The Puppet Carver

by Scott Cawthon

  Colton fed four tokens into the Ticket Pulverizer to make the door open. Once he was inside, it didn’t take him long to figure out where to tighten the platform. A few turns of the screwdriver on each corner, and the platform was much more rigid and required a lot more weight to move it.

  He was sorely tempted to feed in some more tokens and jump for tickets right then and there. But the jumping was noisy, and he didn’t want to do anything that might call attention to himself. He gave the platform a small, experimental push and whispered “Mission accomplished” before exiting the booth.

  But as he stood in the middle of the empty arcade, the reality of his situation dawned on him. His mission wasn’t totally accomplished. He still needed to get out of Freddy’s. He had spent so much time planning out how to get into Freddy’s and work on the Pulverizer that he had forgotten to plan how to get out.

  He had no exit strategy.

  Colton looked around at the doors marked EXIT. He was sure each of them was equipped with a security alarm. He scanned the room frantically. Maybe there was a back door he could use. Maybe in the kitchen. He walked through a dim hallway and pushed open the door to the kitchen. It was pitch-black, so he held up his phone to light his way past the huge ovens and cooktops. Around the corner, he saw a door and felt a rush of relief, but when he looked up, he saw the security alarm.

  Colton’s breath was short and ragged. He couldn’t just stay here until Freddy’s opened up again at eleven o’clock the next morning and say, “Oops, guys, I guess I got locked in.” Plus, if his mom got home from work in the morning and he wasn’t there, she would panic.

  Think, Colton told himself. There has to be a way out.

  Colton thought back over all his visits to Freddy’s. He had been coming to Freddy’s since he was a loathsome little squeaker himself, so he knew the place well. He thought about the layout of the building. Finally, an image popped into his head. The restroom. Wasn’t there a window in the men’s restroom?

  The restroom was as dark as the kitchen. Colton held up his phone for enough light to make out the shapes of the sinks and stalls and—yes!—the window. It was a small window, too high up to access easily, but he could get to it if he stood on one of the chairs from the dining area. He’d have to leave the chair behind in the bathroom, which wasn’t ideal, but it was better than spending the whole night at Freddy’s.

  He went back to the dining area, retrieved a chair, and carried it to the restroom. He set it under the window and climbed onto it. He was worried that the window wouldn’t open, but it pushed up easily, and no alarm sounded. Grunting with effort, he pulled himself through the opening and plummeted to the ground, landing on his hands and knees with an “Oof!” Some of Uncle Mike’s tools fell from his pockets.

  He was a little shaken, but he was okay. Now all he had to do was gather up the tools and walk home like everything was normal. When his mom got home from her Saturday-night shift, she’d find him in bed like nothing had happened.

  And tomorrow afternoon he’d go back to Freddy’s where he’d be the king of the Ticket Pulverizer.

  * * *

  Colton had only five dollars to take with him to Freddy’s, but he figured that would be enough. Five dollars equaled five turns inside the Ticket Pulverizer, and by that time, he’d be rolling in tickets.

  Once he got there, he didn’t bother with the ball drop or the coin pusher. He made a beeline to the Ticket Pulverizer just in time to see a group of three little kids go inside, shrieking and giggling. He smiled to himself. This should be entertaining. Stupid squeakers don’t suspect a thing.

  He watched the little kids gleefully jump up and down. Tickets poured down like water flowing from a faucet. How could that be? After the way he’d fixed it, their weight shouldn’t have been enough to trigger such an outpouring of tickets. Colton seethed with rage.

  Maybe, though, he’d at least fixed things so he would get a lot of tickets, too. Maybe he had just turned the Pulverizer into a machine that heaped tickets on anyone who went inside. As long as he got his fair share, he guessed that was okay.

  The little kids came out, holding fat ribbons of tickets in their equally fat little fists. Colton elbowed his way past them. It was his turn.

  He put four tokens into the slot and stepped into the Ticket Pulverizer. His heart was beating fast in anticipation. He knew this was it; this time he was going to get what he deserved.

