Pop Culture Icon Suffers Breakdown

783 Words



Today was rather… different. You see, there are several unique perks to being ones a national hero. 

Appearing as an idiot solely for the morbid amusement of our nation’s toddlers, woefully, does not fall within those additional benefits.

It started in a reasonable fashion- with an official type of letter. You know the sort; the engravings about the sides, giving the thick, creamy sheet a somewhat lacquered appearance. Miniscule scoring marks could be detected in the paper’s pattern. It was plastered with gaudy gold ink, not a single word without a fantastic flourish embellishing it. One is not immediately suspicious of a wedding invitation- in fact, I enjoy such occasions greatly.

I ripped the rich beige envelope, smiling expectantly. Lo and behold, no wedding invitation is encased within. Instead, the demonic, soulless eyes of a blindingly scarlet fiend leer mockingly up at me, proclaiming crassly from a speech bubble floating unassumingly beside its shaggy mass of a skull that “I’m Invited!”

My fingers cramped; I clutched the abomination and twisted until the fine paper crumpled beneath my whitened fingers. Scornfully, I dropped the invitation, watching the mangled Elmo drift to the floor. Long have I entertained a secret horror for Sesame Street- there lurk the monsters of my childhood- the gleaming sockets of the looming, neon yellow form of Big Bird; the wicked cackle of a filth encrusted green thing skulking in a garbage can; the deceivingly friendly, amphibian face of a grotesquely grinning frog…

Of course, I also felt a certain obligation. The press would leap at me like rabid dogs if they discovered my rejection of America’s youth. I would be made out as a cruel, cold, child-hater. I shivered involuntarily as I bent to pick up the paper again.

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The set was a nightmare- an absolute nightmare. Gallingly cheerful, but all the same, shrouded in a perpetual cloud of malevolence. Or so I felt. I was on edge, senses on overhaul. This would surely be the death of me- I was not known to be paranoid, nor was I fond of inflicting dread unto myself. It’s for the media, my fevered mind whimpered beguilingly. Tempting me to enjoy the pleasant wit of the director or the gentle sun caressing my skin through an open skylight on the location. No, my primal instincts fairly screamed. Are you mad? You must be to let your guard down in a place like this. A place like this- a cold finger stroked my spine alluringly. No. I would not fall under the thrall that this god-forsaken pit of despair held so many desperate souls captive here.

Finally, the casting- the lights dimmed. To my utmost horror, my scene was one in which I would be locked in a sterile white box, lit only by flickering fluorescent bulbs, reminiscent to an interrogation room. And, oh, the horror- this was Elmo’s element. The little beast would be allowed to torment me in whichever way he wanted. 

The gentle gleam of a red recording light flicked on. I started. The director rolled his eyes, raising his lip in a faint snarl. I gulped.

A high, coldly, hysterical laugh suddenly tore through my ears. My apologetic grin froze oddly, and then trickled away.

“HELLO, KIDS! Are you ready to have some fun with Miss Laney now?”  The freakish animal giggled again as I gazed at it, eyes filming over in horror. The words had an unmistakably ominous ring to them.

It was as I had imagined- menacingly bulky, the whites of its eyes rolling manically. The shrill, heavily engineered voice grated out again.

“So, Miss Laney, can you tell all the kiddies what you do?”

“I-I…” I had no wish to be regarded as incompetent as well as a dim-wit, so I choked the rest out.

“I’m a recording artist,” I finished, voice strangled. The face’s beam widened considerably, teeth glinting eccentrically.

“Would you sing us a songy-wongy?” the abysmal animal pleaded falsely, simpering grossly. I glanced sharply at the director- he bit his lip and shrugged, then mimicked taking the microphone the beast had produced from somewhere within the depths of its appalling costume. 

This hadn’t been part of the contract.

The thing advanced ominously, steps tight and measured, but with a quiet feline grace. Its eyes glistened in its sockets. My voice cracked as I screamed, voice piercing with a sinking dread.  Out of the corner of my eyes (which were rolling wildly in their sockets), I caught a glance of the director, nose wrinkled in disgust, pull out a walkie-talkie. His voice was heavy with fatigue as he spoke into it, voice crackling forebodingly as it crossed the reception line.

“Security, please,” he growled.