By Christopher Bays

Wheatgerm Falls, 1990

Pelmore was quiet on October 30th, but a few residents, including Clark Rossy, were preparing for a visitor who only came once every decade. They were around when he first appeared in 1970 and terrorized the neighborhood with his spice bombs, egg launcher, and maple gun.

In 1980, the damage was more extensive, and a photo of the French toast bandit made the front page of the local newspaper. Nine-year-old Jonah Johnston, dressed as a photojournalist, had wasted nearly all his Polaroid film on blinding girls with his flash when they walked by on the sidewalk.

His fun ended when a teenage Mary Poppins chaperone belted him on the head with an umbrella and said, “I have sensitive eyes, you little butthead. And your costume sucks!” Jonah fell over and squirmed on the sidewalk and rubbed his head, but the loud pops and screaming from the trick-or-treaters down the street distracted him from the pain.

He sat up and saw smoke drifting through the yards and street. What is that, he thought as he picked up his fedora and brushed it off. It smells like cinnamon.

A cartoonish tan figure broke through the smoke at full speed but slowed to a halt when he approached Jonah. He wore a foam toast mask, a thick black belt adorned with cinnamon bombs, a tan backpack loaded with supplies, and a bulbous-shaped rifle.

Wanted: Dead or Lightly Toasted

“Who are you supposed to be? A reporter from the 1940s?” he asked.

“Something like that. A photojournalist, I guess,” said Jonah.

The bandit smiled behind his foam French toast mask and said, “Well, that’s more original than most of the costumes around here. I’ve seen too many Star Wars characters tonight; some of the parents are even wearing them. They’re the ones I target first. Anyway, try to stay more vertical tonight, kid. I have to run.”

As the tan villain ran across the street, Jonah used the last photo to capture a blurry image for the Wheatgerm Falls Gazette.

****

Clark didn’t believe the bandit was harmless, especially after Nicolas, who lived across the street, complained about inhaling cinnamon dust during the attack of 1980. Nicolas didn’t have to go to the hospital, but his asthma flared up, and he coughed up rust-colored mucous for several days.

The French toast invader never hurt the kids but stole their candy bags and ran off. They found them several blocks away, filled to the brim with maple syrup. Clark was a young father during the first attack. He was happily married and less belligerent, and his four-year-old daughter was lucky enough to avoid the bandit that night.

However, in 1980, Clark wasn’t the same. His drinking was getting harder for his wife and daughter to tolerate, and after slapping his daughter when she came home late from a Springsteen concert in Chicago, she and her mom made plans to move out.

They left on October 30th. When Clark came home late from work and found his wife’s letter, he wasn’t too surprised. His guilt encouraged him to believe it was his fault, but he knew the best way to crush it.

Bourbon was his liquor of choice and best friend when regret weighed him down, so he decided to go for the record: three-fifths of Jack in five hours. He nearly polished off the bottle before the end of the fifth hour but passed out in the rocking chair on the front porch.

When he woke up, it was dusk. He stood up too fast, fell back in the rocking chair, and closed his eyes. Why do I even need to get up? They’re gone, and I have no responsibilities. I can sit here for hours.

He rocked the chair slowly and tried to stabilize the spinning images in his head. Being alone on Halloween isn’t so bad. I don’t have to follow my wife to Beth Canero’s party or worry about keeping the pranksters, vandals, or baby Reaganites out of my yard.

My throat is dry, and my head feels like it was crushed by an anvil, but I’m alive. No wife or daughter around to annoy me or laugh at my bad jokes. But I hope they come back. I screwed up.

He tried to be courageous, rock forward, and rise to his feet, but his balance didn’t agree. He rose too fast and fell back, landing on the chair’s arm and tumbling to the hard wooden floor. As Clark attempted to pull himself up, he saw someone walking toward him in the yard. What the hell?

It was him. He had never seen him in 1970 but had heard the stories. “Hi there, partner. You okay?” asked the man in the tan suit and toast mask. He had a large, oddly shaped gun strapped around his right shoulder and something in his left hand.

“I’m just fine, weirdo,” said Clark. “Get out of my yard and go find someone else to harass.”

“I don’t harass the nice ones, sir, only the bad ones. And I’m guessing, in your present state, you had too much to drink, or maybe you can’t handle your alcohol.”

“I haven’t had a sip today. I’m just recovering from a rough night.”

“Man, that’s even worse. You can’t even stand up, and it’s getting dark. I guess your boss doesn’t mind you taking off on a Friday.”

