A Frosty Tale

It’s been a nasty winter, as far as snow goes, here in our little metropolis.  Until yesterday, we didn’t have any whatsoever, save for a dusting in October, resulting in the latest Opening Day for the local ski area in its 69-year history*.  Fortunately, the Weather Bunny rebooted the computer or whatever it is that she does at the Weather Bureau National Weather Service to make it precipitate, ‘cause yesterday, we got tolly dumped on.  The sky was filled with more flakes than a parachuting Elvis convention (you know, why do I even try to make those?), and by the time I was released from my governmental work shackles, there was at least 4"-6” of soft, fluffy, newly fallen powder on the ground.

Ok, 4"-6” of incredibly wet, slushy cement on the ground.  But still … it was snow, and that’s all that matters.  Further, it being so wet made it ideal for packing, and I, having not lost my child-like innocence and joyful appreciation of the simple pleasures in life (unlike my cynical and jaded friends), decided it was a perfect occasion to build a snowman.  (After, of course, throwing back a couple of shots of rye to temporarily mask the pain of knowing that I’m going nowhere, stuck in a dead-end job, and that I’m helpless to change the course of my sorry-ass life, if you can even call it that.)

So after donning boots and gloves, the husky-wannabe and I went outside and began our project.  O, how the snow packed so perfectly!  “Indy!” I cried with glee.  “This will be the best, most colossal, awesomest, ginormousiest snowman ever!  People will drive for miles to marvel at its beauty, its enormity, its Christ-like perfection!”  And so I rolled and rolled, for what seemed like hours, until I finally felt that I had truly attained my goal:

Above:  I knew I’d pay a price for that half-assed job of leaf raking last fall.  Whatever.

I stood watching it, beaming with pride, for several minutes, then decided it was time to head to the pub do something or other for the better of humanity.  By that time, the snow had turned to rain, and I knew that Elwood P. Dowd (the name he chose for himself) would not be long for this world.  A short life, yes, but one well lived, and one that would not soon be forgotten.  In fact, as I left the house a short time later, Elwood P. Dowd was leaning rather precariously at a seemingly impossible angle, and I gave him a sad smile and bid my fare-thee-well, expecting to return to nothing but a pile of slush and a handful of fond memories.

Never did I imagine what horrors this world can hold, and what evil dwells in the hearts of some.

It was fairly dark when I got home, but not such that I couldn’t see where Elwood P. Dowd once stood.  “Odd,” I thought.  “I would have expected a small pile of his remnants to lay where once he stood so proudly.”  As I grew closer, I gasped in horror as I realized that there were footprints other than mine surrounding the space he once occupied.  A space now flattened, stomped with such apparent cruelty that even the most fastidious forensic investigators would have been hard-pressed to confirm even the existence of Elwood P. Dowd.

After a brief moment of silence and a tearful goodbye, I walked around the corner to the front door, and was shocked to find this:

Above: They … they … they tortured him first … those sick bastards …

Who could have done this?  What sort of blackened souls walk among us that can commit such heinous acts?  My god ... where was his other eye?  “NOOOOOOOoooo …” I wailed into the wet night.  “WHOEVER YOU ARE … WHATEVER YOU ARE … I WILL FIND YOU … I WILL HUNT YOU DOWN … ELWOOD P. DOWD WILL BE AVENGED!”  Slowly, I walked inside, poured myself a warm brandy, and began to plot my revenge.

The forecast for Sunday is snow.  Justice will be served.

* hehehe 69 ...