Yesterday morning, we drove out to God Knows Where, searching for some New Jersey farmers’ market I remembered visiting last year. I swore it was only twenty minutes away, but Sunday’s events proved otherwise.
Eventually, we found it. And, hell yes, they still had the same assortment of insanely hot peppers from last year. Lots of pumpkins, too. I even found enormous sweet potatoes. Honest to God, each was as large as a two-month-old child.
Somewhere in the middle of that, I saw the Venus Flytraps.
I know I wrote about them years ago, but so what? It’s not against the law to write about Venus Flytraps twice. Don’t tell me what to do. The last person who tried is now in me.
I guess we can blame a steady diet of grade school plant sales and VHS rentals of Little Shop of Horrors, but I never considered Venus Flytraps as normal plants, or even “plants” at all. To me, they’ve always been animals. They have emotions and personalities. They feel pain, and they appreciate those who keep them from experiencing it.
As you could guess, I bought a few new Flytraps.
After leaving the market, we ended up at some really bad strip mall’s really bad sushi joint. Their spicy tuna rolls had a mouthfeel comparable to Elmer’s glue, and the whole place reeked like a tackle shop. But that’s neither here nor there.
The point is, I spent the entire awful dining experience complaining that Ms. X wasn’t eating fast enough. I was unreasonably worried about leaving my Flytraps in the hot car. I really do view them as “pets.”
Shown above is their display in the farmers’ market, and this explains why I had to buy a few. I mean, I would have anyway, but these Flytraps really looked like they needed the rescuing.
Many were dead or dying, and that crude sign, warning children not to touch the plants because it kills them, told me that these Flytraps had no plans of writing their Floridian relatives just to brag about their lives.
At three bucks a pop, I couldn’t afford to save them all. I chose two, and tried not to play favorites. Even the rotted ones deserved a second chance.
Don’t take any of this to mean that I’m some Venus Flytrap expert. I’m not. After researching last night, I couldn’t believe how little I actually knew. I long believed that Venus Flytraps were easy to kill and hard to take care of, but the truth is, they are quite hardy. Most people just never learn the right way to care for them.
Unfortunately, that bit of research happened hours after I’d already created this glorious Bog of Doom. I admit that it isn’t the best setup to ensure a Flytrap’s good health, but the thought of dismantling this thing really breaks my heart.
“They’re just plants.” At least, that’s what I keep trying to tell myself. So far, it isn’t working, and I don’t think my horrific terrarium is long for the world.
Beauty be damned: The humidity levels are all off!
For the moment, let’s just enjoy it for what it is. A scene wherein Venus Flytraps are used to punish naughty humans. I even lined the back of the glass with printed screenshots from the old Chiller video game!
In my vision, various monsters have banded together to torture virgin females. They’re not doing it for kicks, either. Ruled by a vengeful god who demands unoriginal yet gruesome sacrifices, the monsters can either obey or be destroyed. One may surmise that these monsters had only recently seen The Cabin in the Woods.
A few days ago, they kidnapped two women. One seemed to take it in stride, as if she knew she was fated for this. The other – the one shown here – really put up a fight. Kicking, screaming, the whole nine yards.
“Thank God for chlararaform,” remarked the rocky pink creature.
The yellow ghost was outraged. “That’s chloroform, you idiot. CHLO. RO. FORM.”
Then they carried on with burying Sally up to her neck in cow shit. Sally couldn’t imagine anything more terrifying, but the worst was yet to come.
Gigantic Venus Flytraps! So enormous, they simply have to be mutants! This is what awaits our lady friends. On Halloween night, these terrible plants will forgo their usual diet (ants, I think) to transform human beings into husks of dehydrated flesh!
From now until then, the monsters must only ensure that their victims remain alive and secured. Surely their unseen master will take this as an acceptable Halloween sacrifice. On the totem pole of ritualistic murder procedures, feeding women to carnivorous plants has to rank pretty high.
The second victim, who not long ago seemed so accepting of her dark destiny, finally cracked. “Don’t do this,” she pleads. “I have lots of money!”
Of course, money means nothing to these monsters, except when they’re writing love songs and need something to rhyme with “honey.” This girl is doomed. The monsters never forgot the story of their ancestors, who skimped on their sacrificial duties and were rewarded with ten months of hellfire.
But even in a bog of torment, hope springs eternal. See that purple and orange thing lumbering around in the photo above? I don’t know his name, but I do know that he has a heart.
Unwilling to believe that murder is the only way to appease their lord, the creature hopes that a simpler sacrifice, in the form of a classic Halloween graveyard display, will suffice. He carved the pumpkin himself, and even spray-painted some cut up cardboard to make a tombstone.
“Hear me, oh glorious leader! Take this for your sustenance in place of the girls. I beg you!”
Will his master agree? Honestly, I doubt it. I don’t consider myself a sadist, but if someone gave me the choice between watching a pumpkin and watching people get eaten by plants, I’m going with Option 2.