  The lights in the sign reading JUMP FOR TICKETS started flashing. Colton jumped. In his mind, he was a jackrabbit, a kangaroo, any animal he could think of with strong legs and big feet and mighty jumping power. He jumped and jumped, but only a trickle of tickets fell. How could that be after all the planning, all the hard work, that went into his heist? It didn’t make sense. The madder he got, the harder he jumped.

  Only a few tickets drifted listlessly to the floor.

  When time was up, he was so furious that he stomped out of the machine and left the tickets where they were. There weren’t enough of them to do him any good anyway.

  On the walk home, his anger turned into dejection. Why did life have to be so unfair? Why did some people have so much while people like Colton and his mom had so little? It was just luck, wasn’t it? Some people had good luck, and some people had bad luck. It was pretty obvious what kind of luck he had. But couldn’t luck change? Surely there had to be some way to game the system.

  Back at the apartment, Colton’s mom was humming to herself while she chopped onions. Tears were in her eyes from the smell, but she had the day off and seemed to be in a good mood. Colton sank into a kitchen chair.

  “Hey,” his mom said. “I’m making sloppy joes. Have you ever thought about what a weird name that is for a sandwich? Like, was there actually a guy named Joe who looked really messy all the time? And then one day somebody said, ‘Hey, Joe, we’re naming a sandwich after you,’ and he was all like, ‘Wow, that’s great!’ But then it turned out they were calling them sloppy joes. And he was like, ‘Wait, you’re calling them what?’ ”

  Colton usually laughed at his mom’s weird flights of fancy, but today he couldn’t find the energy to respond.

  “What’s the matter, Colt? Not even a smile?” His mom tapped him with her spatula. “You usually think my tangents are funny.”

  Cory shrugged. “Just not in a smiling mood, I guess.”

  His mom sat down at the table across from him. “Any particular reason you want to talk about?”

  “Not really. Just tired of seeing other people get what I deserve. People who don’t deserve it, like little kids. They’ve not been around long enough to deserve anything. They’ve not paid their dues yet. They might as well still be in diapers.” The more he thought about it, the angrier he felt.

  “Rough time at Freddy’s today, huh?” his mom asked.

  “Yeah, the stupid Ticket Pulverizer again,” he said. He’d complained about it enough that his mom understood what he was talking about.

  “No luck with it?”

  Colton shook his head. “I’m never going to get enough tickets to get what I want.”

  “Well, I’ve been thinking about it, and you know, there are other ways of getting what you want,” Mom said, pulling her hair back with the rubber band she kept around her wrist.

  Colton didn’t think he liked his mom’s tone. It was the same tone she used when she was about to nag him to do his homework or chores. “What do you mean?”

  “Well,” his mom said, “I had a part-time job when I was your age. I worked at the Swirly Cone after school and on weekends, making cones and shakes and sundaes. It didn’t pay much, but the money adds up when you don’t have any other expenses.”

  Colton couldn’t help but feel offended. “Are you telling me I have to get a job? I already help Uncle Mike out two days a week.”

  “I’m not telling you that you have to. I’m just saying it’s an option. If you worked, say, ten to fifteen hours a week, you could save up money to buy those luxury items I can�
�t afford. If you keep throwing money at the Ticket Pulverizer, you’ll probably have spent more money trying to win tickets than that video game console costs anyway.”

  Colton stood up from his chair. He was outraged. “I can’t believe you’re trying to make me get a job. I’m just a kid! Haven’t you ever heard of child labor laws?”

  His mom rolled her eyes. “You are legally old enough to have a part-time job. Kids younger than you earn money mowing lawns or doing odd jobs for people. There’s no reason you couldn’t do something like that. Or you could see if Mike would give you a few hours a week at minimum wage. It feels good to earn your own money, Colton. It’s just something to think about.”

  “What’s the point of having a cool video game console if you don’t have time to play it because you’re working all the time?” Colton felt his voice getting louder. “If Dad was still here, we wouldn’t have to worry about money.”

