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“Hey, Will, could you come here for a second?”
“Just a second,” Wilford called, bent over the prop table. The Halloween special of Warfstache TV was almost ready, if he and Bim could only get the filming together. Wilford finished lining up the props, all in a row and numbered, then turned. “Coming!” He stepped out from backstage to see the stage half-prepped, spotlights glaring. “Bim? What--”
“Boo!” A pumpkin, complete with the smell, lunged from the shadows.
Wilford’s knife was in his hand before he could think, and in another second, it was hilt-deep in the top of the jack-o-lantern. “Pumpkin monster!”
The ‘monster’ staggered back, a familiar-sounding groan. “Wilford,” Bim’s voice came from inside, muffled. “What was that for?”
“Bim?” Wilford swallowed his pounding heart, fear giving way to vague anger. “What was that for?”
“It’s spooky season, dumb!” From inside the pumpkin, Bim chuckled, straightening up. “And I spooked you!”
Wilford rubbed the bridge of his nose, shaking his head. He laughed a little, vague anger giving way to blossoming pride. “You sure did.” He clapped Bim on the shoulder, looking over his handiwork. It was a real pumpkin all right, fit carefully over his head, a face carved into it so he could see out of the eye holes.
In the top of the pumpkin, Wilford’s knife.
“Did, er...” Wilford trailed off, gesturing to the handle sticking out of Bim’s ‘face.’ “I mean, are you...”
Bim reached a hand up, groping carefully over the surface of the pumpkin until he felt the knife. “It didn’t get me,” he said, and Wilford could hear the smile in his voice. “No thanks to you.”
With Wilford’s help, he pulled the knife out, a slit left behind.
“Great,” Wilford laughed, wiping the juice and pulp off of the blade. “Now get that stupid squash off your head, we have work to do.” A slight scolding tone to his voice, light, teasing. Familiar.
Inside the pumpkin, Bim blushed. “I, uh. Right. Get it off.”
Wilford raised an eyebrow. “Is there a problem?”
“Um. No.”
“Do you... need help?”
“No, no, it’s fine!”
“Okay.” Wilford crossed his arms, knife dangling from his fingers. “Take it off.”
“Right-- right now?”
Wilford nodded, eyeing him.
Bim made to lift the pumpkin off of his head, but stopped with his hands on either side of it. “I... can’t.”
Wilford would’ve laughed if they hadn’t been on a schedule. He tapped his foot, sighing. “We have work to do. Go see Doc.”
“It’s fine!” Bim crossed his arms, defensive.
“Do you want me to take it off?” Wilford’s knife gleamed in his hand, eyes bright.
“...I’ll go see Doc.”
“Bim, why?”
“Just help me, would you?” Bim swung his legs under the examination table, shoulders hunched. “Wilford and I have work to do.”
Dr. Iplier shone a light through the openings in the pumpkin, carefully poking at the sides. Nose wrinkled against the smell, he caught Bim’s eye through the opening, and shook his head. “You’ve really done it this time.”
“I know.” Bim rolled his eyes, squinting against the light. “In my defense, you should’ve seen Wilford’s face.”
“Is that where this came from?” Dr. Iplier tapped the slit left by the knife in the top of the pumpkin.
Bim sighed, laughing a little helplessly. “Give it to me straight, Doc. How long do I have?”
The Doctor sat back, stretching. “You have two options here: let it rot around you, which will take weeks, not to mention the smell, sleeping in it, eating around it--”
“And my second option?” Bim tilted his head, the entire pumpkin shifting on his shoulders.
“I’m a doctor, Bim, not an engineer. If you want to remove it by force, go see the Googles.”
Bim knocked on the Googles’ door, shoulders slumped in defeat. This had been a great idea, but now, with pumpkin pulp slimy on his face and neck sore, it didn’t seem like a great execution.
And what an execution this was.
There was the tap of footsteps from down the hall, and Bim couldn’t hear it through the walls of the pumpkin until it was much too late. He turned, peering through the eyeholes.
“How is the season treating you, Bim?”
