Image: Google images – Fungus the Bogeyman.
Alfred Boogie looked around the dining room table at his sons gathered to partake of the Sunday dinner. Their mother, Mrs Boogie was particularly proud of the roast she had prepared as it was one she found in the dumpster behind the butchers, a few days old, just enough decay to give it that taste she and her family liked and if one was lucky there would be the odd maggot or two mixed in with the gravy.
Alfred was glad his family was sitting before him as he had a few words to say.
“We are Boogie men my sons, and we have tradition and reputation to uphold. Lately, there has been a slackening off of our purpose. There is nothing wrong with hiding under beds, of lurking around corners and a good old-fashioned sliming never goes astray. I say this as last week; one of you was observed helping old Mrs Carter across the street. Admittedly she was too terrified to stop you, Peter, but it is not a good image for our family.”
Across the table, Peter Boogie, the youngest of the Boogiemen looked down when his name was mentioned and looking at his dinner before him noticed a maggot swimming in the gravy and his mind immediately went to that delicacy and away from the scolding his father was delivering.
“The world out there expects so much of us,” said Alfred, now feeling he was on a roll and slightly envious of his son getting a maggot when clearly all he got was a rough cut piece of the putrid turkey, though that in itself was enough to excite and satisfy his taste buds, “there is a lot for us to live up too. What would our purpose in life be if people stopped telling their children: ‘ the Boogie Man will get you’ every time they did something wrong? We need to lift our game, fill our collective pockets with Boogie slim and deliver, as society expects us too.”
Around the table, there were nods of approval as the Boogie men all agreed to lift their game and go forward after all not everyone was born as privileged as they were.
“Living folklore we are, my Boogie men,” announced their father bringing his fist down on the table causing the table to shake and his sons to pound the table in front of them in agreement thus creating a thunderous roar which had their mother not only smiling but cheering on her precious family.
Around the table the Boogiemen chanted their favourite family song:
We are Boogiemen,
Putrid smelly and disgusting,
We lurk in dark and shady places
We’re the fear you know
Is hiding in the shadowy corner of your room.
As they finished and gave each other disgusting high fives, as they never washed their hands nor any part of themselves, across the table, the young Peter Boogie wondered if this was all there was to life, as he secretly preferred to play chess than go about frightening people. He kept it to himself that later in the night he would visit his friend Mario and try and finish their game. It was Peter’s move, and he had contemplated his next move all day.
Around him the post-dinner food fight had begun, it was how the Boogies did it with food flying across the table and the parents looking on proudly, Mrs Boogie, in particular, thinking the floor would be more stinking than usual, and she would feel proud of her house when she next invited in her sister and family who were forever bragging about the rotting nature of their bedrooms.
Boogiemen loved a good mess.