The Chuckling Chunker, final

Stanley’s parents came home late and there was no time for their evening routine with him. They’d gotten take-out, but had expected him to cook for himself. Another busy day tomorrow to tear them away from raising their child. Without enquiring after his day, they went to bed.

Stanley stayed up late in the front room, peering at the tree through a crack in the curtain. The tree didn’t move, but at midnight, Stanley couldn’t stay awake anymore and he fell asleep. He had one of those dreams that seemed like it happened while he was awake.

Something scratched at the glass, and then the sneakiest little chuckle sounded outside the window. Stanley sat up and peered out the window. The streetlight shined on the tree’s happy face. It was looking away, sheepish, pretending to be innocent. Stanley frowned.

The next morning, Stanley’s parents got ready to leave. They were surprised to find him still sleeping. His mom, for sometimes she acted like one, went upstairs to make sure that he wasn’t sick. She entered his room, felt his head, and realized that he wasn’t sick at all.

“Stanley,” she said. “Stanley.”

Stanley didn’t budge.

She figured that he was nothing more than tired, and attributed it to overstudy. She decided to let it alone, or she’d be late for work. She went back downstairs. Her husband was downing coffee and toast as if it were a good breakfast. Hot Cheeto would have been appalled and thrown a pancake at him with some choice words.

“He’s just tired,” said the lady. “It’s like he stayed up all night. I know he didn’t do that, though.”

“Overstudy,” grunted her husband. “Rest for the brain is good. We’ll be late for work. Let’s go.” They left, finding it an odd sight that Stanley wasn’t going for a run. Perhaps he needed a rest from everything. They’d take him on vacation, but there was work to be done that Stanley couldn’t get in the way of, like taking care of other people’s children instead of their own. And so, it was left to Hot Cheeto to take care of him.

Eleven thirty rolled around, give or take a few minutes. Stanley opened his groggy eyes, but only because the doorbell was going off like mad. He rolled over and covered his head. He didn’t even care what time it was.

The window suddenly rattled, giving him an awful start. Stanley looked up and saw Hot Cheeto outside his window.

“Let me in!” Hot Cheeto yelled.

Stanley staggered out of bed and opened the window. Hot Cheeto crawled inside. Stanley squinted into the daylight. “What time is it?” He glanced at the clock and sucked in air.

“The Chuckling Chunker is on the move!” Hot Cheeto cried. He looked Stanley all over. “You look like you just got out of bed.”

“I did,” said Stanley testily. “I was up all night watching that stupid tree.”

Hot Cheeto’s brows went up. “You don’t say! What happened?”

“I’m not sure.” Stanley rubbed his head as he went to use the toilet. “Wait here and I’ll be back.” He soon returned and sat on the bed, feeling absolutely bizarre. “I thought it scratched the window, and it laughed, I think.”

Hot Cheeto’s eyes turned to slits. “I knew it. The Chuckling Chunker chuckles.”

Stanley wondered if it would help to drink a cup of coffee. He would try it. He headed down the stairs with Hot Cheeto on his heels.

“Did you get any footage?” said Hot Cheeto.

“Not after what happened to your mom’s phone,” said Stanley. “But if we watched the tree ourselves, there might be a different outcome.”

“Yeah,” said his friend. “We will have the acorns smashed into us instead of a thousand-dollar phone. That’s a good idea.” Hot Cheeto nodded in approval. “I won’t be able to sit for a month.”

“Your mom spanked you?” said Stanley.

“And I still got the scars,” said Hot Cheeto proudly. “We scientists must suffer for science.”

“You flooded your mom’s kitchen with your water gun.”

“Science is a strange thing. It turns kitchens into bathtubs. That’s called alchemy, Stanley, you should be proud that you contribitid.”

“You mean contributed.”

“Same thing, different accents. It’s called lingo and last.”

“What?”

Hot Cheeto meant syntax, but his version of it was so off that Stanley couldn’t interpret it.

Stanley reached the kitchen and started examining the coffee maker. He noticed that his dad had left some coffee behind. He took it and put it in a cup. As he raised it to his lips, Hot Cheeto cried out in horror and whacked the coffee cup out of Stanley’s hand. It smashed the floor in a million death-dealing pieces.

“What are you doing?” Hot Cheeto shouted. “Don’t drink that! It’s all black! Ever hear of staff disease?”

Stanley glared at him. “You broke the cup!”

“In essence of poison, Stanford! I saved your life. Drinking burnt beans, are you mad?”

“It’s coffee. It doesn’t hurt anybody.”

