Mr. Snile's Unusual Halloween Tail

🎼Tiz the season to get spooky, Bwah hahaha ha ha, bwah ha ha ha. 🎵 🎵 🎵

 H. Arthur Snile lives in a small bungalow on Parker Street. His 30-year-mortgage is almost half paid off and by now owns more than 70 percent equity in the property. He drives a 3-year-old compact car, which he paid for in cash, and which gets over 30 miles per gallon. And since he lives modestly and pays all his bills within 30 days, he keeps his credit record spotless.

 Mr. Snile works for the bank downtown. Every morning he would put on his grey suit, which he purchased a month before acquiring the above-mentioned mortgage, and drives to work in his little car. On Mondays and alternate Thursdays he would stop at a local bagel shop for a plain bagel with cream cheese. Likewise, should he ever be called in to work on Saturdays. Once in the office, he would set himself diligently to his duties, being the bank's star foreclosure specialist.

 He would process more foreclosures per week than his two colleagues would in a month, combined. His secret is his meticulous analysis of all available data concerning all of the bank's residential mortgage holders. He knows, to the very last one, who is behind on credit card payments, who is working two jobs just to make ends meet, and whose company is going through lay-offs. So, when an unlucky mortgage holder should miss two consecutive payments, Mr. Snile is waiting for them. The documentation would be ready to file on the day that last missed payment becomes overdue. And no amount of begging or pleading from those freeloaders would get him to change his mind. After all, business is business.

 On Tuesday, October 31st he reported for work at 8:56 as usual. But this was no ordinary day. It was Halloween. Today he came dressed in his Halloween costume; not just because the rest of the staff came to work dressed up. Oh no. Rather because he wanted to show them all he was no fuddy-duddy, and that he was just as fun loving and jovial as the rest of his coworkers. But his costume wasn't as outrageous as some of the other employees. For example Ms. Cardigan, at the switchboard, came dressed as a dominatrix, and Mr. Sandwich, his own boss, wore a Scottish kilt.

 But Mr. Snile thought his costume was the most sublime in its simplicity. He had crafted a set of small devil's horns out of Styrofoam and glued red felt over them. As the glue dried, it left the horns with a parched and crinkled look. Wearing the horns was easy, too: all he had to do was dab a little rubber cement to their bottoms and plop them on top of his balding pate. It worked like a charm and they stayed stuck to his head all day. He also made a matching tail out of the same red felt which he hung off the back of his belt allowing it to protrude from under his suit jacket.

 And just to drive home the point that he was no fuddy-duddy, he even drank a cup of punch at the impromptu office party. Of course, he did this only after finishing the paperwork on two final foreclosures for the month.

 "Hi, you horny devil" Ms. Cardigan said as he was scooping up a dipper of punch.

 He didn't know what to say all of a sudden. He’d hardly exchanged ten words with her in all his years at the bank. And yet, here she was, smiling at him. And he knew she was single. And she was standing next to him in the punch line. And she joked with him.

 But what could he say? Should he ask who was covering the switchboard while she was here? Or should he complement her on her costume? After all she’d put a lot of effort into it, and was quite brave to wear something to work that exposed so much cleavage. Or just complement her on how pretty she was.

 "I can see most of your breasts," he said. But as soon as the words came out of his mouth, he knew that this wasn't right at all. Ms. Cardigan backed away, and by the time he got his thoughts in order, she was chatting with Mr. Sandwich. He’d lost his chance.

 H. Arthur Snile left work 15 minutes early. It was the first time he’d ever done that. For he was stickler for punctuality, believing he owed his employer a full days work each and every day. But there was nothing productive being done, and it was a waste of time being there. No one noticed him leave the building. His horns and tail were still in place as he left.

---

 Mr. Snile stopped at the supermarket on his way home to do his biweekly shopping, as was his habit to do so on alternate Tuesdays. He remembered his duty to buy Halloween candy, though he hesitated for a few minutes in front of the candy aisle since he still had plenty left over from last year. He finally decided to buy one bag just in case he should run out of the old stuff.

 Trick or treating was slow. There were plenty of children out and about, but most worked the opposite side of the street for some reason. He waited patiently, telling himself that they weren't snubbing him on purpose. After all, they didn't have any reason not to. After a while, though, he got tired of watching the little draculas, cowboys, and ghosts as they rang his neighbor's bell and not his. He put the candy bowl out on the front stoop, poured the fresh candy on top of last year's and went out into the night. Of course he still had on his horns and tail, and by now he added a cape made of that same red felt.

 H. Arthur Snile strolled up and down the neighborhood streets, greeting the parents as their children ran past. He had forgotten how nice it was to chat with other people. Soon he got the hang of it: saying “hi” and “nice night for October, isn’t it”, and “haven’t seen you in ages.” It was kind of fun. In fact, he made a mental note to do this again next year.

