Well. Stormy in attitude, anyway.
The Joneses had run out of Reese's Peanut Butter Cups. All they had been left with was Whoppers. Ah yes, that bane of Halloween mirth. The detestable malted candies that led only to misery and schoolyard conversations trying to figure out exactly what malt was, exactly.
But Mr. Jones was a frugal man, and despite his wife's protests, he had bought several large bags of the reviled confection when they were on sale at the local Wal-Mart. His wife had managed to obtain some contraband goodies, but they had quickly run out as the children had selected anything but the beige-wrapped monstrosities.
Mr Jones's financial prudence would turn out to be his doom.
The doorbell sounded, and Mr. Jones opened it to find a tiny, adorable child in a positively squeal-worthy handmade ladybug costume.
"Twick oh tweat," the kiddo called, still mangling his rhotics.
Mr. Jones began to offer the kid candy, but stopped when he realized that there were no adults in sight. The kid couldn't have been more than five - who let a preschooler wander around unsupervised at night?
"Do you have a name, kiddo?"
"Fingo. Do you have candy?"
"Sure do, kiddo. Sure do. Where's your mommy and daddy, Fingo?"
Fingo shoved his lip out in an impressive pout as tears began to gather in the corners of his eyes.
"I don't know. They told me to go out and get candy and leave them alone. And then they drove away and left me all alone."
Mr. Jones beckoned Mrs. Jones over and explained the story. After a brief strategy meeting, it was agreed that Mrs. Jones would call the authorities while Mr. Jones kept Fingo occupied.
Mr. Jones led Fingo over to the couch and scrolled through TV channels until he found the Peanuts Halloween special. He came back with a bowl of candy, piled high with Whoppers.
"All yours, kiddo!" Mr. Jones announced proudly.
Fingo gleefully grabbed the bowl and gazed inside.
After the incident, Mr. Jones would swear the kid's eyes turned red.
An ear-shattering scream came from the den, causing Mrs. Jones to drop the phone and hurry in.
She found her husband on the floor, trying to stem the tide of blood pouring from his hands.
"Thank you foh the tweat!" Fingo said, munching on Mr. Jones's left pinky finger and holding up a blood soaked pillowcase in gratitude, before running away altogether.
