Red Velvet Misery

Red Velvet Misery

          The snaking smoke circled the racks, announcing our ultimate fate. Even now, with my legs writhing from the heat of doom's flaming tongue, my excitement escalates and I laugh like a madman with new-found evil powers.
"Die, you righteous princess! Burn in Hell, you twisted clown! You too, you filthy pirate, up in flames!"
         A familiar scraping sound brings me out of my perfect dream.
         "Hey, thtop thoving," the wimpy pink bunny whines with his annoying lisp.
I become increasingly aware of sliding hangers elbowing their way to my secluded place on the back rack; a place I hold next to that idiot Frosty, whose lumpy black eyes have stared at me all year.
         "Oh how I hate this costume shop!" I snarl.
         "Here it is," old Mrs. Potter sings, as she pulls me and my matching jacket off the rack. Hastily, she shakes the dust off of us and waddles to the front of the shop, humming some lame Christmas tune through plump puckered lips.
         "NOOOO.... it can't be Christmas time already! Let me go back and finish my wonderful dream!" I moan as she hangs me in the man-made cheeriness of the store window, exposed to the world.
         I hate my humiliating life. Every Christmas season, some jelly-bellied fella parades around, with me covering his fat ass. I am a pair of fake, red velvet pants with faux fur trim! Can it get any worse? You bet it can and it does!
         This imbecile allows runny-nosed children of all sizes to sit upon his lap — my lap, and reach into his candy cane filled pockets. How revolting! Those squirmy little imps, sticky with candied hands or wet from runaway bladders, wear me out!
         What woman would longingly gaze at silly looking pants like me? No, the best a baggy pair of rental Santa pants like me can hope for, is an office Christmas party with intoxicated hot babes in short skirts.
         For now, I hang in fear of each fat man that walks past my window perch. I can only hope that out there somewhere is a real Santa, for I have Christmas wishes of my own. If not devoured in a ravaging fire, then I wish to be remade into a sizzling hot, Victoria's Secret peek-a-boo teddy, fur lined and clingy.