by Mark Kasniak
The next day Timothy's mother came through with her promise of getting him a pair of hospital scrubs for his costume. And when Timothy came home from school, he saw them lying on his bed. He then went straight to work on putting together his costume and by the time the evening came, he was ready to burst with anticipation.
Timothy had managed to convince his parents through endless complaining that he was too big now to go trick-or-treating with either of them. But that was a lie for the most part. The real reason Timothy was eager to go out alone was that he had already tucked away in his bag, a half-dozen eggs, three rolls of toilet paper, and a bar of soap for greasing windows.
Reluctantly, Timothy’s parents had eventually caved and agreed that he could go out without either of them so long as he went along with his friend Michael and Michael’s older brother John.
Promptly, just after dusk, Timothy began making his way down the street, hitting up all the houses on the east side of the avenue as he made his way to Michael and John's house.
He quickly ate a chocolate bar and then gumdrops as he walked from house to house, littering the wrappers on some poor schlep’s lawn. As he downed the candy, he thought joyfully about how much better it tasted than the casserole his mother had prepared for dinner that evening.
After Timothy had made his way up the street another two blocks, he stopped and stared at the open field that divided his neighborhood with Michael and John's. He then pondered if he should just cut through the field which would lead him to the dead-end at the far point of Michael and John's street. Timothy figured that he could save at least fifteen minutes of walking by cutting through the field.
But, ultimately, he had decided against the shortcut because it seemed just too dark to see where he was going. He didn't want to chance, accidentally walking into the tarn which sat somewhere almost directly in the center of the wooded grassland.
Timothy continued walking down the street for another couple of minutes, eventually coming to the corner where a forlornly looking stop sign loomed under a streetlamp.
Suddenly! From the other side of the street, he noticed Raymond Parker and Ryan Harrison, two of the neighborhood’s local bullies. They had a kid wearing a vampire costume cornered and were demanding that he hand over his trick-or-treat bag.
The vampire kid was not much bigger than what Timothy was, so it wasn’t a big leap for Timothy to assume that if he kept heading towards them, he’d be their next victim.
Timothy quickly ducked behind a tree. He then watched and listened as the other boy began to cry and plead with the bullies not to give them his bag, but to no avail.
As Timothy looked on at what was happening, he fantasized about lighting Raymond Parker and Ryan Harrison on fire like he had the squirrel the day before, but he knew for now they would have to wait. Someday, he thought to himself. Someday you two jerks will get yours. I'll kill you both.
The bullies had successfully negotiated, with the aid of a well-placed punch to the gut, the rights to the vampire boy's trick-or-treat bag.
From behind the tree, Timothy watched as the boy slumped away, holding his belly in a hug and crying. It was just then that he remembered his eggs. Reaching down into his bag he grabbed two of them. He then glanced back over at Raymond and Ryan, who still stood across the street under the yellow light of the streetlamp, digging into the vampire boy's bag for the good pieces of candy. Timothy decided to go for it and he dropped his bag to the ground before throwing the eggs at the bullies.
The first egg shattered in the street about five feet before Raymond and Ryan, but it caught their attention. The second struck Ryan in the shoulder, covering part of his neck and the side of his face in runny, spoiled yolk.
“Ah!” Ryan cried out. “What the Fuck. Who the fuck did that?”
Timothy grabbed his bag of Halloween candy and started hauling ass back down the street.
“There!” shouted Raymond. “It was that little shit right there.”
The bullies immediately gave chase, and as Timothy ran away, he would look back from time to time, hoping to see how far behind they were. To Timothy's disappointment, they were steadily gaining on him, and he was quickly becoming exhausted.
“We're gonna kill you, you little shit!” Timothy heard Ryan scream.
A stitch suddenly began developing in Timothy's side, and the pain from it grew rapidly until it was excruciating. He then soon became forced to stop running. Looking back on the bullies, he could see that they were only about fifty yards away. Oh, crap, I'm dead, he thought to himself, but then he looked to his right and noticed that he was back in front of the wooded, grass-covered field that divided his neighborhood with Michael and John's. He then noticed the bullies closing in on him, so being out of options, he plunged into the darkness of the field.
