The 43rd Fire: A Tale of Halloween
This week's fire brings us back to the Potan to hear another tale. What Pierre tells is true, simply look up the name of the school. The scariest things are the ones happening every single day in place and by people that should not exist on our planet. Enjoy and have a safe and awesome Halloween!
The Horror of the Potan Del La De Magnus
It all felt so surreal and yet familiar to Le Mon. The menu might have been different, but the orders were easy to make, for him, and they weren’t a bore or labor intensive. Pierre did not like heat, though he worked in a kitchen. It was an odd combination that spilled into his cooking, a love without sacrifice is the purest. Only after sacrifice does love hurt.
The new food truck was prepped and ready: the batteries fully charged, the grill on high, the window open and wide, filling the sweet Mediterranean night with the scent of food and the noise of good times.
This was to be “The Spookiest Halloween in All of Venice” Pierre had announced on social medias, the newspapers, and even a young child named Jimmy who would go up and down the streets of Venice screaming about this new holiday for Venetians.
The Venetians, however, were still all about their balls and masks and other gay Venician things. To tie in ghosts and witches and even the devil in affairs was sure to sordid it up.
But do you think Pierre gave a fuck what the Venetians thought about his new spooky ghost down, erected on the site where the Potan Del La De Magnus burned to the ground a few good years back?
No, he did not.
In fact, Pierre wanted to do this for the children, to allow them the treats and scares of good ol’ fashioned Halloween, a holiday that had been mostly for adults here in Venice. But Pierre was determined to have apples floating in water barrels, zombies shambling about the authentic-looking ghost town, and a Michael Jackson impersonator doing Thriller AND Smooth Criminal. It was very impressive.
Even Chef Gordon Ramsay had brought his 34 children to play. Everyone thought it was such a delight and having the best Halloween in all of Venice.
Except for the Venetians. But Pierre knew they couldn’t do anything to him. And even if they did try to burn this one down, it was decorations and items meant to be removed after the holiday, not an entire restaurant like the last time...
Le Mon had parked the new Potan food truck in the corner, easily able to drive away into the streets, as had been a common occurrence. It had become prudent to afford a quick escape, as the Potan had now been under constant siege.
The menu was fitted for the occasion, of course: Cthulhu Hoagies, a philly squid steak that would blow your mind into the nether dimension. Tormented Taters, which were sweet potato french fries dipped in a spicy batter and fried all to hell. And finally, Chilled Monkey Brains, which were actually chilled monkey brains.
Every time someone would ask, Pierre and Le Mon would tell them the truth, that it was actually frozen simian cerebrum. The questionnaire would then laugh as if they knew it was joke or something and then take a big spoonful of slowly defrosted monkey brain into their mouth and eat it.
But right now it was time for Spooky Tales by Pierre, performed perhap tonight only! A tale to shake your spine and defecate your bloomers! The whole of Venice had been told and and the excitement was vibrating throughout.
But Pierre was nervously sitting in the back of the food truck. Le Mon was there too, turning out hoagies and fries at a leisurely cook’s pace, still efficient enough to have all orders done in under five minutes.
“It will be fine my friend, they will love it.” Le Mon tried giving Pierre some encouragement. “Well, maybe not right when they hear it, but down the road, ten or twenty years from now, they will be glad you told it.”
Pierre gave a glimpse look of hope toward Le Mon. “You think so?”
“Probably not.” Le Mon smirked as he laid slices of cheese over the tops of grilling squid. “It is an awful tale, I told you that. But you told me it’s important to be heard. Where is that sense of importance now? I’ll tell you where it is; It’s been overshadowed by your selfish desire to please everyone, Pierre.”
Pierre’s smirk grew wider in realization and thanks. A true friend is able to tell you the truth without you getting instant butthurt. Pierre had been told what he needed to hear by someone who knew him better than most anyone.
