Hallowe'en Home Invasion
by D. Grant DeMan
With illustration by Bob Struthers
As the memory of a pale moon rising graced pumpkin and corn fields, some old owl hooting from a distant barn on that long ago Halloween, sends me mental re-runs; I yet feel the young blood pulsing within - that old coursing anticipation of oncoming action.
This was my initiation into a real adult world. I was a rookie cop, for the first time on another side of the trick-or-treat equation, and hadn't my buddies been chiding me in preparation? "Wait until those Boullie Street Boys get ahold of your pretty face! Before they tip the outhouse, they'll stick you down it." This was part of the ordeal: to be one of them you had to earn your badge of courage. The numbered chrome-plated coat of arms you pinned over your heart didn't quite do it.
So, having arrived at the station early, my partner Bert and I got the first call: home invasion on......Boullie Street. We jumped in Cruiser 24 and took off, cherry-top flashing through the crisp autumn air. Hooo...oooooo! Went the siren.
Now Bert was one of the old wise guys, sporting a caddish mustache and thus striking the appearance of a riverboat gambler. Recovering from wounds and not completely fit, he had been given office duty until the Chief discovered his complete ignorance of the alphabet and numerical order of things.
A terrified Mr. and Mrs. Paquette welcomed us on the door-step. "Look! Look, see what has happened!" Through the disarray of the living room we stared in awe at the masked intruder, who, like a harbinger of the evil night to come, glared ominously - yellow and green eyes flashing in a shroud of darkness. Lo! Our hair-bristling adversary sporting razor-sharp claws and long dripping teeth growled with a sound that came from the very of hell itself. Arrrrguargh! Then reaching up with clawed hands it furiously grasped a large lamp-shade, tore it asunder and viciously devoured the pieces, having left its twin in shredded tatters on the couch.
"Yikes!" I exclaimed, approaching the beast.
"Arr-r-r-gh!" He responded threateningly,conferring that he was not of the same breed as the cute little bandits of my fairy-tale youth. No man or beast would be allowed to disturb his repast. It was obvious from the beginning that we had encountered the king of all raccoons - a burley curmudgeon of the species, quite cognizant of the terror, the threat he imposed.
"Get the sheet from the car." Bert's moustache twitched with his uneasy eyes. Thank the Lord he knew what to do, I thought, nearly wetting my uniform pants.
Unfolding the scarlet blanket as I re-entered a room now filled with several small raucous children, I watched incredulously while the grizzled interloper swung from the chandelier, growling and snorting at those who came close. "Get back!" Bert hollered, as snapping jaws armed with stilettos slashed out at tender fingers, hands and arms. The children screamed with that wondrous mixture of fear and exciting delight, of which only the young seem capable.
Opening the blanket between us, Bert and I followed cautiously as the Raccoon swung down and meandered into the kitchen where he snapped down fresh ripe apples he'd found there. "Now!" Cried Bert, as we cast the blanket. And now we felt the true fury of our adversary, for he tossed it aside and came right for us, prodding me for a moment to ponder drawing my Smith and Wesson and giving him a couple of rounds. But no. The children would never forgive me, if indeed I could.
Bert rubbed his aggravated wounds. This was no waltz through the marigolds for him. Pandemonium reigned. Sempiternally we chased that snarling trapeze-artist around the demolished home-interior until he tired of the game and docilely submitted to be trussed up and taken to nearby woods, where he raised a paw waving Bert and I a fond farewell before disappearing into oaken shadows: "It's been a good chase, fellows, but now I've had my treat, a nap is in order. Thanks for the fun. We must do it again sometime." Rearranging the dishabille of our uniforms, we gazed with awe and respect.
The rest of the evening was chock-full of incidents, chases and captures, as were subsequent celebrations of the dark-hallowed hours. But that old scary 'coon keeps haunting me like a first eerie love. His wild gnashing and banshee wail eternally misted my illusions of the clever but humorous hand-washing night-bandit of children's-hour readings, and sentimental tousled-hair musings. Like all woods creatures, he was a wild beast, not meant for our close affection, though the dark mask had been perfect for the occasion.
And Bert. He retired; rumor has it that he afterward ran a riverboat casino for many years.
Maybe not.
But he should have.
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