Clark smirked and said, “I’m the boss and own my business, so I can take off whenever the hell I want, toast man.”

The French toast bandit carefully placed the round object in his left hand on the grass, pulled a slide on the gun to charge the air pump, and pointed the nozzle at Clark.

“What the hell is that?” Clark asked, raising his hands.

“It’s a maple gun. I’m embarrassed to admit that I didn’t use pure maple syrup in 1970, but you’re getting the best from the Great White North,” the bandit said before pulling the trigger.

The homemade releaser worked like a hydraulic pump and launched a single blast of maple goo, which slapped Clark in the face and coated his eyes. Stunned and shocked, he scooted back as a large blob rolled off his chin and fell on his lap.

He tried to clear his eyes but struggled since his eyelids were glued, and he could only make out the blurry figure before him, bending over to pick something up.

“This is a new design, and I hope it works. I call it the origami bomb. It doesn’t have any gunpowder in it. It’s just packed with powdered sugar and covered with thin paper. Finding the ideal paper that wasn’t too flimsy but still thin was challenging. I would use it like a magician’s flash bomb to make a quick escape, but I think this is more appropriate.”

The toast man tossed the paper ball a few feet in the air, caught it in his right hand, and hurled it, with the wind-up style and agility of a professional pitcher, into Clark’s head. It exploded into a cloud of white dust.

Backing up as the powder drifted toward him, the bandit coughed and laughed at the same time.

“I guess . . . I guess I should have thrown it from farther away, but I’d say that was a success. Have you ever been tarred and feathered before?”

Clark struggled to remove the white goo from his eyes. His anger was telling his body to kill the French toast bandit, but he could barely see. Although his head pounded and body ached, he decided to take a risk and charge him the next time he spoke.

“Well, this has been delightful, but I have to leave you, my friend. I have a few hours left to annoy your . . .”

Clark sprang forward but misjudged the distance between them and tumbled down the front steps. Rather than at the top of the stairs, the bandit was standing on the walkway near the bottom. Clark bit his tongue when his chin smashed into the stairs, and blood poured out of his mouth.

“Now you look like a true Halloween horror,” said the bandit. “See you in 10 years, buddy . . . if you live that long.”

****

In the year of our Lord nineteen hundred ninety, I, Clark Elmore Rossy, do solemnly swear to get tortuous revenge on the Halloween vandal. I will not kill him but will beat him to an inch of his life. Amen!

Clark was proud of his declaration; he used his calligraphy skills, which he honed during his recovery, to make it look more dignified. It was posted on his refrigerator next to the pictures of his daughter and son-in-law, who lived in Vancouver.

Ten years ago, he was a disaster, but after years of sobriety (from alcohol), adopting an intense exercise regimen, and discovering a new love for psychedelics, he felt like a new man. His girlfriend, who worked in the office at his construction company and was 20 years younger, had turned him on to LSD and convinced him to adopt a less fatal revenge plan.

Clark promised her he wouldn’t break out his firearms but didn’t mention the three air rifles he had recently purchased at K-Mart. He had one for each of the three windows on the bottom floor facing the front yard. He painted white dots with White Out on two rifles to indicate multiple BBs in the barrel.

He learned the “shotgun” trick from his cousin when they were kids; the only problem with the technique was that if you added too many BBs and pumped up the gun too much, you could crack the barrel or cause it to detach. Since mortally wounding the bandit was no longer allowed, he killed his plans to boobytrap his front yard with bear traps and pitfalls.

To keep the trick-or-treaters safe and prevent lawsuits, he posted signs around the yard that said, “No Trick-or-Treaters” and “Keep Out.” Clark hoped they would work but thought about how he would react to the signs as a child; he probably would’ve wandered into the yard, anyway.

So, he stashed the wasp spray and mace behind the holly bushes next to the house and the bo staff in the garage. Clark’s neighbors didn’t share his hatred for the French toast bandit; some even looked forward to his visit. Frank and Abbey, who lived across the street, had a life-sized paper machete bandit holding a welcome sign in their front yard.

Clark’s preparations were nearly complete; the last step was to drink a healthy glass of LSD orange juice.

****

Joe Wesser and Hank Clyman were first-year police officers assigned to patrol Pelmore and maintain order on Halloween. At 4:30 pm, they drove around the neighborhood a few times and parked at the south entrance. Unlike the other officers on active duty on Halloween, Joe and Hank had lucked out on what they believed would be a cushy assignment.

