This third and final story for the season was performed by Sedge Thomson at Page on Stage’s Twisted Christmas 2007 and appeared in the 2007 chapbook The Pugilist’s Holiday and Other Holiday Tales of the Twisted and Grotesque. It is presented here as my way of saying “Happy Holidays!”
The Killer Fruitcake
that Ate Petaluma
by Ross E. Lockhart
We interrupt your regularly-scheduled programming to bring you this News at Nine Special Report. We now take you to Martin Burr, Man on the Scene.
This is Petaluma, a sleepy city of fifty-six thousand, the one time “Egg Capital of the World,” poised at the intersection of small-town charm and the high-tech modern age. This time of year, the streets of Petaluma should resound with festive cheer and Christmas carols, but not this year. This year, there will be no noel, for those very streets are gripped with fear. Petaluma is under siege, by a horror of the most terrifying kind. I’m Martin Burr, your News at Nine Man on the Scene.
We are perched atop one of the tallest buildings in this scenic Northern California borough, the Theatre Square parking garage. From this vantage point, you can see practically all of Petaluma, from its historic downtown to its steepled suburbs to its rolling river and the mountains beyond. Directly below us, three stories down is what was once an innocent-seeming import shop, its windows filled with colorful puppets and decorated with holiday décor. Tonight, the painted glass from those windows is smashed, scattered into the streets, the shop an empty shell. In the aftermath of a terrifying ordeal, a path of destruction leads down the street and through the side door of the city’s recently-opened cinemas.
Eyewitness reports are sketchy, but some common threads have emerged. Bystanders describe an immense, amorphous creature, about ten feet wide, golden brown in color, pocked with hundreds of red and green eyes. It produced a wheezing, whistling sound as it burst from the storefront and moved down the street, devouring passers-by, leaving stripped human skeletons in its wake. The creature shambles, in the words of one observer, “like a storybook shoggoth,” whatever that means.
The News at Nine traffic copter dropped us off atop the parking garage just as the creature was squeezing its mass into the theatre building. Jasper, our cameraman, managed to capture those few fleeting seconds of footage that you’ve, by now, no doubt, seen, from the air. What the footage doesn’t convey is the smell that permeates the area, a sort of fruity, doughy aroma, with a hint of rum. It saturates the city. In different circumstances, the smell is one that might actually be described as appetizing, festive, even.
As you at home can see, Petaluma’s police and fire departments have now surrounded the theatre, cordoning off the nearby streets in order to evacuate the area. The theatre itself is dark, too dark. People should be coming and going, pressing their way through the front doors in search of an evening’s entertainment. Instead, the only thing escaping through the caution-taped doors is the monster’s sound, a trilling, tuneless, terrifying whistle, punctuated by the occasional scream as it gulps down yet another victim.
On the street directly below us, a HazMat crew from the nearby Coast Guard training center is inspecting the wreckage left in the creature’s wake. By analyzing the strange substance left on the walls and floor of the ruined shop, they hope to find a way of stopping its deadly onslaught. Just as soon as we hear anything, anything at all, News at Nine will bring it to you first.
While we wait, the studio is feeding us some background information on Petaluma. Petaluma itself is named for a Coast Miwok phrase, péta lúuma, meaning “the hill’s backside,” a reference to the town’s proximity to Sonoma Mountain. Movie buffs among our viewers may recognize the town as the shooting location for many films, including American Graffiti, Peggy Sue Got Married, and Howard the Duck. From 1952 to 2003, Petaluma played host to the world arm-wrestling cham—
Hold on. This just in: Experts now speculate that the creature is actually a fruitcake—wait, what?—No, you heard that right, a fruitcake, possibly imported from China. It grew to enormous size after an employee of the import shop opened its package in order to set out samples. The experts have detected an unusually-excessive amount of high-fructose corn syrup in the slick of traditional marzipan icing coating the monster’s path, whether this is the secret to the creature’s locomotion and appetite remains unanswered at this time. Apparently, there is a plan in effect to deal with the creature, and we should see some results shortly.
Here is some background information on fruitcake. Recipes for fruitcake date back to antiquity. The ancient Romans used to mix pomegranate seeds, raisins, and pine nuts into a barley mash. By the Middle Ages, other preserved fruits, honey, and spices were added, and the name fruitcake was first applied to the confection. In the Eighteenth Century, laws were passed in Europe restricting the eating of fruitcake to the Christmas season, because they were thought to be sinfully delicious. The phrase “nutty as a fruitcake” dates from 1935, when—
It looks as if we’ve got some activity down below. A white van, bearing Coast Guard markings, has just pulled up in front of the theatre. The driver is getting out, he’s walking around to the back, he’s opening the back doors. Are you getting this, Jasper? Two, no, three people are getting out, two rather large men and a boy, no, wait, that’s a woman. They’re in civilian clothes, so they’re not—
I’ve just received word that these three people are representatives of the IAOCE, the International Association of Competitive Eaters; the Coast Guard have brought them down from a contest in Santa Rosa. The man on the left is Rufus “Deep Dish” Berlusconi. On the right, “Cookie” Chestnut. The woman is five-time champion Sonya “The Praying Mantis” McGee.
