The Witch's Hat

Jock Prattle was slumped over in his chair, snoozing face-down on the desk, when a witch walked into his office.

“Jock! Jocko! Tie one on over lunch again?”

Jock stirred, struggling to sit up in the chair. As he did so, his elbow bumped an empty bottle which formerly held a fifth of scotch. The bottle tipped and teetered on the edge of the desk before diving headlong, to be greeted by the linoleum floor and oblivion.

The crash did the trick. Jock was awake...unhappy and hung over, but awake. As his vision cleared, he saw his tormentor. She was pretty typical as witches go; black hat that resembled a traffic cone with a hair lip, covering long scraggly black hair with a couple shocks of gray woven in. A wart the size and shape of a black olive protruded from the side of her corpse-green nose and tattered brown robes draped loosely from her shoulders to her knees. One non-traditional anomaly, was that the horizontally striped socks emerging from beneath the robes rooted in a pair of pink Reeboks. Also, stuck to her robes was a greeting tag. It read: “Hi. I'm Hilda.”

“Fletcher's out for blood. You missed the conference call with Toronto.”

“I told you to call me when it happened,” groaned Jock.”

“I called you. I shook you. A nuclear blast wouldn't have awakened you.”

“Where's Fletcher now?”

“Meeting. I'm taking off early...going to a Halloween party.”

“I'd never have guessed.”

“What are you going to do about Fletcher?”

“Take off early. Got a Halloween party.”

Hilda shook her head with a mixture of pity and disgust, turned and left the room.

The sentiment wasn't entirely lost on the still foggy Jock, who managed a retort...albeit weak and unworthy of an ad agency creative director..

“Love you in green!”

His legs still wobbly, Jock struggled to his feet and managed crossing to the office door where his rumpled jacket dangled. Reaching for the jacket, he stumbled, grabbed a sleeve and tore the hapless garment off the coat hook, ripping the hook from the door in the process. His head pounding, he looked at his jacket, saw that he had torn the collar and tossed it aside. Holding onto the door handle for stability, he peered out furtively, saw no sign of Fletcher and skulked out of the office.

For the next few hours, Jock enjoyed the company of the like-minded, at the aptly-named “Wild Things” bar, where Halloween skeletons and spider webs adorned the walls and peanut shells littered the floor. Music blared a bit too loudly and people shouted to be heard. Demons and sirens mingled with vampires and super-heroes. A grim reaper busily chatted up a French maid. A headsman showed off his double-bladed ax to a buxom visitor from another star. A coven of witches at one end of the bar downed mugs of witches' brew from the well and scanned the scene for hot guys dressed as, well...anything. The whole place was happily engaged in the age-old search for a piece of non-demonic tail.

Jock occupied a small booth, with a kitty and some sort of slug, holding court for passers-by who knew him as a regular. And through it all, he just got drunker. But even several sheets to the wind, Jock knew that he had to get home to make sure the house was dark. The last thing he wanted was to be overrun with trick-or-treaters. He didn't have any candy and he didn't want a bunch of kids asking for it.

Jock headed for the parking lot. Plastered as he was, driving home shouldn't have even been on the table, but universally, drunks have little sense. As he passed the entrance to the lot, a temporary sign caught his eye. It read: “Parking For Witches Only...Violators Will Be Toads” He grinned. The sign was his idea and it got him free drinks for a week. He reached in his pants pocket and pulled out his car's remote. Pressing it, he saw lights flash a few rows down and heard the familiar honk of his Boxster. As he arrived at the car, suddenly the whole world went awry. Jock spun around and collapsed face-up on the hood.

When he woke up again, Jock was staring in the face of evil. It was Lucifer himself, except that this particular Lucifer seemed genuinely concerned with Jock's welfare.

“You okay pal? I saw you kinda twist around and faint.”

“I didn't...Why am I lying on my car?”

“Like I said...”

“Uh thanks. I'm much better now. Jeez. Hope I didn't scratch the paint.”

“Nah. Paint looks okay. Sure you are?”

“Um. Guess I tripped. Yeah. I'm sure. Uh. Happy Halloween.”

“Okay. Happy Halloween.”

And the Devil sprinted off after his companions...Mary Poppins and a Bag of M&M's. Jock climbed into the Boxster, started it, gunned the engine and with little thought as to who or what might be around the next bend, drove off at high speed, bottoming out as he left the driveway. Making matters worse, he had a flask in the glove compartment and no clue that he had a drinking problem.

Jock was within a half mile of home when he had drained the flask. It was only then that he noticed the small evil things...and the heroes and ballerinas. They were scampering all over the place, accompanied by vigilant parents. There was this year, an abundance of ogres and rats, but that little statistic went unnoticed by Jock. All he cared about was avoiding the little monsters. Rather than slowing and being cautious, Jock took to swerving around the kids as parents yelled at him and gestured in some most un-parently ways. Jock swung a left into an alley. Thankfully, for everyone involved, there were no kids in sight. He would just head the rest of the way home along here.

