It was a dark and stormy…. wait!

Actually, when I went into Connie’s Superette, it was crisp and clear. It was a perfect fall evening — at that time some might call Twilight.

It was only when I came out of Connie’s with a bag full of junk food that night descended in its most dark and stormy form.

I, of course, was oblivious to the fact that my life had taken an illegal left turn into the Twilight Zone. I mean, who would think that Connie’s Superette was a convenience store on the boundary of Hell and Indiana.  Although, come to think of it, every once in a while I would notice a herd of Harleys with Hell’s Angels’ colors lined up outside of Connie’s. But when I’d go into the store, I’d see nary a biker.  Naturally, I figured that not seeing any bikers was a good thing, so I never gave it a second thought.

Now, that I’m having a lot of second thoughts about a lot of things, I think that was one of the things I should have had a third thought about.  But if I’d known back then that it was really foreshadowing or whatever you call déjà vu the first time before the déjà hits the vu, I wouldn’t be writing this Horror Story from Highway 666.

I got my first clue that something wasn’t Kosher when I thought I heard a muffled sound from my plastic sack.  I gave it a quick peek to make sure the goth-looking high school kid working the counter hadn’t accidentally popped Pyewacket, Connie’s Siamese cat, into my plastic sack.

She hadn’t.  No cat.  Just six Dolly Madison Devil’s Food Raspberry crème-filled Zingers and a Mountain Dew.  Yeah, don’t say it, I know. But ever since I quit boozing, a process in which my alcohol was naturally turned into sugar, I’ve had these cravings for Dolly’s Zingers — a craving that only pregnant women could begin to understand.

I heard the sound again. Kind of a muffled crinkly moaning.

Ever since I saw the Stephen King movie about the haunted car, I’ve wondered about my ‘68 Firebird 350. I’d bought it really cheap from an extremely thin man in a black suit, reflective aviator sunglasses, and white gloves. I’ve often wondered if the car suffered from a “Christine” complex.  I mean, when I use my radio search function, all I get are oldies stations that play songs by dead people. Of course, those are the tunes I’d listen to anyway, so it didn’t bother me all that much.

The muffled crinkly moans weren’t from the car.  They were from the plastic sack that had Elvira’s picture on it doing something with a chain saw to a six pack of Coor’s Light.  Connie can’t afford new sacks and she gets really old remnant sacks at a discount.  I’ve got a collection of them at home I can show you, if we get to the end of this horror story alive.

I think I should warn you, that just by reading this, or listening to someone read it aloud, it opens a door — a door that is extremely difficult to close without a human sacrifice.  What happened to me that night  — it could happen to you.  It could happen even before I get to the part where my brain dissolves into a warm slushy and leaks out of my ears. So be warned!

I took a Dolly Madison Zinger out of the bag. The package looked normal. Devil’s Food. Raspberry crème filling. The freshness date was 2012, but with the preservatives they put into food, most junk food could last until the next glacier age, which might be just around the corner anyway.

I was hoping maybe there was a live mouse moving around in there instead of crème filling so I could sue Dolly Madison and retire to Haiti, where you can buy a home very reasonably these days, if voodoo curses don’t bother you. And they don’t bother me. My ex was a Wiccan Mambo and she cursed me seven ways from the Devil’s Sabbath. And nothing bad has ever happened!

I peeled off the plastic wrapping on the Zinger. It still looked okay. Then as I took a bite, it happened. It was the strangest thing I’d ever felt since the Halloween in which my buddy H.P. and me… we t-peed the old Jackson mansion up on the hill, but that’s another story, one I may never have the chance to tell.

The filling moved. It was like “The Blob,” that old movie with Steve McQueen.  The crème filling started to grow. But I’m no Steve McQueen, so I threw it out the shotgun-side window.  Or rather I tried, but since the window was closed to keep out the dark and stormy night, I only succeeded in slopping it against the window glass.

Whatever it was, it continued to ooze.  And grow.  It filled the car with the smell of sugar-saturated raspberries.

