Work Text:
He-Who-Opens-The-Door-At-Midnight
—
"…Why do you have a fridge in your room?"
Danny, reading comics from the comfort on his bed, looked up to Tucker, who was sitting in a green beanbag across the room. Tucker in turn was looking up from his PDA , frowning at the new black mini fridge nestled in the corner of Danny's bedroom, which he'd apparently only just noticed.
"How long have you had a fridge in your room?" Tucker amended.
Danny went back to his comic. "About two weeks," he said.
"Because…?"
"Because the ecto-weenie uprising is in full swing," Danny said with a straight face, "..and I am not getting in the middle of that carnage."
Tucker stared for a long minute.
"Are you serious?" Tucker asked after a long minute.
"Dead," Danny said. Then, after a beat, laughed lightly. "Ah, no pun intended that time. But yes. Dead serious. Please don't open the fridge door. Last time it took a good thirty minutes to corral the Turkey back inside."
Tucker paled at the thought.
"Yeah, no, you couldn't pay me to eat at your house, man," Tucker shook his head. "Your mom probably stores ectoplasm samples in an open container next to the ham."
Danny nodded. "Frequently, yeah. I think it gives the leftovers a nice zing, but that's just me."
"You're hopeless," Tucker sighed. "On that note. You wanna come over to my house for dinner tonight?"
"Oh yes please," Danny agreed, wholeheartedly. "I've been eating takeout for like a month straight."
—
In the kingdom of Frid'j, chaos reigned.
The kingdom was in shambles. Eggs, cracked. Milk, curdled. The brave and hardy carrot, last of its kind in the vegetable bin, had left on a sojourn weeks ago to beseech aid from the neighboring nation of Far-ezir, but no one had seen or heard from him since. Many feared the worst.
The condiment bottles, the eldest in their company, lamented they had never seen such devastation. The savage hoards of hot dogs, normally exiled to the farthest top shelf, the edges of their domain, had joined forces, and now laid waste to the kingdom's coffers like bandits pillaging their enemy.
"They used to bow to me," the Ketchup swished in its bottle, agitated, as Mustard clung to her. "Now? Now those savage links bend to no one."
"Please," the oranges begged, seeping juice from the cuts on their rinds where the ectoweenies had bit them, like the savage dogs they were. "There must be something you can do—"
"It is the will of the Mother," the Cheese interrupted, sagely, draped in its molds and mildews like finery. "She-Who-Improperly-Stores-The-Goo-That-Brings-Life has set this all in motion. Another sample was delivered just yesterday, and only a single sacrifice was taken in return. We must accept Her wishes. The Savage Pack must roam free."
"Cowards, the lot of you," The Turkey hissed, wings clipped and legs tied, laid forgotten in the back. "There is a whole world out there, beyond our own. And once I escape the confines of this prison, you'll see—you'll ALL see—"
A howling, baying in the distance cut off all conversation.
The residents of Frid'j paled and fell silent.
The hotdog pack was on the hunt.
Those that could shut themselves away - in their Tupperware homes, in their crisper drawers - did so posthaste. The rest of the population was left to fend for themselves. Roving packs descended from on high, ripping through the larder, eating their fill and hauling as many scraps as they could carry back for their master.
The Ham ruled the top shelf with a mighty, meaty fist. Its skin gleamed, flawless in the fridge's radiating light, the holy ring of pineapple gracing its head like a crown. The Ham laughed and rolled amongst its plunder its dogs had fetched for it; someday, historians would write of this shameful behavior, all the signs clear:
The Ham was Spoiled.
And so, chaos reigned, and would continue in the intervening weeks as the kingdom stayed at war with itself. Food, into fodder, and soon, into famine.
The only peace that could be found was amongst the leftovers - the outcasts relegated to the bottommost drawer of the fridge. Their tormenter - He-Who-Opens-The-Door-At-Midnight - had not visited in days, perhaps weeks, to take a sacrifice. Every day they prayed for those green eyes to turn themselves away, and, by some grace of God—
"Ooh, Mom just texted. She says she's making meatloaf!" Tucker chirped, pulling on his shoes and backpack as he headed to the door.
"Yes, I would kill for some meatloaf right now," He-Who-Opens-The-Door-At-Midnight said, his shadow looming beside—and then passing over—the door.
…Today, their prayers were answered.
—