The Boxster shot down the alley, playing chicken with the groups of garbage cans dotting one side, then the other. As Jock closed to within a block of his house, something swooped down in front of the car. It was a Crow. Crows were a problem in the neighborhood because of the Walnut trees. They cracked open the walnuts by dropping them on driveways and the cars parked on them. And that was by far, the more benign of the stuff that they dropped on the cars. They were fearless and taunted drivers by hopping in front of cars and always escaping at the last second. Jock hated them. And the flask of old No. 7 just stoked the fire. He began chasing this one. It was a big sucker. And it zoomed ahead of him weaving back and forth like a Formula One car. But he was in a Boxster. Zero to Sixty in 5.7 seconds. He down-shifted, wound it up to six K, popped the clutch and in a few seconds, heard the satisfying thump of Crow to bumper. He didn't even care if he scratched the paint.

Jock stopped the car and walked back to see his kill. What he found shook him to his very core. There wasn't any crow. Instead, there was a tall black, conical hat, bent in the middle, a black robe, and a broom! Jock's first thought was that he had killed someone in a Halloween costume. But there was no body and no blood, just a witch's outfit! He'd killed a costume! But that didn't make any sense, not even drunk He had to be the victim of an elaborate prank and it frightened Jock considerably...at least at first. He begrudgingly admitted to himself, some slight admiration for the prankster. The joke had style.

He picked up the costume, tossed it in the car and climbed back in. As he started to pull away, the broom levitated. Jock was so startled, he slammed on the brakes and nearly flew through the windshield since he hadn't bothered to belt himself in. As though it had a mind of its own, the broom tested first one window with a hard tap, then spun and repeated the action on another and yet another. Finally, with a mighty thrust, it tore a hole in the car's convertible top and flew up into the air. Jock watched in awe as the broom, illuminated by the full moon, flew a hundred feet above him, in a tightening spiral, eventually twirling in place. Suddenly, it vanished in a flash of unearthly light.

Jock knew that he'd had enough. It was time to hit the hay. But as sobering a sight as a broom flying from his car had to be, he remained pretty impaired. As he turned into his driveway, he hit the mailbox. It fell off it's post, landing upside down on the lawn. His address, 1999, now read 666, the number one, having flown off entirely from the impact. Jock didn't care. He slammed the car door and headed inside. He never made it. A pumpkin, stolen from a neighbor's porch, was smashed on Jock's driveway. Jock stepped on it and slipped on the melted wax inside. His leg flew up and he fell, hitting his head on a sprinkler. His final thought as he went down was: “Not again!”

Jock's vision cleared to a bizarre sight...torches. He was lying flat on his back and all he could see was torches and dirt...dirt with roots protruding from it. He sat up, realizing that wherever he was, it wasn't home. Looking around, he could see that he was in an earthen chamber with a dirt floor. It seemed to be hollowed out from within and had no apparent openings. Jock had no idea how he got in or how he'd get out. So far, he wasn't worried. And that worried him. Another thing...he wasn't the least hung over. That seemed wrong. Off in the distance, he could hear what seemed to be muffled moans and screams...but from where? Then he noticed the stench. It was every awful smell he'd ever smelled or imagined. And it was seeping into the chamber. As awful as they were, they also didn't seem to bother him. And that seemed wrong too. What was going on? Was this another elaborate prank? It wouldn't be long before he regretted the questions.

After a time, a section of the chamber wall vanished. It was very subtle. There was no rumbling, no dirt falling. The wall was there, then it wasn't. Where the wall had stood, a coiled serpent lay. It seemed to be an unholy cross between a snake and a crocodile. Also, it spoke, calling Jock's name. For some reason, that didn't surprise Jock at all. What he fixed on was the sound of it's voice.

“Lousy stereotype,” Jock thought derisively. “I'd fire the guy who came up
with the hissing voice if I was the boss here.”

“Well you're not,” replied the serpent, as though he'd read Jock's thoughts.

“I didn't say anything, he replied.”

“You didn't have to. There are no secrets in Hell, save the Master's own.”

“Oh God is this the lamest nightmare ever?”

Without warning, the serpent let out a gigantic exhale of searing flame which surrounded Jock and burned off most of his clothes. His skin was charred like barbecued chicken. It hurt terribly, but again, for some reason, though he knew it, he didn't actually feel it. Then the serpent bent down nose-to-nose with Jock.

“Don't ever utter that word again!”

“Word?”

