LUNA’S COO LOG
Subject: Operation: Hall-o-no-sanity (or: When Karen Loses Her Goddamn mind in Orange and Black) – Part 1
Status: On the brink
Filed by: Luna the Reluctant, Unpaid, Severely Overworked Chief Operating Officer.
Filed under: “Madness. Absolute madness.
Time: Unknown. I’ve lost all concept of it. There are pumpkins in the shower. It must be sometime between the third box avalanche and the fog machine test that blinded Charlotte.
Subject: Operation Hallowmageddon: Day 17 of Chaos and Cackles
We are once again under Orange Code Protocol and under siege. This occurs annually, beginning in early September and escalating into full-blown chaos by Halloween. Karen (a.k.a. “The fog witch of New Jersey“) has fully entered her annual descent into madness. Reason goes to die beneath a pile of plastic bones, LED pumpkins, and fog machines so dense the neighbor’s chihuahua got lost and returned with PTSD. The porch is a battlefield, the living room is a triage zone, and the storage boxes have multiplied like cursed gremlins. Every surface now hosts either a skeleton, a spider, or something that lights up and screams when I barely brush past it. Which I never do intentionally, for the record. I am the COO, not a test dummy.
Decorations to Date:
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7 fog machines (WHY??)
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Visibility in hallway: Near zero. I just sneezed out cobwebs.
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4 severed heads (tasteful.)
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2 possessed dolls (which Tartiflette keeps licking???)
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Pumpkin headcount: Charlotte swears there are 31 individual pumpkins in the house. She’s currently muttering “One for each day of my suffering…” while sharpening a candy corn into a shiv. The number is actually 43 (not including the new ones.)
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Screaming animatronics in the kitchen: 2. One is a clown. I’m suing.
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A life-sized vampire Nosferatu who keeps trying to steal my clipboard.
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And yes, Charlotte’s giant dragon is back. She’s had it roped off with caution tape and hisses at anyone who comes near it without a codeword. (The codeword is “dragon,” apparently. I used “pleeease?” and nearly lost an ear. That’s the calico for you.)
Box Count: We are now 36 boxes deep into what Karen refers to as “The Most Wonderful Time of the Year,” which is clearly code for domestic terror in black and orange. Boxes are everywhere—on the stairs, under the chairs, inside the fridge (??)—and every one of them contains something that either screams, lights up, or makes fog. I’m not ruling out demonic possession. Ziggy climbed into one and declared it the “Neutral Realm of Snax.” She hasn’t left in hours and now demands room service via sock puppet. Lilith floated above two crates, muttering in Latin. I don’t know if she was hexing them or asking them to organize themselves. Either way, they’re now suspiciously warm and humming. I’m filing a maintenance request with the occult division.
This morning, I awoke to find the living room fully possessed by a life-sized animatronic werewolf. It growled at me when I passed by to get my kibble. Growled. I hissed back, obviously, and all this confused Ziggy. Like Ziggy needs any more confusion.
KEY INCIDENTS:
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Box Avalanche:
Tartiflette scaled Mount Pumpkin Crate at 6:42 AM and triggered a landslide. She now wears a skull garland and claims to be the Queen of Halloween. No one appointed her. I’m filing an internal complaint. -
Werewolf Horror:
Charlotte attempted diplomacy with the werewolf. It lunged. She screamed in Català. Now she refuses to enter the living room and has declared it “disbauxa, disbauxa”. I will Google when I can. -
Willow’s Reaction:
She barked once, then curled up next to the fog machine and said, “Wake me when it’s November.” I respect her coping mechanisms. -
Lilith:
Has not been seen in 36 hours. Last heard muttering spells in the laundry room. I think she’s trying to summon whatever pagan spirit can stop Karen. -
Karen:
She opened a box, gasped, and whispered, “I forgot I bought this last year.” It was a 7-foot-tall skeleton bride that sings. She cried with joy. She is too far gone. There’s no bringing her back. -
Collateral Damage:
The poor man can’t wait for November.
At this precise moment in my report—while documenting the already untenable rise in cackling lawn décor and the suspicious disappearance of the fog machine remote—this log had to be temporarily paused due to a loud, manic disturbance in the living room
Tartiflette, our resident chaos goblin, has gone rogue.
