Marvin and the Moths

by Jonathan Follett

  Memorial Park was filled with people by the time Marvin and his family arrived. A large circle had been cleared for the bonfire itself, which was piled high with books and lumber, waiting to be lit. Marvin passed a mom and dad and their small children, who were clinging to their parents’ legs.

  “Dad, I want to go home,” the little boy said. “I don’t want to be eaten by the Elephant Vampire.”

  “Don’t worry,” the father said, patting his son on the head. “I’m sure the authorities wouldn’t have us here if it wasn’t safe.”

  The next couple Marvin passed didn’t have as much faith in the powers that be. “It’s been more than two weeks already,” the man said to his wife. “When are they going to do something?”

  As Marvin and his family continued to move up through the crowd for a better view, they heard the sound of chanting and shouting. A dozen members of PorkPeace, including the librarian Mrs. Goudy, were waving protest signs that read, LEARNING, NOT BURNING, A BOOK A DAY KEEPS IGNORANCE AWAY, and EDUCATION, NOT RETALIATION. A wall of police officers was keeping the rest of the people—some of whom were growing increasingly angry—away from the activists.

  “Get lost, vampire lovers!” someone shouted at the protesters.

  “Free thought isn’t free!” screamed another person.

  “You’re putting us in the poorhouse with your overdue book fees, Goudy!”

  Marvin’s mom shook her head at the high emotions, and especially at the large red Pork Loaf Ladies’ Auxiliary banner up on the main stage.

  “I don’t understand it,” she said. “Why is the PLLA sponsoring a book-burning? I never would have allowed such a thing when I was president. I need to speak to Constance.”

  Marvin watched his neighbors pile on fuel for the bonfire. In addition to the books the police had removed from school and public libraries, townspeople had brought more things from home to burn, like DVDs of Dumbo and books from the Babar series. Many husbands were gleefully disposing of their wives’ collections of young adult vampire fiction. A group of women to Marvin’s right stood with their arms around one another’s shoulders, quietly sobbing.

  And on top of the pile, positioned almost as though the rally’s organizers knew where Marvin would be standing, was the latest issue of Fearless Phil. Marvin was all for public hysteria—when it kept the attention of his fellow students directed away from him—but he couldn’t abide the destruction of perfectly good comic books.

  “Looks like you’ll have to wait a bit to talk to Constance,” Marvin’s dad said, pointing to the stage at the far end of the park. They could see Constance Upton mounting the stairs, along with the mayor and his advisors.

  The crowd grew restless as the mayor approached the podium.

  “What are we doing here?” someone shouted. “We’re wasting our time!”

  “Looks like the only thing you’re good at is making speeches!” someone else yelled. “When are you going to catch this monster?”

  “You still haven’t fixed the potholes on my street, you bum!” A roar of assent went up from the crowd.

  The mayor was sweating as he approached the microphone. “Citizens of Butcherville,” he began, struggling to be heard over the crowd. “Noble and QUIET citizens of Butcherville, I come before you with good news.”

  “You’re resigning?” someone shouted.

  “I come before you to say that this terrible chapter in our town’s history is finally coming to a close. I am proud to say that, due to the tenacity and bravery of our police force, in the past seventeen days there have been no more killings—THAT WE KNOW OF!” The crowd let forth a hopeful cheer at this. The mayor’s face brightened, and he continued. “We come together tonight to let the Elephant Vampires of the world know that we stand united as a single mob!” The crowd cheered again. “And that this mob will never back down!” The cheering went on for a full minute before the mayor motioned Constance over to the podium.

  He continued, “Tonight’s celebration of unity and strength would not have been possible without the efforts of the Pork Loaf Ladies’ Auxiliary, and especially the leadership of its beloved acting president, Mrs. Constance Upton!” Constance gave a gracious curtsy as the crowd cheered. Marvin’s mom scowled a little and remained silent, cradling Baby Harry in her arms.

  “Now,” the mayor said, waving his hands for quiet, “I have listened long and hard to you, the citizens of Butcherville, during this time of trial. People tell me that big decisions are good. And for once, I wanted to make a big decision—all by myself. So, I called the governor of our great state, and demanded that he mobilize the National Guard to take action to protect our citizens. Using all of our resources, and yours, and making some educated guesses, we have tracked the Elephant Vampire to his lair. And now, everyone, please direct your attention toward the Butcherville Central Cemetery!” He pointed away to the north, and everyone’s eyes followed. Over the loudspeakers came the sounds of classical music.