“Uh, great. What about you, Dark?” Bim heard his own voice echoing around the insides of the pumpkin, and inwardly cringed.
“Absoultely fantastic.” Bim could hear the smirk in Dark’s voice, and he resented it.
“Right.” Bim nodded, the pumpkin slipping forward. “Well, see you, Dark.”
Dark brushed past him, and Bim could see wisps of coiled smoke disappear down the hallway, whispering. Dark muttered, the words echoing down the hall, “I wonder when this office became a place for heading, my, my.”
Bim whirled around, fuming, but Dark was already gone, and the Googles’ door clicked open.
A confused beep. “Who are--”
“Oliver,” Bim struggled, the pumpkin beginning to hurt his neck. “I, uh, could use some help.”
Oliver beeped again, but opened the door wide enough to guide Bim inside.
Google_B immediately rose from his work, alarmed. “Bim?”
“Googs,” Bim started, a note of panic starting to enter his voice. “Help me get this pumpkin off.”
Google_G jumped up, and together he and Google_B tried to lift the pumpkin off of Bim’s shoulders. Oliver saw Bim’s back stiffen, his neck stretch, and stopped them. “That is hurting him,” he said, eyes flashing.
Bim, staggering back, nodded. “It’s stuck. Could you, I dunno, cut it off?”
“Your head?” Oliver’s fans whirred-- in laughter or excitement, Bim couldn’t tell. He could, however, hear Google_B and _G nodding in agreement, and felt his heart quicken.
Google_R grinned, beeping from across the room. “I believe I have a solution that does not include dismemberment.”
“That would be appreciated,” Bim muttered, crossing his arms.
Google_R winked at them all. “I will be back in a moment.” He closed the door, leaving Bim to settle into a chair and the other Googles to turn back to their work.
The door opened again a few minutes later, and Google_R hurried in, looking pleased with himself. In one hand, one of the pumpkins they’d carved. In the other, a very familiar-looking baseball bat.
“Is that the Host’s--”
“Observe.” Google_R interrupted, setting the pumpkin down on the table with a thump. The other robots turned to watch, and Bim, eyeing the baseball bat, had a bad feeling about where this was going.
“A pumpkin loses much of its structural integrity when it is carved,” Google_R explained, pointing out the ribbed walls, already sagging where a face had been carved into it. “Therefore--”
Without any warning but the whirring of mechanical joints, Google_R swung the bat through the pumpkin. It exploded into chunks of orange pulp, and Oliver caught the top of it as it flew towards his face.
“With the correct amount of force,” Google_R explained, wiping juice off of his face, “the pumpkin, not what is inside, turns to mush.”
“But my head is inside.” Bim was on his feet, edging towards the door.
“It will be fine,” Google_R said, grinning, advancing on him. He swung the bat lightly into the palm of his hand, a steady thump.
It took Bim all of three seconds to recognize a bad situation when he saw one, turn tail, and run. On his way out, he brushed past the Host, hands curled into fists. With a deep breath, Bim set off to take refuge in the studio.
“Lights, camera, action!”
The theme song started to play. Wilford straightened his bow tie, scurrying up on stage. “Welcome, ladies, gentlemen, and all other configurations of being, to Warfstache TV!” A bite of recorded applause played, and Wilford laughed, waving at an imaginary audience. “Yes, yes, welcome! Now, tonight--”
There was a bang, and the music cut out, along with the lights.
“--what-- Bim?!”
“Everything is-- everything is fine!” Bim’s voice came, muffled, from the darkness behind the camera.
Wilford sighed, hopping off stage with a glow of pink light. “BIM?!”
Bim looked up from the floor, pumpkin still squarely in place on his head. “Yeah?”
“Wh-- why is that still on your head?”
“Given the choice between dismemberment and being stinky, I’ll take being stinky.” Bim pushed himself upright, shaking himself.
Wilford rolled his eyes. “Okay, pumpkin-head.”
“It’ll rot off in a month, don’t worry!”
“Just--” Wilford shook his head, fighting back laughter, “--just get filming.”
Bim gave him a mock salute, hand bouncing off the pumpkin. “Aye aye, boss.”