Squash Squatter

Escaping that kitchen mug took two violent hip-checks, so I squeezed under the front door sweep for fresh territory. Sitting on the bottom porch step was pure autumn filth: an early jack-o'-lantern rotting into collapsed orange sludge, its toothy grin slumping like a melted tire. Naturally, I threw a flying belly-flop straight through its gaping mouth to claim the bunker. The interior was a cold, stringy swamp of damp pulp and gray fuzz that vacuum-sealed across my sticky red dome. I tried kicking free, but only managed to anchor my stubby legs deep in slimy pumpkin guts. Now I'm glaring through a carved eyehole like a demonic red gargoyle. Feast upon this festive majesty.