Welcome to the first annual Substack convention.
Aaron stared at the banner hanging from the rafters, rippling under the current of stale air. Sweat accumulated on his brow as he scanned the room, noting various booths, cops and children among the crowd. A table near the back of the auditorium displayed an image of Happy Harold, wearing his trademark overalls and porkpie hat. Harold was the star of Happy Street Sunrise, a cancelled children’s program starring an array of colorful Muppets. The show had been a network’s wet dream, becoming an instant hit with kids across the globe and earning the support of millions of tired parents. After the cancellation, Harold gained a second wind on Substack, writing about the fragile minds of children. Ironic.
“I hate Muppets,” Aaron muttered.
When he was a child, his peers drooled over the fuzzy characters parading on television. Aaron shared a different point of view. His middle school had gone to the Happy Street studio for a field trip, exploring the sets and meeting the crew. Aaron was elated to see Happy Harold and Goose the Moose waving him into one of the lounges. When he walked in, they shut the door behind him, snapping the lock closed. Several cast members stood in a circle, nude from the waist down. Who would have thought Muppets from a kids’ show were jonesing for a place to bury their stuffed cocks. He wished he could go back in time and save his younger self from the trauma of his past. However, in the real-world, time machines don’t exist. Only pain and Muppets.
His hand slid down the seam of his jacket, feeling the outline of his Glock. It was locked and loaded, ready to purge the world of Harold. After the show came off the air, Aaron had systematically taken revenge on the members of Happy Street. First had been that bastard Goose the Moose. Then BingBong and the rest the cotton filled perverts.
He took a deep breath and made his way toward the line, pulling the brim of his cap down to conceal his face. Harold was sitting at his booth, posing for the camera, slurping up the attention from his horde of fans. A couple of officers sipped on their coffees near the booth, clueless to Aaron’s intentions.
“Hi-ya, kids,” Harold squeaked. “I hope you brought your imagination, because today is going to be a blast!”
That was the understatement of the year. The first shot tore a hole in Harold’s abdomen, leaking fluffy innards across his agent. The second and third split his cranium into a linty mess, stuffing and brains erupting from the newly formed crater.
“Freeze!”
Aaron squeezed out the last few rounds before an officer in blue punched his ticket to the afterlife. Blood leaked from the various holes in his body and everything went cold.
“Happy trails motherfuckers,” Aaron wheezed, a blissful smile on his face.
Note from the author: This prompt was resurrected from the graveyard of unused prompts from the last flash fiction battle. For anyone who hasn’t subscribed to that channel, you are a million percent missing out. See you at the next one!
Dope dark irony!
Yes! Yes! Yes!