With a new sense of purpose, Pierre left the Potan Del La De Magnus food truck and addressed the crowd in a suit made of black threads, a black shirt, a black silk tie, black pants and black glossy shoes. He looked dark but magnificent, someone poised to tell you something that you would be inclined to hear based on how they looked. That was Pierre right now, in this moment.
“Ladies and gentleman, children and babe, the story I am about to tell is real and not made up, though I truly wish that it was..."
“We begin by going back to the early eighties in a place called Manhattan Beach, California just south of the LAX. It is still one of the busiest airports in the world, with thousands of people from thousands of places pouring in everyday. So booming was the area that parents frequently had two job just to be able to afford a growing and stressed economy, one that always seems better in the past that it is in the present.
“So these busy parents resorted to a new trend of “preschools” or “daycares” where their children would supposedly be watched over and taught the basic of alphabets and numbers, along with the need for increased social skills in a dynamic and ever-evolving society. It was stressful for everyone.
“One such place was called the McMartin Preschool and the children there had all claims of something unusual, something not right.”
The lights in the crowd dimmed and a spotlight beamed onto Pierre, his dark garb soaking up the brightness.
“There, in the dark corners of the house, was trapdoor and through this trapdoor lay a place of nightmares.
“A tunnel, all the children said, far and windy, the walls of dirt, the air of soil. It was down this path that more than 360 children were believed to have been led.
“Led to where you might ask? I shall now make you wish you never had that question pop ever-so-innocently in your mind.”
A few children tugged at their parents’ sleeves, asking them if they could go.
“The same innocence torn from all those children. Done so by people of the most evil, vilest souls, of other worldly influence coursing through their sick viens, decaying their spirit.
“In that tunnel they were led by those they trusted, by those their parents had entrusted, and there they were led to another room were all said they were abused and raped. Everything that makes them more than chunks of flesh taken. Reduced down to mere instruments for sexual pleasure by sick, insane creatures not worthy of the name Human.”
A little girl in the back corner of the crowd had started crying loudly, along with a few other. Some parents were leaving, taking their children and giving Pierre a most distasteful look. Pierre’s tale was certainly having the effect he guessed it would.
“An entire agency had to get involved because of the mass of complaints that finally surfaced. Millions spent, team after team was sent in to uncover and explain. As it is with anything involving the elites, it was buried under mounds of competing and conflicting firms arguing against every point that could be made as to the existence of the tunnel and its evident cover-up.
“All had been filled in, all traces had disappeared between those who had abused and raped those children and the righteous justice they should face in this world.
“The children are grown, the McMartin Preschool is gone, and all that remains are the horrible memories those young children hold. I pray for them, as I pray for all of us. Monsters are real, children, and they are other people.
“Hold your children tight, parents. Keep eyes out for them, but also tell them, train them. This world is full of evil and dark forces. The only light we have against the encroaching night is the one our children carry.”
Pierre quickly bowed and said, “Thank you everyone for coming! Goodnight!” He then quickly ducked out to the food truck as the lights in the crowd turned back on.
A few parents started clapping slowly, looking around and seeing others doing the same, and then standing and applauding loudly. Other parents just sat shocked, completely unprepared for the weight of what Pierre had just told them. All the children followed their parents example in either standing and clapping or sitting in silence.
After about fifteen minutes, the audience had emptied back out into either the streets of Venice, or back into Pierre’s ghost town and Michael Jackson impersonator still going on into the night. There was still fun to be had, and Pierre certainly didn’t want to spoil it for anyone by having the festivities close early after such a dour true story.
“You did well, Pierre. More people need to hear that story.” Le Mon gave Pierre a firm shoulder grip with one hand as he pulled out a basket of Tormented Taters from the fryer with the other.
Pierre nodded in solemn appreciation. He was just glad that he was done telling the tale and could go back to making the good parts in the world. The food, the memories, and the people we share it all with.
Pierre and Le Mon finished up the night serving the spooky menu from the greatest food truck in all of Venice.
The Potan Del La De Magnus lived again!
If you want to read more about the adventures of Pierre and the Potan, simply check out: