A Lack of Dramatic Tension

I slipped through the marigolds to scout a rival presence lurking on the porch steps: a cheap plastic skeleton lounging in a faux-wicker chair. It was wearing a neon party hat. I crept along the brick border, holding my painted blade poised at a lethal, cinematic angle to demand an explanation for this mockery. 'Is this what passes for dread in this neighborhood?' I hissed into its hollow ear cavity. To restore some dignity to the macabre arts, I used the flat of my blade to prop its jaw into a menacing snarl. Its flimsy plastic elbow immediately popped loose, dropping a glittery foam pumpkin onto my foot. Disgraceful stage discipline.