Halloween fic: "Scary Wax Figures"
Title: Scary Wax Figures
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Characters: Leslie/Ben, Orin
Word Count: ~1,270
Rating: PG
Notes: For the Halloween Trope challenge, using the trope: The figures in the wax museum are alive! Happy Halloween!
Leslie rolled her eyes when she stepped out of her car and looked up at the temporarily-less-vacant-than-last-week storefront in the struggling shopping strip. This place needed a permanent resident, not a temporary art installation.
The windows had been covered from the inside with black plastic tarps, and a cheap banner, barely readable in the dim streetlights, hung over the door. "Orin's Scary Wax Figures." This was not her idea of a fun date-night.
Leslie scowled as Ben took her arm and led her toward the door, where one of Orin's dreary-eyed, black-clad friends stood, holding out a donation jar. It was hardly better than panhandling.
"Try to stay positive," he murmured into her ear. "April worked hard on this with her friends, and we promised we'd give it a try. Don't judge it until you've seen the whole thing."
Leslie did her best to soften her scowl into a tight-lipped grimace as Ben dropped a five dollar bill into the donation jar, and the morose door attendant opened the black-swathed door to admit them.
A dim corridor formed of black tarps stretched out in front of them. Even the floor and ceiling had been covered in black, though the plastic on the floor now showed dusty footprints from the visitors who'd come here before them. Leslie couldn't imagine that there had been very many.
Dangling pendants provided the only light, illuminating a few small tables lined up along the sides of the corridor.
Leslie sighed and rolled her eyes again as they approached the first table.
A few sheets of craft-store beeswax sat on the table with a small sign. "Beeswax. This wax figure is not scary."
Ben arched an eyebrow but still looked intrigued as he led her to the next table. Of course he was still interested-he hadn't seen Orin's human farm. Ugh. Well, he'd know what they were in for soon enough.
The next table held a few blocks of paraffin wax. And, sure enough, a sign. "Paraffin wax. This wax figure is not scary."
"Hmm," said Ben.
Three more tables followed the pattern, one displaying a variety of candles, another showing off car wax, and another with a box of crayons.
With each successive table, Ben let out another "Hmm."
At last they reached a curtain of long strips of black tarp hanging in front of them. They pushed their way through and emerged into a larger room, still completely lined in black.
Black-clad people stood perfectly still around the edges of the room, each illuminated by a hanging pendant light. Each of the people held a sign, with words written in now-hard dripping wax, and each face appeared to have droplets of wax on their cheeks under their eyes, like frozen tears.
"Oh, god," muttered Leslie in disgust when she saw the large banner with neon orange lettering hanging near the ceiling right across from her. It read, "These wax figures are scary."
With a sneer on her face, she started reading the signs. "600 women are raped or sexually assaulted every day in the United States." "The number of Americans on food stamps has surpassed 41 million for the first time ever." "9 million children around the world die every year of treatable diseases and illnesses such as diarrhea and pneumonia." "One out of every 5 children in the United States is living in poverty." "Only 1% of China's 560 million city residents breathe air that is considered safe by the EU." "Approximately 6 million students grades 7 through 12 read below grade-level." And on and on for some fifteen or sixteen signs.
Leslie's frown deepened with every figure she read, all painted in flaky red wax on shiny white poster board. She huffed. "This is so contrived. I mean, it's not even real activism. If he really wanted to make an impact he'd focus in on one area of concern to truly elevate peoples' consciousness of it, and then provide pamphlets on organizations working to help. Instead, he's all over the map-literally."
Ben nodded slowly. "I see the point he's trying to make, but this isn’t the most effective way. And really, these should be called scary wax statistics, not scary wax figures. But I guess that would ruin the pun."
Leslie huffed again. She knew a good pun when she heard one, and this was not a good pun.
"I mean, I guess I appreciate what he's doing. It's not like there're many social activism organizations in Pawnee, and we've got to start somewhere-"
"With this?" She couldn't believe that Ben was even trying to sympathize with Orin's objective. That kid needed to get his head out of his butt and find a real job, like April had. Why couldn't he learn from her good example?
Ben shrugged. "I don't know. I think his heart's in the right place. You know, I am opening up an internship at the Sweetums Foundation this year, maybe he'd be interes-"
"Don't even think about it." Leslie wagged her finger in Ben's face. The last thing she needed was to get a phone call letting her know that her husband had been found dead in his office, and with Orin that possibility was a very real concern.
