Squiggles

It's early morning. That time before Saturday Morning Cartoons begin, when boring farm reports and frigid local news anchors drive children to the brink of suicide.

This time it's different, however. Instead of being assaulted with information most adults would find tedious, there seems to be something new. Something targeted at children like yourself.

"Hey, kids. Get ready for Squiggles." The voice is flat and uncaring, like a stage hand who thought he'd be more accomplished by now.

The bare public access stage has been dressed up with a black and white striped curtain draping the wall. Beyond the fabric's edges, you can see the dirty brick. A large house fern has been placed next to a sterile metal table.

For the next few moments, wary anticipation fills you as the set remains silent.

"Squiggles is almost here." A barely audible sigh follows.

Suddenly, a mass of dark green rockets from behind the table and settles on its dull, scratched surface.

At first it appears to be some sort of frog puppet, perhaps a Kermit knock-off. However, as the blur suddenly settles and your eyes take in its shape, that no longer seems to be the case.

Though his scratchy, threadbare "flesh" is green, he's shaped like a mockery of a man. Gangly limbs end with fringe-like feet and hands. He has a single button eye, and a small, bug-eaten hole where the other should be.

A lit cigarette smolders between his thin fingers.

"This morning, I was told I have inoperable lung cancer." The puppet, Squiggles, flaps his mouth open and closed out of time with his words. "Naturally, I asked for a second opinion."

He takes a long drag of his cigarette, and though the tip misses his mouth by several inches, he exhales smoke nonetheless.

"He said 'Alright then, non-whites are inferior'."

A gaggle of small children can be heard laughing off-screen as the puppet remains motionless, slumping a bit.

"Now it's time to pick a winner."

Another drag from the cigarette, another slightly annoyed puff of smoke. The children murmur and whisper excitedly amongst themselves, and though you can't make out the words you know they're hoping to win.

"I guess it's Sam."

All of the children let out a simultaneous groan of disappointment, except for one kid who's shrieking with joy.

"Jesus Christ." The puppet raises one hand to its nonexistent ear.

Soon, a small boy about your age has darted up to the table. He stands there expectantly, drumming his fingers on the cold metal surface. His black and white striped shirt seems to match the backdrop, though it is covered in grime and small holes.

The camera zooms in slowly, agonizingly slow, until only the puppet's head fills the screen. It remains motionless, like an upright corpse, as something begins to move in its bare eye socket.

Pushing past the yellowed cotton within, a tiny, glistening, white maggot emerges and squirms its way free of the puppet's face.

The camera cuts to the child… to Sam's hand… as he catches the tiny larva smack dab in the center of his palm.

In a pulled back shot, the original view, the puppet remains listless as Sam slaps the maggot to his open, black-toothed mouth. The child turns to show his filmy tongue, insect writhing upon it, then he quickly swallows with a wide smile.

The camera pushes in once again as Sam opens his mouth wide, moving his tongue to show the putrid thing has indeed disappeared into his gullet.

The stage hand's voice returns, still speaking in a monotone.

"Now it's time to dance with Squiggles."

The puppet falls from the table. With no hand inside of him, no strings to hold him up, his movement persists. He thrashes, spasms, and rolls on the dingy linoleum tile as a maddening kaleidoscope of colors flashes across the screen.

Music, or rather, a child's idea of music, slowly swells. Piano keys being jammed frantically, wind instruments tooting and squeaking randomly, drums being struck over and over again completely out of time and with no sense of direction.

The children are dancing, too. The cameras cut between each child as they sway, leap, and run in place. Some expose large, dark grins as they twist and shake. Others, their shirts soaked in squirming white vomit, bob their heads as a blank expression plays across their peeling faces.

One child in the corner has collapsed, and something with black, pointed legs is pushing to get out of their throat. You can't quite tell if they're screaming or if the creature is just giving off a high-pitched buzz. It could be both.

The screen goes black.

"This is where everything leads." The stage hand whispers.

Blocky, pixilated white text appears.

"THIS IS WHERE EVERYTHING LEADS."

After several moments of darkness, an address flashes onscreen. It is only there for a moment, but you are pretty sure you remember it.

You are pretty sure you could bike there.

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