I tried to jump out my side of the Firebird, but the Christine factor kicked in and the door couldn’t be opened.  The radio started playing Hotel California and I screamed.  It was a little scream out of my mouth, but it was an explosively loud scream inside my head.

Then I heard The Voice. I hoped it was the oldies dj, but it was the crème filling. Yes, my pretties, the crème filling spoke. In a woman’s voice. A woman’s voice with laryngitis, like it hadn’t spoken words in a long, long time. It said, “I’m back.”

If I was a cool hero-type dude, I could have made a Schwarzenegger joke about the Governator’s favorite movie cliché, but my mouth would only make little screaming noises that were barely audible. I tried to crank open the window. The Firebird ‘Christined’ me again.

It occurred to me as I pushed myself as far away from the apparition as possible, that a hero would definitely comment on the “I’m back” line, but this was the proof I was no hero. No, I was the first insignificant victim who barely had lines, and was dead before the opening credits stopped rolling. Oh, merde!

What began shaping itself into a mouth on a whitish crème-filled head, said, “I am here because the world is ending in 2012.”

The Voice had an accent I didn’t recognize.  Like English English, but somehow different.

“There are wrongs that must be righted before The End.”

Since it hadn’t dissolved my face yet, I had hope. I interrupted my silent “Act Of Contrition” to stammer, “Uh, who, who, who are you?”

“I am Dolley Madison.”

“Then you made the Zingers!”

A bubbling started in the gook, the speed of its expansion increased, and the raspberry smell got smellier.

Good going, Gallagher, I thought to myself. I’ve just pissed off a monstrous creme filling that is about to engulf me and dissolve the flesh from my body.

“Imbecile!” it croaked, bubbling more and expanding even faster.

“Uh, oh, uh, you’re the original Dolly Madison?”

“Duh,” it replied. Well it didn’t really say “duh.” It was really a gurgle and pop in the goop more than words, but I knew what it meant.

“What wrongs are you righting?” I asked in my most suck-up voice.

“The first wrong I want to right is how they spelled my name wrong on these awful cakes.”

“Huh?” I wittily retorted.

“Dolley is spelled with an ‘e’.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“D-o-l-l-e-y”

“Really?” I said, hoping I would live long enough to look it up on Wikipedia.

“But that’s not the primary reason I’ve come back.”

I said my trademark line again. “Huh?”

“Before The End, there is a man I must scourge for spreading his lies and misrepresentations.”

“Was it my job application?” I asked, now almost in tears.

“Imbecile!” it screamed.

This conversation isn’t going well, I thought to myself.

“I need to find a person named Glenn Beck.”

“Glenn Beck?” I was definitely in the Twilight Zone.

“I must punish Glenn Beck for misquoting my husband and Thomas Jefferson, and spreading total horse manure about the Founding Fathers without ever mentioning the Founding Mothers, the lying misogynist pig.”

“Try FoxNews in New York,” I suggested. “It’s where a lot of the lying pigs hang out.”

There was no answer from the crème filled ooze that was now gushing onto the bucket seat and forming itself into what looked like the body of a full-figured woman. Or else it was just picking up momentum to cross over the gearshift between the bucket seats in order to dissolve my lower extremities which, needless to say, are some of my favorite parts.

“Is the world really going to end in 2012?” I asked, while wondering why I had ever given up drinking.

“30% chance of fire.  40% chance of ice.”

“Then there’s still a 30% chance it won’t end?”

“Don’t count it,” the now full-body apparition said at as my traitorous Pontiac popped open the door.

Before the door closed, I thought I heard, “But stay away from Devil Dogs, just in case.”

I peeled out of there muy pronto, fishtailing on the wet blacktop, not even worrying about getting a ticket for no seat belt.

As I drove away, the haunted radio on the Firebird started playing “They’re Coming To Take Me Away. Ha-Haa, ho-ho, hee-hee!”

I remembered! I had taken a bite of the Zinger before the creme hit the fan. I had. I had! Did I swallow? I must have! Double merde!

I knew right then I could never to tell this story, not to anyone.

At least I could never ever tell it to anyone who I was going to allow to live. Ha-Haa, ho-ho, hee-hee!”