“Has this guy actually ever done anything illegal?” asked Hank as he grabbed a bag of potato chips from the dashboard.

“Yeah, well, I guess you can consider him guilty of vandalism and assault, but he’s never hurt anyone before. He mostly attacks adults with eggs and spice bombs,” said Joe.

“Spice bombs?

“Yep, but it’s kitchen spices like sugar and cinnamon. It’s not like he’s using tear gas or mustard gas. According to the reports, he’s assaulted at least 30 adults with French toast ingredients since 1970 and vandalized around 20 homes. He hasn’t caused major damage to the properties; most homeowners have only had to spray off their homes and plants with a water hose.”

“Why do you think he does it?” asked Joe with a mouthful of chips.

“Nobody knows, but he sure has plenty of fans now. I hear that some kids are dressing up like the bandit tonight, and their parents are making French toast dinners before going out for Halloween.”

“Weird. So, he’s like the neighborhood superhero, but he doesn’t fight crime. He annoys the adults and covers them with eggs and syrup. What about the bread and butter? I haven’t read in the reports that he ever attacked anyone with buttered toast.”

“I think using spices and eggs and maple syrup is easier. But who knows? Maybe he’ll break out a toast launcher or butter sprayer this year.”

****

Clark began to realize he had taken too much. The Jack-O-Lantern he made earlier was pulsating.

It stopped when he touched it, but its eyes grew larger, and its flesh shifted from orange to purple. Man, I only used up half a bottle, but it was tiny, like an eyedrop bottle, thought Clark.

This only happens once a decade, so I might as well celebrate. But I need to focus and get in position. It’s already dark. I know he’s coming.

He shook his head around like a wet dog to see if the pumpkin would return to normal, and it did, but when he turned around and walked over to the window in the living room, his feet felt heavier.

It’s alright, he thought. My feet are not sinking into the carpet; I just have to load up the guns before my vision gets any worse.

He picked the black film chase with BBs next to his rifle and fiddled with the gray lid. Two loud thumps on the window made him scream, jerk his hand up, and spill the copper BBs on the hardwood floor.

They sounded like church bells when they bounced, causing Clark to cover his ears and wince. He didn’t worry about collecting them since most were sinking into the floor. He moved slowly toward the kitchen and back door but hit the deck when he heard something hit the other windows.

A small group of teenagers dressed as French toast bandits hid behind the oaks in his yard. Chris Bonner and Jeff Hammond had two cartons of eggs, and the Winslow twins, Ed and Lilly, were lying on their stomachs and aiming their Automag paintball guns at the front door.

Lilly pulled her trigger twice and painted the door blue. She giggled and whispered, “Wonder if that sounded like two knocks?” Mr. Rossy can’t be that stupid, she thought, especially after we egged his house.

Clark’s heart pounded, but he felt relieved. The two knocks on the door were a positive sign. Since he couldn’t use his weapons or navigate the ever-changing landscape of his home, he needed help. He hoped it was the cops; he requested their help last week and heard they were patrolling tonight.

He crawled to the front door, avoiding the breathing ottoman and gelatinous recliner, pulled himself up, unbolted the deadlock, and opened it slowly. It was foggy outside (whether the mist was created by the drug or weather, he was unsure), and everything seemed quiet, but there were no police.

He held the door open for what seemed like an eternity. Eventually, he convinced himself the worst was over and walked out on the front porch. Lilly and Ed crawled closer until they were a few yards away and opened fire while Jeff and Chris jumped out from behind the trees and pitched eggs at Clark.

Clark doubled down and fell to his knees when the twins’ rounds pounded his testicles and torso. Most of the eggs splattered on the front door and siding, but a few landed on target and hit Clark in the head.

He screamed as they continued the attack, and the blue rounds burst on his head and shoulders, but when he began growling and pulling off his clothes, the kids took off and sprinted into the mist.

He ran in the opposite direction, wearing only his underwear and socks, toward the wooded trail behind his backyard. His feet felt lighter, and he thought he could run forever.

But his depth perception was off, and he smashed his head on the low-hanging branch of a gum tree and landed on his back. Before he blacked out, Clark swore he heard the old tree laughing at him.

As he slept, Halloween came to an end in Pelmore. The French toast copycats had retired to the twins’ living room to watch a double feature on their projection screen: The Texas Chainsaw Massacre and Videodrome.

The real French Toast Bandit never appeared in Pelmore on October 31st, 1990, and was never seen again. However, several devoted young men and women carried on his tradition in the following decades and coated the neighborhood with breakfast ingredients.