  For a moment, his mom looked hurt, almost as if he had struck her, but then her expression shifted to irritation. “No, we wouldn’t. But he isn’t here, so we have to do the best we can.” She got up from the table and went back to the stove. “Dinner will be ready in twenty minutes. Between now and then, why don’t you see if you can get over your bad mood?”

  Colton didn’t get over his bad mood. He lay in his bed playing the same scene over and over in his head: those repulsive little kids laughing and cheering as an avalanche of tickets fell on them. He didn’t understand why his attempt to fix the Ticket Pulverizer had failed. There had to be another way to do it.

  He got out of bed, went to his desk, and started making sketches of the machine. Screwing the platform in tighter hadn’t been enough. He should have known it wasn’t going to be that easy. To solve this problem, he was going to have to dig deeper.

  * * *

  Colton had become obsessed with the Ticket Pulverizer. He looked up similar kinds of machines online, trying to get a better understanding of their mechanics.

  Today, in shop class, he sat furiously sketching and making notes, as he had done in class every day for the past week.

  Mr. Harrison, the fatherly, balding shop teacher, leaned over his shoulder. “Colton, you’ve been drawing and making notes for ages. What is it you’re designing?”

  Colton knew he couldn’t tell Mr. Harrison what he was really doing. He knew no adults would understand his obsession. Colton wasn’t even sure he understood it himself, but he knew he couldn’t stop until he finally experienced justice from the Ticket Pulverizer.

  “It’s more of a plan for fixing something,” Colton said, still furiously sketching.

  Mr. Harrison raised an eyebrow. “I can appreciate that, but you know that if you don’t actually make something, I can’t give you a grade, right?”

  “Right,” Colton said, not looking up from his notebook. He was relieved when Mr. Harrison walked away to talk to other students. He didn’t care if he got a grade or not. Right now, anything that didn’t pertain to the Ticket Pulverizer felt like an unneeded interruption.

  * * *

  That night, Colton brought his notebook with him to the dinner table. He sketched and wrote notes between bites of meat loaf and mashed potatoes and peas, which, due to his distraction, he didn’t even really taste.

  “I have Sunday off this weekend for the first time in ages,” his mom said. “I thought we might do something fun together. Maybe pack a picnic and drive up to the mountains. Go on a little hike. We could stop on the way home for ice cream at that place you like.”

  “Mm-hm,” Colton said absently. He was aware that his mom was talking, but he hadn’t actually processed any of her words.

  “Colton,” Mom said, “you’re a million miles away, and you have been for over a week now. What is it that you’re working on day and night?” She gestured at his notebook.

  “It’s just a project for school,” Colton mumbled, not looking up.

  “Well, I hope it is,” Mom said, pushing away her plate of half-eaten food, “because I ran into your English teacher yesterday, and she says she’s worried about you. She says you’ve not been turning in your assignments, and your grade has slipped to a low D. ‘And D means danger,’ according to her. Is there a reason you’re falling behind in your work?”

  Colton finally looked up. If he didn’t get his mom off his back, he wasn’t going to be able to make his plan work. “I’ll talk to her tomorrow about what I need to do to catch up in class.”

  His mom nodded. “Okay. I know you don’t like to talk about emotional stuff, but is there anything you need to say to me? Anything that’s bothering you?” She looked sad, as if she might cry, which Colton desperately hoped she wouldn’t. “I know since I work a lot of nights, it may feel like I’m not here when you need me, and I’m sorry for that. But where it counts, I’m always here for you, Colton.” She covered his hand with her own. “Just don’t shut me out, okay?”

  “Okay, Mom. Sheesh.” Colton drew his hand away. He was more than ready for this conversation to end.

  “So … there’s nothing you want to talk about?”

  “Nope.” He went back to his sketching.

  Mom sighed and got up from her chair. “Okay. Guess I’d better get ready for work. Will you load the dishwasher for me?”

  “Uh-huh,” Colton said, forgetting the promise as soon as he made it.

