It's the Great Pumpkin, Christian Grey!

The Greyt Pumpkin

Thank you to all who have enjoyed this! And thank you for your patience. Look for a Phoebe election story and more Darker/Grey Hearts and Flowers soon. The babies will be born soon, too. Love you guys! xox

"Welcome to Pa Parker's Pumpkins," a man whose face remarkably resembles some version of a gourd says on approach as Taylor and I enter the patch. He's got a long ratty beard, a belt carrying what I hope are the most terrifying looking pumpkin carving tools I've ever seen and not actual serrated weaponry, and he's wearing a shirt that reads: Friends don't let friends drink Starbucks.

Yep, here's our anarchist.

"Let me guess, you're one of those blue men that dances in Vegas," he says to me.

What the fuck? Oh wait, The Blue Man group.

"No, I'm Papa Smurf," I say.

"Did Papa Smurf wear red overalls?"

"In later interpretations," I mutter. "Look, we're in a hurry and we need—"

"And what are you—FBI?" He glares at Taylor while fingering his tool set. Things just got weird all of a sudden, as if an anti-government, anti-business pumpkin proprietor who owns six lots wasn't weird enough. Why did Taylor have to wear such a dark mysterious suit? Of course, he always does. But, now is no time for always.

"No," I say. "He has no affiliation with the government whatsoever. In fact, he spends most of his time in the Canadian mountains plotting subversive activities." Taylor nods in agreement.

"Then what's his costume?"

"He's a..."

"Funeral director," Taylor says. That's what he came up with? I was going to say the butler in Batman or something, because he kind of is.

"Fun," the anarchist pumpkin man says, and he looks oddly pleased.

"I assume you're Mr. Parker," I say.

"How did you know my name?" he shoots off.

"Wild guess," I say. "And since this is Pa Parker's and you're the only one here, I figured—"

"I don't like a lot of employees."

"Sure. I get it. You want quality over quantity."

"No, I don't like a lot of employees," he says.

"Okay... Mr. Parker, listen we need—"

"I like my customers, though. Call me by my first name."

"Sure," I say.

Awkward silence.

"Well, what is it?" I ask, after the crickets get tired of chirping.

"Pa," he says.

"That's really your first name?" I ask.

"Well, it was Paul, but I got rid of the dead weight of the u and the l. It sounds the same without it, and it's harder to track. You know." He looks to Taylor.

"Right. I never tell anyone in Canada my full name," Taylor says.

Shit, this guy is nuts and Taylor's turning pistachios right along with him.

"Hey, if you need anything carved up, it's half priced today since you're in costume and you're practically not a citizen anymore." He smiles at Taylor.

"That's very kind of you, but we just need some regular pumpkins," I say.

"Okay, which will you take?" he asks.