  “Is that the 1812 Overture?” Marvin’s dad asked, cocking his head to listen. As the song reached its crescendo, a formation of fighter jets screamed overhead from the south. The mayor stood rigidly at attention, as much as his perpetually slumped shoulders would allow, and saluted the planes as they passed. A moment later, synchronized perfectly with the recorded music’s cannon blasts, rockets streaked from the planes and a huge explosion lit the northern horizon. The jets peeled away from the billowing fireball that rose into the sky, and the crowd erupted into enthusiastic cheers as, in the distance, tombstones and bits of mausoleum rained down like confetti.

  The mayor turned back to the microphone. “The Elephant Vampire is dead! Long live us!” The crowd cheered again, and Constance walked down to the edge of the bonfire circle. A firefighter lit the sparkler in her hand, which she in turn gave to a small girl—the youngest member of the Little Ladies of Pork, the PLLA’s junior group. She hoisted the smiling tot over the bonfire materials, and watched as the girl tossed the sparkler onto the gasoline-soaked books and wood. The flames spread quickly, and the crowd in the park applauded.

  Marvin saw the fire reach the top of the pile and begin to consume his Fearless Phil comic. The edges of the cover curled and blackened, and Marvin saw Phil’s smiling face vanish into a swirl of flame and ash. At least, he thought, Phil had been laughing in the face of fear, right to the end.

  “One last thing,” the mayor said, “before you get too caught up in hugging your loved ones and roasting some good old-fashioned Pork Loaf Franks.” The crowd laughed. “I would like to announce, now that the crisis has passed, that the Harvest Festival, Parade, and Dance are all back on!”

  The crowd shouted jubilantly. All except for Marvin. At the thought of the dance, he felt a sinking sensation in his stomach. And this time, no one—not the National Guard, not even Fearless Phil—could save him.

  The mayor waved his arms dramatically, cueing someone behind him. Fireworks shot into the sky, and Marvin threw up in his mouth a little.

  High above the celebrating crowd, fireworks blossomed in blue and red and gold. Their light found its way far across town and through a cracked window, where the starbursts glinted in eight shiny eyes.

  “Oh, oh hunger pangs,” the spider groaned into the air of the darkened room where he lay hidden. “Oh wracking pain that makes me feel as though I have never tasted food! For nights uncounted have I stalked this town, only to find nothing. Nothing! No livestock, no wild beasts, no errant travelers. Only hunger. And SWAT teams.” He had considered trying to feed on the helmeted, armored, and heavily armed police that had been scouring the town, but had rejected them on the basis that their shells would be too hard, and they too difficult to eat. “And me without a nutcracker!” he wailed.

  His head drooped, and he continued, more quietly. “Nay, that is but vanity. Does fear unseat me? I, Caliban, am powerful! For thus do I name myself, after the noble creature so many considered a monster. Yes, I am powerful, and yet—and yet—the specter of that elephan
t haunts me.” He lifted the stump of his severed leg into the faint light shining through the window, and knew that it was fear, more than reinforced Kevlar body armor, that had kept him from taking on the SWAT teams. “Fie on thee, my tuskéd foe that hath maimed me thus, body and soul, and left me trapped here, famished, amid this waste and wreckage!” He swept a leg across a pile of debris, scattering objects across the wooden floor. “And curse the two-legged dullards that hunt me, denying me my nourishment. There is nothing to eat here. Nothing! A feast of dust and emptiness!” He picked up a tattered doll. “Oh, if only you were flesh and blood, my lovely. Alas, you appear to be filled with pine shavings.” He threw the doll aside. Next he found a deflated football, and held it close to his face. “Oh, lowly pigskin! If only you held pig within!” He flung it away.

  Overcome by despair and frustration, the spider collapsed to the floor and beat his legs. “Nothing! Nothing but scraps and tatters!” He picked a small envelope off the floor in his fury, and raised it up, preparing to crumple it and cast it away, too. But just then, another explosion of fireworks outside the window lit up the room, and he noticed the writing on the envelope.