“Neither does skunk spray, but you don’t drink that, do you?”

Stanley couldn’t remember if Hot Cheeto was right or not. He’d been up too late and had slept too long. “I need to go for a run.”

“I’ll go with you,” said Hot Cheeto.

Stanley looked the little round boy up and down. “Are you serious?”

Hot Cheeto slapped his chest. “I’ve got stamina like you’ve never seen. Let’s go.” He started to march for the door, but Stanley seized his arm and pulled him back.

“I’m going to get dressed.” Stanley thrust a finger at the broken cup on the floor. “You clean up that mess. You broke my dad’s cup. I’ll tell your mom what you did if you don’t clean it.”

Hot Cheeto’s eyes turned to slits. “So, it’s blackmail, eh?”

Stanley scowled at him. “Yes!”

“Some friend,” Hot Cheeto mumbled. “I save him from getting staff and he has me doing kitchen duty.”

Stanley stuck his tongue out at that boy and left him there. He got dressed. He washed his face with cold water and tried to wake up. Getting on his running shoes, he came downstairs and found Hot Cheeto scrubbing the floor with his mom’s dish sponge like he was a scullery maid. She used that sponge to wipe down counters, and never the floor.

“Hot Cheeto!” Stanley cried. “What are you doing? You don’t use that for the floor!”

Hot Cheeto sat back on his haunches. “What else is it for? The dishes? You can put soap on it, and it’ll be good as new.”

Stanley snatched the pink sponge away from Hot Cheeto. “I’m going running, now.” He threw the miserable sponge into the sink, and headed for the door. He hung the house keys around his neck and stepped outside.

Hot Cheeto hurried after him. Stanley was sure that Hot Cheeto would give up running with him by at least the end of the street. He prepared to listen to Hot Cheeto howl about stretching as he steadied himself on the oak tree to begin his first stretch. He never got to it.

The tree breathed in. The trunk expanded and the entire tree started to chuckle. Stanley started and looked up at the tree. Hot Cheeto sucked in air and staggered backward. The tree’s face turned and gazed at Stanley, a giant grin on its woody face.

“Waah!” Stanley cried, jumping back.

The tree laughed like a maniac and its tree arms stretched out to grab Stanley. He screamed and tore down the street with Hot Cheeto on his heels. The tree uprooted and chased after them, still reaching for them as it laughed in glee. Acorns fell all over the ground and rolled into the street.

“It’s gonna plant us!” Hot Cheeto howled. “Get to the premature ghost’s house! The Chuckling Chunker lives!”

The tree reached out and tapped Stanley on the top of the head as it played the drums on Hot Cheeto’s shoulders. Both boys cried out and screamed for help. The entire street had gone to work, and the only ones left were tiny old people enjoying their television shows. Their hearing aids were either garbage, or they had the ones that were tuned in to only what they wanted to hear. They surely did not want to hear a pair of delinquents howling about a cackling tree.

Stanley and Hot Cheeto reached the end of the street and the Chuckling Chunker threw its branches in front of them like a cage.

“We won’t be taken alive!” Hot Cheeto shouted. He grabbed one of the branches and started biting it.

“You idiot,” Stanley said.

The tree let up its branches and jumped in front of them. The two boys raced back the way they had come. The Chuckling Chunker followed, unable to contain its glee. Sometimes it stumbled because it was having too much fun. Up and down the street they went until Stanley had run twice his usual distance, and Hot Cheeto was about to cough up a lung.

In front of the premature ghost’s house, the Chuckling Chunker grabbed both the boys and placed them on the old man’s roof. It then ran around the house, waving its branches in the air and cackling.

“We’re its sacrifices!” Hot Cheeto shouted.

“To what?” Stanley snapped.

“We must get off this roof or die!” Hot Cheeto scrambled across the roof and elbowed through a window of the old man’s attic.

Stanley didn’t know what to do. The tree was going absolutely wild. It suddenly jumped up and looked at him over the rooftop. He screamed and ran after Hot Cheeto and into the attic. It was a typical attic: dusty, grimy, and a complete graveyard of the old man’s past life.

“Down to the battle, Stanford,” Hot Cheeto yelled, and shoved the ladder down into the hallway. He charged down, hollering his war cry.

“Who’s in my house?” the old man’s craggy voice shouted from the first floor.

Hot Cheeto skidded to a halt. “Oh, crap.”

Stanley grabbed his shirt and dragged him in the other direction. They swerved into one of the side rooms, where old radios had been stacked. There was even a gramophone in there.