Ben shrugged again. "I don't know." They both turned to head out. "I think you're too hard-AHH!"
They both jumped back, grabbing for each other.
Orin had appeared, without a sound, in front of the curtained entrance to the hallway. He stood perfectly still, towering over them in his black outfit and cape, staring blankly into the room with his dead, dark-circled eyes.
Leslie clung to Ben's hand. "For god's sake, Orin, you can't sneak up on people like that."
Orin didn't move. He didn't even blink.
Leslie scrunched her forehead and stared up at him. There was an unusual sheen to his skin. Almost as if ...
She waved her hand in front of his face. He still didn't move or blink.
Ben frowned. "Is he-wax?"
Slowly Leslie stretched out a hand and lightly grazed Orin's cheek with her finger. A thin smudge of wax came away on her fingertip, and Orin still didn't move.
"I think so," she replied, clutching Ben's hand again. "But I'm not sure. If that's you, Orin, you're still a weirdo. And this is the last of your art installations I'm visiting-got it?"
With a final grimace at the silent figure, she pulled Ben around it and back down the hall with its pointless tables as quickly as she could.
They banged out the door, startling the donation collector still waiting there.
Leslie couldn't restrain herself. "God, that guy gives me the creeps."
"How did you like the exhibit?" Said Orin, stepping up beside them, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie.
Leslie and Ben both froze, staring at him. They swiveled their heads to stare back at the door, where, presumably, the frozen wax version of Orin still stood at the end of the black hall. Or did it?
Leslie felt Ben's hand tightening around her own.
"Run!" he cried.
They both dashed for the car and slid inside at breakneck speed, peeling away from the shopping strip parking lot as fast as possible.
***
Back at the storefront, Orin shook his head and turned to his pal, Dion, holding the donation jar.
"Why do people keep doing that?"
Dion merely shrugged.
Orin sighed and looked up at the fathomless expanse of stars. His skim gleamed like wax in the moonlight, and a single fingerprint marred the pale expanse of his cheek.
Fandom: Parks and Recreation
Characters: Leslie/Ben, Orin
Word Count: ~1,270
Rating: PG
Notes: For the Halloween Trope challenge, using the trope: The figures in the wax museum are alive! Happy Halloween!
Leslie rolled her eyes when she stepped out of her car and looked up at the temporarily-less-vacant-than-last-week storefront in the struggling shopping strip. This place needed a permanent resident, not a temporary art installation.
The windows had been covered from the inside with black plastic tarps, and a cheap banner, barely readable in the dim streetlights, hung over the door. "Orin's Scary Wax Figures." This was not her idea of a fun date-night.
Leslie scowled as Ben took her arm and led her toward the door, where one of Orin's dreary-eyed, black-clad friends stood, holding out a donation jar. It was hardly better than panhandling.
"Try to stay positive," he murmured into her ear. "April worked hard on this with her friends, and we promised we'd give it a try. Don't judge it until you've seen the whole thing."
Leslie did her best to soften her scowl into a tight-lipped grimace as Ben dropped a five dollar bill into the donation jar, and the morose door attendant opened the black-swathed door to admit them.
A dim corridor formed of black tarps stretched out in front of them. Even the floor and ceiling had been covered in black, though the plastic on the floor now showed dusty footprints from the visitors who'd come here before them. Leslie couldn't imagine that there had been very many.
Dangling pendants provided the only light, illuminating a few small tables lined up along the sides of the corridor.
Leslie sighed and rolled her eyes again as they approached the first table.
A few sheets of craft-store beeswax sat on the table with a small sign. "Beeswax. This wax figure is not scary."
Ben arched an eyebrow but still looked intrigued as he led her to the next table. Of course he was still interested-he hadn't seen Orin's human farm. Ugh. Well, he'd know what they were in for soon enough.
The next table held a few blocks of paraffin wax. And, sure enough, a sign. "Paraffin wax. This wax figure is not scary."
"Hmm," said Ben.
Three more tables followed the pattern, one displaying a variety of candles, another showing off car wax, and another with a box of crayons.
With each successive table, Ben let out another "Hmm."