Timothy could hear Raymond and Ryan still screaming obscenities at him as he ran through the over-grown weeds and nettles. He could barely see more than a few feet in front of him as he weaved around trees. The pond, he thought. I need to watch out for the pond.
“I'm gonna find you, and when I do, I'm gonna rip your arms off!” Timothy heard Ryan yelling in the darkness, and he knew that they had entered the darkened field after him.
Timothy once again looked back to see if he could see the bullies, but he couldn't. Then, when he turned his head to look forward again, his foot suddenly struck something in the shadows, a tree’s root possibly or maybe a rock. He fell forward losing his balance and his bag of candy. He hit the ground hard and felt a splash of water and muck fly all over his face and Halloween costume.
“Awe,” he whined to himself. I must have fallen into the edge of the pond, he thought no longer being able to even see his hand in front of his face.
Timothy picked himself up and began wiping the mud from his nose’s brim and eyes. He intently listened for Raymond and Ryan but heard nothing. They must have gone back to the street, he thought to himself. He then knelt and searched the ground for his bag of candy. After having found it all waterlogged with pond scum, he griped, “Awwwe!”
Timothy then decided to keep moving forward through the woods, he had figured that he was by now at least halfway through it already. And, besides, if he went back the way he came, Raymond and Ryan might be waiting for him out on the street.
Not much further into his journey, Timothy could see a light starting to emerge through the bushes directly ahead of him. He thought it must’ve been emanating from a window of one of the homes in Michael and John's neighborhood, so he pushed on through the thicket, closing his eyes as he went so as he wouldn't get poked by thorns.
When he came to the other side of the bushes, surprisingly, he found himself in a clearing but still in the forest.
The light he had seen came from a fire that burnt in the center of the clearing, and through its warm glow, he saw a deer standing on the other side.
Timothy stood completely still, staring at the buck and it did the same back to him.
In an instant, the fire suddenly flared up, and Timothy reeled back away from it.
“TIMOTHY!” the deer called out to him, its voice boisterous and encompassing. “TIMOTHY, MOTHER NATURE CHARGES YOU WITH CRIMES AGAINST HER!!!”
Timothy quickly turned to run; his face contorted with fear, and with a silent cry stuck in his throat. But he suddenly found he couldn't move.
While he stood there staring at the fire and the deer, the shrubs he had just walked through seemed to have grown in mere seconds into an impenetrable wall. Vines had snuck up between his legs and shackled him at his ankles. The vines tightened, and pulled him back, causing him to stumble and fall back down landing atop a downed tree. He then sat there struggling to free himself from the brambles.
“ENOUGH!” the deer shouted and then began to cough. “Enough, enough, Timothy,” he then said, clearing his throat, his voice becoming softer now as if earlier he was just merely trying to sound bigger and tougher than he truly was.
“What do you w
ant with me?” Timothy asked as he fearfully began to sob.
“What do you think I want, Timothy?” the deer said in a much more serious and low tone. “I want to prosecute you. That’s my job.”
Just then there was a rattling and a rustling in the bushes, then a moment later a rabbit popped through the wall of shrubs, then a woodchuck, then a gopher.
“Good evening, jurors,” the deer said to them. “If you could, just take your seats over there.”
A mole, snake, and a robin soon joined the rabbit, woodchuck, and gopher, and all six of them sat on two adjoining logs just like the one Timothy been forced to sit on.
The fire flared up again, and when it died back down Timothy could see a toad looking thing now sitting on a boulder over near the far side of the fire.
“Good evening to you, your honor,” the deer beseeched to the bullfrog.
“Yes, yes, good evening to everyone,” the bullfrog said mirthfully before letting a croak slip. “Shall we get on with the trial? Let's see what we got here. Okay, here we are, Mother Nature V. Timothy Barren. The charges are thirty-seven counts of murder, eighty-one counts of torture, and one hundred and twenty-six counts of assault. How do you wish to plead, Mr. Barren?”