“Hey,” said Hot Cheeto, “why didn’t we come in here? Radios like to turn on by themselves.”

“You idiot,” Stanley growled.

The old man ran by the room, cursing and coughing at the same time. Once he’d gone by, Stanley dragged Hot Cheeto out the door and they hurried down the stairs.

“Check out these moves, you old ghost,” Hot Cheeto shouted.

The old man whirled about, his beady little eyes flashing. Hot Cheeto’s life flashed before his eyes.

“What are you doing?” Stanley snapped.

The old man screamed and rushed after them with his cane.

“It isn’t our fault,” Stanley said. “We—”

“I’ll wrap your heads in your own stomachs!” the old man shrieked.

Hot Cheeto started screaming and they flew down the stairs and out the door. The Chuckling Chunker slapped them both in the head as they ran away from the house. It closed the door on the old man at the same time and held it there as he pounded on the door.

“Let me out, you mud-eating miscreants!” the old man roared.

The Chuckling Chunker cackled and opened the door for him as Stanley and Hot Cheeto glanced back. They staggered to a halt and watched the tree look the old man in the face. Smiling, it patted him on the head. The old man ran howling back into his house.

The tree glanced back at them and lunged after them. Stanley and Hot Cheeto had thought for a second that the tree was a friend. But no. They fled back to Hot Cheeto’s house, the seat of refuge when stupidity went down.

The Chuckling Chunker bounded after them and caught them within a few seconds. It scooped them off the ground and carried their shouting bodies to Hot Cheeto’s mud pit.

“Help, help!” Stanley cried.

“Woody hands off, you great assassin!” Hot Cheeto bellowed. “I won’t go down without a fight! You can’t do this to me! I’m Hot Cheeto!”

The Chuckling Chunker turned on the hose and filled the mud pit with water.

Hot Cheeto’s bravery flew away into the wind and across the endless plain. “It’s going to plant us! No! I don’t wanna be a tree!”

“Somebody help!” Stanley screamed.

When the mud pit was full, the trees smashed them both into the pit and dumped water on their heads. It stood there and laughed as Hot Cheeto screamed like he was being murdered.

Stanley looked up at the tree, who put the hose down and patted him on the head. Something occurred to Stanley and a small smile touched his lips.

“Hot Cheeto, where’s your water gun?”

The boy stopped howling for a second. “In the garage.”

“Do you have another one?” said Stanley.

“Yeah.”

“It’s our turn to attack!”

Hot Cheeto’s face lit up. “Yeah!” He sprang out of the mud hole and ran to get his water guns. They’d been filled and waiting for such a day: the showdown with the Chuckling Chunker. He got a hold of them and then ran out. He tossed the big red gun to Stanley and shouted up at the tree.

“Now you will meet your fate, you shark in bark clothing!” He charged the tree and it ran chuckling to Stanley’s house.

The two boys chased the tree round and round, spraying it with their water guns until the guns ran out. They cornered it against the kitchen door of Stanley’s house. There, the tree chuckled and laughed, its leaves swishing about like there was a high wind.

“Who are you?” said Stanley.

“I’m your friend,” said the tree. It sounded like a boy. “Would you like to sit in my shade?”

Stanley and Hot Cheeto glanced at one another and then smiled.

“Yes,” said Stanley.

They approached the tree and sat at his base. The shade was cool and pleasant.

“What brings a tree all the way over here?” said Hot Cheeto.

“I was looking for little friends,” said the tree, “and now I’ve found them.”

Hot Cheeto patted the tree’s trunk. “I’m sorry I bit you.”’

“It tickled,” said the tree.

“Wow, you’re tough.”

The tree chuckled as Stanley wondered if Hot Cheeto was flattering the tree, or if he thought that his bite would actually hurt an oak. He suspected it was the latter.

“I’m hungry,” said Hot Cheeto. He lit up. “We’ll have a picnic out here! I’ll get the food! Stanley only has weird crap in his house, so we’ll eat the real one out of mine.”

“My food is healthy,” said Stanley. “That means it’s good for you.”

“Gimme a break.”

The tree only laughed. It was such a funny laugh that Stanley and Hot Cheeto couldn’t help but laugh, too. In a few minutes, they had a nice spread of Hot Cheetos, Coke, hotdogs, and chips. They ate, making a complete mess of the grass by the back door.

That was how the Chuckling Chunker had found his friends.

The End

Copyright © by Julia Benally 2023

All rights reserved

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this work are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to persons living or dead is purely coincidental.

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