 As the evening progressed, the younger children went home to gorge on their booty. That left the suburban streets wide open for the teenagers: teenagers with cans of shaving cream and lots and lots of eggs. Mr. Snile witnessed a group of them, about eight, pelt a passing car with eggs. Eight well-placed eggs splattered on the car's right side windows before the car came to an abrupt stop and a thick necked man yelling expletives jumped out.

 The group of kids disappeared into the darkness of a back yard. Snile followed them. For some reason, he was able to see better in the dark than usual and avoided the typical backyard pitfalls such as upturned rakes and scattered lawn furniture.

 He followed the kids out to the opposite street. There they found a group of teenaged girls. The boys surrounded them. And, like pirates unsheathing their swords, they all pulled out cans of shaving cream. Within moments, Halloween carnage ensued. The girls were soon smeared head to toe in shaving cream. The boys left them screaming and disappeared into the night.

 Snile followed them again.

 "Ohmygod! What's that?" a cream smeared girl yelled, pointing to Snile as he ran into the shadows. Several of her friends screamed.

 It gave H. Arthur immense pleasure to have been spotted and to have caused a stir. As he blended into the suburban shadows, he was aware of what he might look like with his cape and tail trailing behind him. There was no stopping now as he followed that gang of boys. Why, you might ask? H. Author didn't really know why. It just seemed like a lot of fun; just to see where they would go and what they'd do next. But you and I might guess. He hadn't enjoyed himself in years and his costume and the night gave him some kind of license for fun.

 Mr. Snile soon caught up with the boys as they stood in an intersection. Rather, he ran into them, surprising both them and himself.

 "Take a look at this dude!" one of them said.

 Mr. Snile, not knowing what to say to a group of eight teen aged boys with shaving cream and eggs, lifted his cape as if he were about to fly off and called out "I am the Devil and I'm here to cast you into the everlasting fires of Hell!" in a very Bela Lugosi voice.

 Not knowing who Bela Lugosi was, thus not being impressed by the impersonation – teenaged boys never are – they took aim with their egg throwing arms. "Get him!"

 Mr. Snile hadn't anticipated that reaction. But in a move that surprised even him, he spun around on his heels and bounded off, dodging the eggs as they whizzed past. When he thought he was safely out of range, he stopped and looked back. Those kids were running after him, this time with shaving cream in hand. Using their own trick, he dashed off into one of the back-yards, into the shadows of the night.

 He would have gotten away, but a spotlight triggered by a motion detector exposed him.

 "There he is!" He heard one of them yell. Snile disappeared into the wooded area between the two back yards. He found a conveniently-placed pine tree with a few low hanging branches and deftly climbed up into the boughs.

 "Where'd that freaky old geezer go?" Snile heard from below.

 "I'll teach him to jump in front of us when I catch up with him. He scared the shit out of me."

 Just then, the branch Mr. Snile was standing on cracked.

 "Up in the tree!" one of the kids yelled.

 "What's that! Look out!" another screamed.

 Mr. Snile's branch, along with H. Arthur himself, came crashing down to the ground. Any normal man would have suffered a sprained ankle from this fall, or worse, but Mr. Snile was no ordinary man. No, not tonight. Not on Halloween. For, you see, Mr. Snile was the banks most prolific foreclosure specialist. That fact, along with his Devil's horns and tail, gave him extraordinary powers.

 He landed squarely in the midst of the gang. He was surprised that he landed feet first without so much as a jar. Emboldened by seeing the shock on the kids around him, he gave out a Satanic laugh. "Blah ha ha ha haaaa!"

 Now, that impressed the kids. They dropped their cans of shaving cream and scattered in all directions. H. Arthur thought it was the jolliest of fun.

---

 Mr. Snile woke the following morning, not exactly sure of what had happened the previous night. He couldn't explain the fall from the tree and not hurting himself. Nor, could he sufficiently explain how he got up into the tree in the first place. After all, such tree climbing nonsense was beneath him, and he had never partaken of such foolishness, not even in his youth.

 He looked in the mirror, preparing to shave, and noticed the horns from last night were still in place. He pulled on one, trying to remove it from his head. It would not budge. Then he tried the other one. That too, was firmly in place.

 He then felt something brush against his leg. His tail was still hanging from behind. How could that be? The tail was hooked to his belt, and he certainly did not go to bed with his trousers on. So what could it be attached to?

 "Ahhhrg!" he screamed when he ran his hand up along the tail to find it attached to his coccyx. He pulled on it. It felt like he was pulling on an integral part of himself. He grabbed the horns again, this time with a firm grip, one in each hand. He gave them a strong solid pull. "Ouuuu!" he cried out. It was as if he were trying yank off his own nose. But there was more: the horns, the tail, there was feeling in them.

 He remembered the 9:15 foreclosure appointment at the bank. It dawned on Mr. Snile that this unusual affliction might impede his effectiveness at work, and that would make having grown Devil's horns and a Devil's tail a very serious matter indeed.

... conclusion to follow...

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