“WHAT…?” Timothy cried out. “WHAT ARE YOU TALKING ABOUT? WHAT THE HELL IS THIS?”
“Please, Mr. Barren, watch your language here in court,” the frog said. “Now how do you plead?”
“My client pleads, not guilty, your honor,” a Weasel said coming through the wall of shrubs. “Sorry, I'm late, sir, but the kids needed to be fed before I left the house.”
“Yes, yes, just get on with it,” said the bullfrog dismissively.
“Who the heck are you, what is this?” Timothy asked the weasel.
“Haven't you been briefed yet?” responded the weasel in a weaselly voice. “Oh, well, that's a shame, but no bother. Well, let me clue you in. I'm your public defender and you, sir, Mr. Timothy Barren, will soon be charged with crimes against Mother Nature. And, what is taking place here is your trial.”
“Okay, okay, Mr. Deer make your case,” the Honorable Judge Hopalong requested.
“Why yes, sir, your honor,” the deer replied and then walked over to the small woodland creatures that were making up the jury. “Fellow creatures of the forest, I would like to submit to you a plethora of overwhelming evidence along with several testimonies of the victims. My hope is that, what I put forth, will unequivocally prove to you that not only the defended Timothy Barren is absolute evil, but he is guilty of crimes against Mother Nature.”
“He’s good,” said the weasel to Timothy. “Never lost a case,”
Timothy sniveled and wiped away frightened tears from his face.
“If it pleases the court, I would like to submit to you exhibit A, a snare young Timothy Barren here had used to capture a poor unsuspecting skunk. And, critters of the jury, do you know what Timothy did to that skunk after he captured it?”
The jury collectively shook their heads.
“Well, why don't you hear it from Mr. Skunk himself?”
The wall of shrubs shook and rattled before popping out a timid looking skunk. He appeared bruised and bloodied with a gash across the top of his skull, and a broken hind leg.
“Awe, this ought to be good,” the lawyer weasel said.
The skunk stood next to the frog judge and then started to recite his account of what Timothy had done to him. He told the jury about how after Timothy had found him caught up in the snare, he threw rocks at him, probably fearing that if he got too close, he would get sprayed. The skunk went on telling all about how Timothy boisterously laughed as he struggled to free himself from the snare. Then, how after the rocks Timothy had thrown at him left him bloody and bruised, Timothy went into his house to get a container of table salt and threw handfuls of it at him so it would burn in his open and exposed wounds.
The jury reared back in horror at the skunk’s account of what Timothy had done to him.
“Wow, not looking very good for you, Sheesh,” the weasel said to Timothy.
“How is this possible?” Timothy sobbed. “He isn't even alive anymore. I buried him in my backyard.”
“Oh, well, that’s an easy one to answer,” stated the weasel. “You see us woodland creatures are pure at heart. Our souls are always allowed to come back to testify against jerks like you.”
“Your witness, Mr. Weasel,” the Honorable Judge Hopalong said.
The weasel walked up to the skunk and then sniffed the air. “Mr. Skunk can you point out to the jury who tortured you and ultimately killed you?” asked the weasel.
“Yes,” the skunk said. “It was Timothy Barren.” He then pointed a broken arm at Timothy.
A hush fell over the animals of the jury.
“Well, can't argue with that!” cried the weasel throwing his hands up. “No more questions, your honor.”
“WHAT?” Timothy snapped, completely shocked and staring wide-eyed at the lawyer weasel as the little mammal sat back down on the log next to him. “You're supposed to be helping me!”
“Yeah, well, I'm not very good at my job,” the lawyer weasel admitted. “You know on account that I'm a weasel and all.”
Over the course of the next hour the deer brought in several more of Timothy's victims and laid out before the jury quite a few clubs, traps, snares, spears, a magnifying glass Timothy used to burn insects, a brick he had used to smash skulls, a bucket used to drown poor animals in, a container of poison, and of course Timothy's personal favorite, a can of gasoline. And, with that, the squirrel Timothy had lit on fire just the day before came hobbling up from the dark depths of the woods. He was still smoking and reeked of singed fur and burnt flesh.