At last they reached a curtain of long strips of black tarp hanging in front of them. They pushed their way through and emerged into a larger room, still completely lined in black.
Black-clad people stood perfectly still around the edges of the room, each illuminated by a hanging pendant light. Each of the people held a sign, with words written in now-hard dripping wax, and each face appeared to have droplets of wax on their cheeks under their eyes, like frozen tears.
"Oh, god," muttered Leslie in disgust when she saw the large banner with neon orange lettering hanging near the ceiling right across from her. It read, "These wax figures are scary."
With a sneer on her face, she started reading the signs. "600 women are raped or sexually assaulted every day in the United States." "The number of Americans on food stamps has surpassed 41 million for the first time ever." "9 million children around the world die every year of treatable diseases and illnesses such as diarrhea and pneumonia." "One out of every 5 children in the United States is living in poverty." "Only 1% of China's 560 million city residents breathe air that is considered safe by the EU." "Approximately 6 million students grades 7 through 12 read below grade-level." And on and on for some fifteen or sixteen signs.
Leslie's frown deepened with every figure she read, all painted in flaky red wax on shiny white poster board. She huffed. "This is so contrived. I mean, it's not even real activism. If he really wanted to make an impact he'd focus in on one area of concern to truly elevate peoples' consciousness of it, and then provide pamphlets on organizations working to help. Instead, he's all over the map-literally."
Ben nodded slowly. "I see the point he's trying to make, but this isn’t the most effective way. And really, these should be called scary wax statistics, not scary wax figures. But I guess that would ruin the pun."
Leslie huffed again. She knew a good pun when she heard one, and this was not a good pun.
"I mean, I guess I appreciate what he's doing. It's not like there're many social activism organizations in Pawnee, and we've got to start somewhere-"
"With this?" She couldn't believe that Ben was even trying to sympathize with Orin's objective. That kid needed to get his head out of his butt and find a real job, like April had. Why couldn't he learn from her good example?
Ben shrugged. "I don't know. I think his heart's in the right place. You know, I am opening up an internship at the Sweetums Foundation this year, maybe he'd be interes-"
"Don't even think about it." Leslie wagged her finger in Ben's face. The last thing she needed was to get a phone call letting her know that her husband had been found dead in his office, and with Orin that possibility was a very real concern.
Ben shrugged again. "I don't know." They both turned to head out. "I think you're too hard-AHH!"
They both jumped back, grabbing for each other.
Orin had appeared, without a sound, in front of the curtained entrance to the hallway. He stood perfectly still, towering over them in his black outfit and cape, staring blankly into the room with his dead, dark-circled eyes.
Leslie clung to Ben's hand. "For god's sake, Orin, you can't sneak up on people like that."
Orin didn't move. He didn't even blink.
Leslie scrunched her forehead and stared up at him. There was an unusual sheen to his skin. Almost as if ...
She waved her hand in front of his face. He still didn't move or blink.
Ben frowned. "Is he-wax?"
Slowly Leslie stretched out a hand and lightly grazed Orin's cheek with her finger. A thin smudge of wax came away on her fingertip, and Orin still didn't move.
"I think so," she replied, clutching Ben's hand again. "But I'm not sure. If that's you, Orin, you're still a weirdo. And this is the last of your art installations I'm visiting-got it?"
With a final grimace at the silent figure, she pulled Ben around it and back down the hall with its pointless tables as quickly as she could.
They banged out the door, startling the donation collector still waiting there.
Leslie couldn't restrain herself. "God, that guy gives me the creeps."
"How did you like the exhibit?" Said Orin, stepping up beside them, wearing jeans and a gray hoodie.
Leslie and Ben both froze, staring at him. They swiveled their heads to stare back at the door, where, presumably, the frozen wax version of Orin still stood at the end of the black hall. Or did it?
Leslie felt Ben's hand tightening around her own.
"Run!" he cried.
They both dashed for the car and slid inside at breakneck speed, peeling away from the shopping strip parking lot as fast as possible.
***
Back at the storefront, Orin shook his head and turned to his pal, Dion, holding the donation jar.
"Why do people keep doing that?"
Dion merely shrugged.
Orin sighed and looked up at the fathomless expanse of stars. His skim gleamed like wax in the moonlight, and a single fingerprint marred the pale expanse of his cheek.