The serpent hesitantly rolled its eyes heavenward, its expression scarcely masking a terrible fear of something. Jock saw it, but had no idea what to make of it. Certain he was in a lucid nightmare, Jock assumed a cocky posture, strolling behind the coils of the monster. The sight that next met Jock's eyes momentarily took his breath away. Writhing in boiling pools of indescribable sludge were people, or what used to be people. There were untold millions of them...billions! The scene stretched as far as Jock could see, and he presumed, many times farther. Plumes of fire randomly burst forth from the muck.

“Are you ready to take your place amongst the damned?”

Quickly regaining his swagger, Jock replied in his usual manner.

“I was kinda hoping for something with an ocean view.”

Before Jock could gauge the serpent's reaction, he found himself under water, caught in a tangle of kelp, with sharks ripping off chunks of his burned flesh. He couldn't hold his breath very long and just as his lungs were about to burst, he was back in the chamber and whole again. The boiling sea of souls was gone, as was the serpent.

A point of light appeared in the distance. The light grew in size and took on form. It was The Master, an enormous demon, dozens of meters tall and with a body that continually morphed from one hideous monstrosity into another.

“Do you run this place?”

“I run everything!”

“Oh no! I know who runs everything,” said Jock, glancing Heavenward.

“And you think HE has dominion here? No! HE runs Heaven. Hell is my territory,” said the Master, suddenly morphing into a gooey parody of a 1920's mob boss.

“But I gotta admit, you kinda remind me of me. I like arrogant.”

The sea of boiling souls appeared from nowhere behind the Master.

“I can't stand those wimps,” it said, gesturing over its shoulder at the soul soup.

Randomly several souls exploded in fireballs across the Hellscape..

Blobs of seared flesh and sinewy bone fragments landed around the Master and all over Jock. Creatures whose description no sane mortal could comprehend and whose visages defied classification, congregated at the hooves of the Master. All were covered in the vilest goo, and all smelled awful beyond compare. At a nod from the Master, they began to gorge themselves on the rotting flesh lying about. A few picked off the remnants that were stuck to Jock. He recoiled at their touches. They devoured the seared flesh with such relish that nothing could have stopped their feeding frenzy. Nothing, that is, save any sound from the Master. It cleared it's throat and the beasts froze, mid-chew.

“An error has been made,” the Master said. “This soul should not yet be here.”

The assembled monsters and demons all appeared confused in their own ways.

“No one dies from clonking their head on a sprinkler!”

The beasts groveled their assent. The Master turned back and addressed Jock.”

“Jock Prattle! You shall be returned to the world of the living until it is your time. But we are keeping our eye on you.”

Jock awakened, weak and groggy, on the ground outside his house in a small pool of dried blood. He got to his feet and shuffled to his front porch. The Jack O' Lantern over which he'd tripped was whole and on the porch rail, a candle burning within.

“What a nightmare! I gotta lay off the booze!”

As Jock unlocked the door and went inside. the pumpkin's eyes followed him. He flipped up the light switch...only darkness. He spun around, talking to the room itself.

“Great! What now?”

“Surprise,” howled out an unearthly chorus.

The room...his very world, had vanished. He again stood in the earthen chamber, before the Master of Hell and the creatures that did his bidding.

“Oh God. I'm still in the nightmare.”

“Don't EVER say HIS name. And you're not in any nightmare. You are stone-cold dead...and on my turf. So bow before me puny mortal and receive my judgment!”

Jock began to tremble. But he gained control of his emotions, even as the power of the Master's command drove him to his knees.

“But I thought you were returning me to the world of the living. You said a mistake had been made. You said it wasn't my time!”

“I was messing with you. I can do that.”

“What?”

“I lied.”

“But...”

The Master raised a foreclaw and clenched it into a fist. Simultaneously, Jock's mouth sealed itself tightly.

“I weary of the game, Jock Prattle. You are accused of a crime. And while your transgression has no actual significance here since I can patch up the witch with a mere gesture, it is none-the-less a violation of the laws of Hell. And if it is not, I hereby make it so.”

As though with one voice, the demons and monsters growled their enthusiastic assent.

“Therefore, since I just love to make the punishment fit the crime...well, not the severity, but the irony. I have decided that for deliberately killing a witch...Yeah yeah. You thought it was a Crow! Look big fella. Lots of Crows work for me too. You lose either way. So for killing a witch, my judgment...oh this is juicy...is that for all eternity, you shall be a Witch's Hat. And no. It's not what you think.”

As Jock's eyes widened in a mixture of fear and utter confusion, the Master curled its lip and it was all over. Everything and everyone vanished, including Jock.

A few weeks later, the full impact of the Master's pronouncement finally struck home with Jock. And it did so in the form of a very heavy SUV driven, ironically, by a drunk. It dragged him, screaming and shredding his body for half a mile. Of course, no one could hear the scream except Jock. After all, who really listens to the sounds made by a traffic cone under the axle of a car? Who among mere mortals is even aware that a bright orange Witch's Hat may house a damned soul?