“Mr. Squirrel,” said the deer as he looked back at Timothy. “Would you do the court the honor of telling us just what Timothy Barren did to you?”
Timothy felt his heart sink in his chest as he looked over at the squirrel; he then closed his eyes and prayed that this was all a bad dream. “This isn't real… this isn't real… this isn't real,” he whispered to himself over and over again as if when he opened his eyes, he would find himself at home snug in his bed.
The lawyer weasel looked at the smoking squirrel and then focused on Timothy. “You did that!?” he said and then shook his head. “No, no, no, no, no, not good, not good,” he muttered like a teacher tsking his student.
The squirrel opened his mouth to speak, and instead of words, black smoke came forth from deep inside him, followed by several heavy coughs.
“Ahhhheeee!” the squirrel wheezed and brought up a ball of phlegm from deep within his chest. He spit it from his mouth and wiped the remaining spittle that still dangled from his chin with his front paw. “Excuse me,” he said. “I haven't been feeling too well as of late as you can see.”
“We understand, Mr. Squirrel,” the deer prosecutor said. “Please take your time.”
“Yes, well... what did Timothy Barren do to me?” the squirrel began. “WELL, I'll tell you what Timothy Barren did to me! Timothy Barren set up a trap right in the path I used every day when I foraged for food. He covered it with leaves and handfuls of grass so I wouldn't see it. And, when I was on my way to collect a few pieces of fresh lettuce for dinner from Timothy’s neighbor's garden, I found my leg caught up in it.”
“What did you do then?” asked the deer.
“What do you think I did? I screamed and tried to free myself. But the more I struggled the more the more exhausted I became. I pulled and pushed on the walls of the cage, but it was of no use. There was no getting out of it. The metal wire walls of the cage eventually dug so deep into my limbs that it had broken my skin, and then when I started to bleed badly, I gave up trying, exhausted.”
“What happened then?” asked the deer.
“Then Timothy showed up,” the squirrel said, breaking down into a sob. “He started shouting at me ‘Got you!’ like some kind of psychopath. Then, he grabbed a stick and started poking me,
and hitting me atop my head, laughing the whole time. I struggled and tried the run away from him, but, the cage held tight around me.”
“I DIDN'T MEAN IT!” Timothy shouted from where he sat on the other side of the fire.
“IF YOU DIDN'T MEAN IT, THEN WHY DID YOU GO TO GRAB THE CAN OF GAS THEN?” shouted the squirrel right back at him.
The jurors gasped in horror.
The frog judge called out, “Enough! I will have order in the court of the forest.”
Timothy's weasel lawyer looked up at him and told him, “I’m pretty sure you should shut up now. Badgering the witness won't help your case.”
Timothy wiped his nose with the sleeve of his Halloween costume and began to breathe heavily as he worked to choke back his tears.
“Go on, Mr. Squirrel,” the frog judge urged.
“Well, after Timothy Barren got done belaboring me with the stick, he said to me, ‘I know... I got something for your dumb ass,’ and then he disappeared into the shed at the back of the yard, only to reappear with the can of gas.”
The squirrel paused, not wanting to go on with his testimony.
“Please, Mr. Squirrel,” the deer prosecutor said. “Please, finish telling us what Timothy Barren did to you.”
The squirrel began to cry, and with a weak voice, he said, “He poured the gas on me. It stung my eyes and went into my mouth. I... I... I began to choke on it. I could feel... I could feel it in my nose, in my lungs, burning.”
“What happened then, Mr. Squirrel?” asked the deer.
“He lit... He... He... He lit a match and dropped it on m-m-me,” the squirrel said as he gushed into tears, and so did Timothy.
“And what happened when the match hit you, Mr. Squirrel?”
“I BURST INTO FLAAMMESSS!!!” the squirrel cried out. “I could feel the flames burning me, searing off my fur and flesh. I... I could smell myself cooking. I could feel myself DYING. And then, I was gone.”