There was no song anymore. Its light chipper lyrics absented themselves from the stage, abandoning the surroundings to a display of violence and depravity that repainted the walls in brightly colored smears. Children no longer danced, hopped, and skipped around to a lighthearted beat; no longer was there any joy to be had.
The poor victim hadn't had a chance. His attackers had descended upon him like wolves with nary a second thought. It had been so sudden and so brutal that there had barely been a second of warning, just the attack that descended and laid waste to the life that had once been so cheerfully going along its way in singsong.
Happiness had reverberated with abundance, before suffocated and squelched with hunger. Ravenous, all consuming hunger had assaulted reason, beaten it into submission, pummeled and ground it into the ground until only the irrepressible desire to devour remained, alone and fully in charge.
The smears on the wall brightly shone in their colors, alternating between their deep, penetrating reds and the splattered yellows. Those had begun after the feeding had begun, sprayed about with reckless abandon upon the victim. To “give him flavor,” they had said as they busily stuffed their faces.
His clothing hadn't survived the changes unscathed; few garments could have withstood the changing shape that the boy had undergone, the thickening plumpness that had encapsulated him from his loins to his head, swelling it all into a single round shape. The collar of his shirt seemed to have ripped apart first, though on the whole that garment was merely stretched and untorn; at least until the hungering mob had descended upon him like wolves, leaving it shredded and and in split rags strewn across the floor. The pants on the other hand, were destroyed from the word go, their bottoms torn out by the expanding fleshy form of the boy before his demise.
The scene of the crime was littered with pieces of him, at least those that hadn't been outright devoured before police arrived on the scene. There was barely anything left; the arms and legs that had been the only things to survive shape-wise from his original form had been utterly ravaged; not a piece remained that was bigger than an inch or two. Not a trace remained of anything resembling a person anymore.
And it had all started because the boy had wished. He had wished for everyone to be in love with him. Such a grisly demise and tragedy could have been entirely avoided.
If only.
If only he hadn't wished to be an Oscar Mayer Wiener.
