would depress housing prices.”
He added. “I even went back to the supermarket to buy some new pumpkins this morning. They’re all sold out! If pumpkins last only four days carved here, why do they start selling them in September?”
Miller shook his head. “If Florida does this to pumpkins, what does it do to trick-or-treaters?” He paused, another shudder coursing through him. “They probably melt too.”
This article is satirical in nature and is intended solely for entertainment purposes. But, really. Don’t cut your pumpkin in Florida until Halloween.