  Once his mom was gone, he left for Freddy’s. He had only two bucks in his pocket, which wouldn’t go very far in the arcade. But he wasn’t there to play games. He was there to observe the Ticket Pulverizer.

  * * *

  Colton stood a few steps away from the machine that consumed his every waking hour. He looked at it as an enemy to be defeated. Like in one of those Greek myths he had read in middle school, he was the hero, and it was the monster. And the clown—the horrible, gape-jawed clown—was like a dragon standing guard that he had to defeat before his big battle with the boss monster. He watched as group after group of loathsome little kids trooped into the machine and jumped up and down and stamped their tiny feet while the tickets poured out, not like a faucet but like a waterfall.

  It was so unfair, it sickened him.

  A little girl with a blond ponytail, who was maybe eight or nine years old, came marching up to him. “Hey, why do you keep staring at the people inside the Ticket Pulverizer?” she said. She pronounced the word pulverizer carefully, like she was sounding it out.

  Colton was incensed. How dare this little brat approach him and talk to him in such a judgmental way? Where were her parents? “I’m not watching the people. I’m watching the machine,” he said in a cold, measured tone.

  “Well, my friend over there says you’re creepy,” the little girl said.

  Colton looked over at a dark-haired girl who was standing by the Ticket Pulverizer and staring at them as they talked. Her eyes were big and unblinking, and her gaze was penetrating. “Tell your friend the feeling is mutual.”

  The little girl crinkled her nose. “I don’t even know what that means.”

  “If you don’t know what it means,” Colton said, deepening his voice in hopes of sounding adult and intimidating, “then maybe that means you’re not old enough to be starting conversations with somebody older than you.” He made a shooing gesture, as if she were a pesky gnat. “Go. Away.”

  “I’m happy to go away from you,” the little girl said, turning her back on him and flouncing back to her friend.

  “Good, then go,” Colton muttered.

  The little girl was annoying, but she had told him something he needed to know. By scoping out the Ticket Pulverizer, he was calling unwanted attention to himself. If he was going to pull this off, he had to go unnoticed. He couldn’t have horrible little girls noticing him and thinking he was creepy. And he certainly couldn’t do anything to attract the attention of the Freddy’s staff. He needed to be invisible—silent and stealthy. Like a ninja, he reminded himself.

  Colton walked away from the Ticket Pulverizer and toward the
exit. He had seen what he needed to see.

  * * *

  By Friday night, Colton’s plan was complete. This time he wouldn’t do his work at night. He would work in daylight so he could see what he was doing. He would set his alarm for 6:00 a.m. and would sneak into Freddy’s before it opened. He figured if he had successfully used the restroom window to sneak out, he could also use it to sneak in.

  Before he went to bed, he laid out his necessities: a dark shirt, his cargo pants, his phone, and the tools he would stuff in the pockets. And this time, even though it was day, he was taking a flashlight. If he was going to go deep inside the dark innards of the Ticket Pulverizer, he needed to be able to see what he was doing.

  Colton lay in bed, wide-awake, running through the Heist over and over in his mind. The one thing that was worrying him was the bathroom window. He had used a chair for the boost he needed to get out of it, but how was he going to get into it? He couldn’t exactly take a step ladder with him and prop it against the building without practically announcing, “Don’t mind me, folks. I’m just doing some breaking and entering here.” He would just have to improvise. He’d get through the window somehow.

  Finally, excitement gave way to exhaustion, and Colton fell asleep. In his dreams, he jumped up and down on the Pulverizer’s platform, and tickets cascaded over him until they were waist-high, then shoulder-high in them. He was literally swimming in tickets. People watching him cheered. He had never felt such joy.

  When the alarm went off, his eyes flew open. This was it. Today was the day he was going to make it work. He took off his pajamas and put on the dark shirt and cargo pants. He loaded the tools in his pockets and tightened his belt as an added precaution. He stopped in the kitchen and wolfed down a banana and chugged a glass of orange juice. He was ready.

  The streets were largely deserted at 6:30 a.m., which was another reason Colton congratulated himself on the brilliance of his plan. No witnesses.