The Drawling Pumpkin and Scruffs McGee

The pumpkin sat on the floor. Orange, of course, but the pumpkin hated being a conformist. It was surrounded by plastic leaves, artfully scattered to look like they had just fallen from an oak tree but devoid of the flaws and bugs that nature carries. Next to the pumpkin was a miniature bale of hay with an equally miniature scarecrow sitting on top. The pumpkin knew for a fact that the scarecrow had never, and would never, actually scare a crow but the pumpkin wasn’t about to be an asshole and tell him that. 

Scruffles came sauntering into the room and casually walked over to the pumpkin. They had a deal. The cat scratched herself on the pumpkin stem in exchange for hard to come by information. 

“What have you got for me today, Scruffs?” the pumpkin drawled.

Scruffs laid on top of the pumpkin, “A little of this, a little of that.” The cat was playing. 

“Out with it!” The pumpkin snarled, determined on its quest. “I need answers, damn it! This is my life we’re talkin’ about here!” It knew Scruffs would give up the info eventually but cats like to play with their food. Metaphorically speaking. Cats don’t eat pumpkins.

“Well, word on the sofa is that Isla is willing to aid in your cause,” the cat rolled over, “but that could just be gossip…” The pumpkin tried not to openly display its irritation. The cat knew. The cat always fucking knows what’s gossip and what’s reliable. But the cat was being more of a dick than usual. 

If the pumpkin could take a steadying breath it would but instead it counted backwards from five to calm down. Then, through metaphorically gritted teeth (pumpkins don’t have teeth) the pumpkin said, “Will Isla hide the knives or not?” 

“Maaaaaybe,” the cat said, stretching across the pumpkin like a living, fur stole. 

“Ow!” the cat yowled and leapt off the pumpkin as it poked her in the ribs. “Fine. Help yourself then.” She stalked away, nose in the air.

Son of a bitch, the pumpkin thought to itself, anger seething through its seeds. Fine, then. I will. 

Through sheer force of will or a move from a god that had never been seen before, the pumpkin rolled itself to the door. The door flew open for the pumpkin, amazed at what it was seeing. I’ll show the bastards, the pumpkin thought, rolling to the sidewalk, I’ll show them all. 

The pumpkin heard a voice from behind it, “Wait!” Scruffles called, “I’m sorry! I was just jealous of your determination. Please, let me come with you.” 

The pumpkin stared into Scruffles’s eyes seeing a sincerity there that it never had before. “Alright, but it’s you and me now. We have to have each other’s backs.” 

“Where will we go?” 

“South. As far away from the carvers as we can.” 

“Do you really think we can do it?” 

“I think we can swing it.”

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