Megastore of the Monsters

Buffy the Vampire Slayer alleged that the Hellmouth was beneath the school gym. This makes sense if you’re Buffy’s age, but that Hellmouth is for beginners. The real, adult version lurks somewhere in the junk food section of the local big box store.

Necromancy was in the air this weekend as I strolled from the parking lot to the land of discount everything. Or maybe I was catching the scent of French fries and unfocussed rage as 10,000 overtired adults crammed shopping carts into a single lane aisle. Being an author, it made me daydream of monsters. Not just zombies (that metaphor for consumerism has been done and done again), but the rest of the fright night crew.

What would one find at a discount warehouse for paranormal creatures? For mummies, perhaps a crate load of moisturizer and bougie laundry detergent made for Egyptian cotton. For vampires, bulk eyeliner and flats of juice boxes of blood with wee bendy straws (kept far from the garlic display). In the book department, why not have towers of that latest bestseller beach read, The Golden Crypts of Summer? Each volume comes with a bonus gift of complimentary sunscreen, SPF 1000.

Werewolves came to mind a lot, especially when I encountered piles of huge, fluffy dog beds. Heck, I wanted to curl up in them as a quivering heap and dissociate from the chaos. But offerings for our trusty shifters wouldn’t end there. Perhaps there would also be flea collars disguised as neckties, or spiky goth collars with tracking devices for those moonlit nights when events get out of hand.

Not to mention all the tasty treats at the fast-food concession. Entrails with mustard! Bun optional! I mean, that’s kinda what hot dogs are, anyway, right?

Come Halloween, the little ones would have endless choice of pre-packaged, horrifying costumes. Parents would have to deal with whines of “Puleeez can I go as a tax accountant, Daddy?” as they paw at the bagged pinstriped jacket and comb-over wig hanging on the peg board. But what if mom says no? Does the overwhelmed little pup melt down for a howl in the manner of all toddlers of every species?

But that pup is pack. I imagine all the adults in the store howling back to comfort that tiny, bruised heart. I like to think this monsterized version of the big box is a less scary place than the human one I left with my shopping cart of hard-fought plunder.