  “Eh?” he said, bringing it close and opening it. “What’s this?” He scanned the contents, then squealed with excitement. “Here! Here is the answer! What perfection! All those succulent little pigs, unguarded in their pen! A banquet, decked out in formal wear! And best of all—the poetry of it! The sheer poetry! Worthy of the Bard himself!”

  The fireworks continued to burst outside, filling the sky with twinkling, multicolored stars. The spider turned his eyes toward the flashes in defiance. “O malignant and ill-boding stars! Now thou art come unto a feast of death, a terrible and unavoided danger.”

  He cackled. “Namely, me!”

  Sunny skies and faintly crisp air greeted the people of Butcherville as they turned out along Hackett Boulevard for the triumphant Harvest Day Parade. The crowds stretched all the way down the parade route, from its starting point in the industrial district alongside the river on the west end; past the statue of Butcherville’s founder, William Billy “Butch” Hackett, in the center of town; and finally to the fairgrounds out east, where cotton candy, midway games, and a Ferris wheel waited to receive them.

  Families had staked their claims to sections of sidewalk and were already tailgating in adjacent parking lots, searing up a full array of Pork Loaf delicacies on portable gas and charcoal grills, when Marvin’s family marched into Town Square. They were late: Baby Harry was spitting up again, so Marvin’s mom had to change her blouse twice before they could leave the house. Now there were no open spots to be found, and the Watsons gazed dejectedly at the thick throngs of people.

  Just when it looked as though they would be forced to head out to the edge of town in order to find an open spot, Fatima jumped up from near the review stand and waved at Marvin. Marvin, with the thought of the impending dance now weighing heavily upon his mind, sheepishly and determinedly looked the other way, ignoring her waves and cries. Mrs. Watson finally spotted her, and said, “Marvin, isn’t that your little friend from the barbecue?”

  “No,” Marvin said. “I don’t know—”

  “Yes, yes it is!” Marvin’s mom said. Marvin watched in horror as his mom waved back.

  “It looks like they have some space,” said Marvin’s dad. “I bet we could set up right next to them. Come on!” He pushed through the crowd, Marvin reluctantly following.

  “Thank goodness you’re here,” Fatima whispered to Marvin. “For the past half hour, I’ve had to listen to a recitation of the pros and cons of inflatable exercise balls for core-strength workouts. Ridiculous.”

  “Well, I certainly won’t be talking about that,” said Marvin.

  “Foofie!” a slender blonde woman behind Fatima called. Fatima’s face darkened at the sound of the nickname. The woman wore a stylish white fleece pullover and large designer sunglasses. “Introduce us to this handsome young man, Foofie.”

  “This is Marvin Watson,” Fatima mumbled. “Marvin, this is my father and my stepmother.”

  “Oh my!” Mrs. Curie said, squealing with delight. “Not the same Marvin who’s taking you to the dance, is it, Foofie?”

  “Foofie?” Marvin asked. Fatima merely glared at him.

  “Dance?” Mrs. Watson said. “I didn’t know you were planning to go to the dance tonight, Marvin.”

  “Did I not mention that?” Marvin said. “I can’t imagine why.”

  “Isn’t it exciting?” Mrs. Curie said. “Their first real dance! I keep telling her that there’s more to life than those little electronic doodads she’s always playing with.”

  “Harry Watson,” Marvin’s dad said, extending his hand first to Mrs. Curie and then to her husband.

  “I’m Saïd Curie, purveyor of fine promotional items,” Fatima’s dad replied. “What’s your function in society, Harry?”

  “Oh, I work in the lab at Pork Loaf,” he answered.

  “Fantastic!” Mr. Curie said.

  “I’m Mary,” Marvin’s mom said, shifting Baby Harry so she could shake hands properly.

  “Stacy Curie, purveyor of slimmer thighs and tighter abs,” said Mrs. Curie, laughing.

  “Come again?” said Marvin’s mom.

  “Pilates, dear,” said Mrs. Curie. “I have a studio on the North Side. You should come by sometime for a free lesson. It’ll help you lose that baby weight!”

  “Thanks,” Mrs. Watson said through clenched teeth.

  “Come, sit!” said Mr. Curie. He unfolded several camp chairs that were imprinted with different corporate logos. “Try one of my fine promotional camp chairs.” Marvin and his family sat down.