The police are briefing the competitive eaters, and are now escorting them through the line to the doors of the theatre. Now they’ve passed under the caution tape and into the theatre.
While we wait for something to happen, here are a few statistics. “Deep Dish” Berlusconi made his name by eating twenty-three slices of Old Chicago pizza in ten minutes. He has been known to go through a dozen corned beef sandwiches in eight minutes. “Cookie” Chestnut’s record is thirty-two cannoli in seven minutes. Last year, at the Tokyo International Eating Championship, he ate fifty-three cow brains in fifteen minutes then delighted judges by asking for more. “The Praying Mantis,” is perhaps best known for eating thirteen pounds of cheesecake in eight minutes, then shortly thereafter posing for a swimsuit calendar. Where does she put it all?
Wait, something’s happening inside the theatre. Jasper, are you getting this? It looks as if the Competitive Eaters are—Holy Mackerel!—it’s eaten them! The creature is humongous now, gorged on the Competitive Eaters and the audiences of Fred Claus and The Nightmare Before Christmas 3-D. This is horrible! It’s pressing towards the doors, pressing against them, red- and green-dyed fruit pressed flat against the glass like eyes staring hungrily out into a delicious world.
The doors are straining, the police stepping back into defensive positions, their weapons drawn, using their cruisers for cover. Can anything stop the killer fruitcake?
Crash! There go the doors. The fruitcake is spilling out across the sidewalk and into the street. It’s covering the police cars, and growing, growing! This thing’s got to be thirty, forty feet across, ten feet high, and it’s getting bigger. Jasper, are you getting this?
Folks, it’s coming this way. We’re going to need to move back, find better cover, so that we can keep broadcasting this footage to you. We’re going to go back to the studio for station identification, but we’ll be right back.
* * *
We’re back, folks. We’re about a block away from the parking garage, holed up in the hay barn of a local feed store. It was a dangerous retreat, as the fruitcake expanded into the parking garage, swallowing everything and everyone in its path. We barely made it out with the camera rolling.
From here, the carnage is scarcely evident, the scene practically placid, save for the screams and the creature’s whistling, piping call. The thing is still growing, expanding. We know this hiding place won’t last for long, that the monster will eventually overtake this rudimentary sanctuary. Still, we’re here along with scattered members of the Coast Guard, police and fire departments. These brave public servants are racking their brains, searching for a solution, a way of stopping the killer fruitcake.
But that solution can’t possibly come in time. The fruitcake has been spotted, coming this way, down both First and Second streets. Has it split into two, or is it just so massive now the division of a city block means nothing? From here it appears to have enveloped the entirety of D Street, from the veterinary hospital to the bridge. And it’s moving closer, closer—
Wait, what’s that? Do you hear that?
Holy Moley! It’s a motorcycle, speeding this way, right up First Street towards us. Can’t see his face, he’s got a helmet on. He’s coming fast, circling, building up speed. He seems to be eyeing the ramp to the feed store’s loading dock. My goodness! It looks as if he’s going to try to jump the monster! Who does this mysterious motorcyclist think he is, Steve McQueen? Hold on, it looks like he’s got a pitchfork tucked under one arm, like a medieval jouster.
Wait, word is coming through right now. Jasper, are you getting this? Apparently, that’s the mayor of Petaluma on that motorcycle. Her office has just released the following statement: “If you want something done right, sometimes you have to do it yourself.” She’s going to—
Don’t do it, Madame Mayor, it’s suicide!
And she’s just hit the ramp. The motorcycle is airborne, sailing through the sky, heading straight towards the creature. Great Hera! I can’t bear to watch! Make sure you’re getting this, Jasper. And she’s hit the creature with a horrible slurping sound. The bike has disappeared, right along with the mayor. Oh, no!
It’s still coming. It’s got us penned in, flowing around the sides of the warehouse, closer, closer. The piping, trilling, whistle is getting louder, louder, loud—
It’s stopped.
Wait, the creature is rumbling, shaking like a bowl full of jelly. Rumbling, quaking. Faster and faster. What’s going on? Get back! I think it’s—
Kaboom! The Killer Fruitcake has just exploded! What an amazing sight, bits of dough, dried pineapple, cherries, walnuts, and citron are raining from the sky. We’re saved! Look, there, in the middle distance. It’s the mayor. She’s pulled off her motorcycle helmet, and her hair is blowing in the wind. You’re getting this, right, Jasper? It looks like she’s got something skewered on the end of her pitchfork. What is that, a giant green cherry? It must have been the heart of the beast.
A cheer has gone up from the crowd. Men are throwing their hats into the air, celebrating the mayor’s quick thinking and bold act in saving us all! Hurrah for the mayor!
Say, this stuff’s not half bad.
And so, a terrifying ordeal has been brought to a delicious conclusion. I’m Martin Burr, returning you to your regularly-scheduled programming. Be sure to tune in to News at Nine for a complete recap. Good night, good luck, and a Merry Christmas to all.
What’s that, Jasper? You say some of these pieces are still moving?
end.