  “You thirsty?” He pulled out an insulated travel mug and filled it from a large thermos of hot cocoa. He handed the mug to Marvin’s mom.

  “Oh, what’s this?” Mrs. Watson said, looking at the corporate logo on the side. It read, “Roach Parade Scorched Earth Outdoor Bug Bomb.” At the bottom of the mug was the warning “DO NOT USE INDOORS OR NEAR LIVING THINGS.”

  “They’re one of my best customers,” said Mr. Curie. “They let me keep the extras. I thought the ‘Roach Parade’ would be a festive accompaniment for today’s Harvest Parade.”

  He reached into a large bag on the ground behind him. “Here! We have some special gifts for you. All of you.”

  Saïd plunked a large trucker hat on Marvin’s dad’s head. It read, “I’m Using Un-Bald Me Now—Grecian Hair Restoration Formula.”

  “Something more fashionably feminine for the lady!” Mr. Curie said, sliding a tennis visor emblazoned with the logo for Paul Bunion’s Wart Remover onto Marvin’s mom’s head.

  “And we wouldn’t want those little toesies to get cold now, would we?” Mr. Curie said, tickling Baby Harry’s chin. He slid another pair of baby booties over Baby Harry’s thick socks. The booties read, “Big Al’s Crocodile Farm, Bayou View, LA.”

  “We couldn’t possibly take all of this,” Marvin’s mom said.

  “Nonsense!” Saïd replied. “I have plenty of extras. Besides, it’s good for business to get my samples out there, so people can get a closer look at the fine, quality craftsmanship of my promotional items.”

  “But, how will we carry it all?” Marvin’s mom said, desperately looking for a way out.

  “Ah!” Mr. Curie said, reaching back into his stash. “The perfect tote bag.” He handed Marvin’s mom a cloth bag bearing a picture of the Pork Loaf Big ’Un and the text “Bag a Big ’Un!”

  “Unfortunately, after the murder of our town’s beloved elephant, the slogan seems a bit insensitive,” Mr. Curie said sadly. Then, he brightened. “But now it’s yours! Enjoy!”

  In the distance, they could hear the sound of trumpets and drums as the parade approached. Marvin stood up out of his chair to get a better look. He tapped Fatima on the shoulder. “Look! It’s the high school marching band!”

  She didn’t even glance up. “I have a much better view than you,”
she said, pointing to the screen of her electronic tablet. “They’re simulcasting from the Pork Loaf Blimp.” Marvin glanced up to see the bright-pink corporate blimp in the sky. A frequent sight at football games, fund-raisers, and the past three presidential inaugurations, the airship was shaped like an enormous Pork Loaf Log Roll.

  As the parade marched closer, Marvin saw that the grand marshal was none other than PLI’s beloved corporate mascot, Mr. Piggly Winks. Every child in Butcherville knew the smiling face of Mr. Piggly Winks, a grinning, dapper cartoon pig whose image could be found on all of Pork Loaf’s products—and the occasional tattooed bicep. He was normally depicted wearing a top hat and tails and carrying a gentleman’s walking stick. Today, though, the costumed character of Mr. Piggly Winks strode ahead of the marching band decked out in a drum major’s hat and uniform and twirling a glittering baton. As always, one eye was clenched shut in a perpetual wink. He and the band were followed by a series of floats. Marvin could overhear the play-by-play of TV news announcers from the live stream on Fatima’s tablet.

  “… and as you know, Bob, everything on these floats must be made from Pork Loaf meat products.”

  “That’s right, Kelly. More than twenty tons of Pork Loaf was used in the creation of these mobile works of art.”

  “And it won’t go to waste! After the parade, all the floats are donated to charity,” Kelly said.

  “Boy, I’d love to be the lucky charity that gets that meat sculpture of Big ’Un! Hungry children could feast on that one for days!”

  “The generosity of this town knows no bounds.”

  At last, Marvin saw the sculpture they were talking about. On the back of an approaching float, a man dressed like a lumberjack in plaid flannel was hacking apart a twelve-foot-high tower of meat with a chainsaw.

  Marvin eyeballed the spectacle warily. “Is that really sanitary?” he said.

  “Oh, get into the spirit,” Saïd said. “Besides, a little unrefrigerated meat never hurt anyone.”