I knew I should've worn my other coat, the gumball machine thought to himself as he trudged his way through the melted sludge on the sidewalk. The last few glimpses of sun managed to peek their way from between the greedy storm clouds, casting a shadow over the shivering figure making its way toward the city park. Eventually the clouds had had enough of being crowded by the sunlight, so it smeared over the brightness and dimmed the bothersome glow, as well as the atmosphere. The gray continued to consume the sky and eat away at the last precious reminders of Autumn. Then, to the gumball machine's demise, it started to rain. It was gentle at first, then it grew aggressive, and it pelted the gumball machine's dome with glee. The machine cursed as one struck his eyeball, and then cursed again when he slipped on a small section of ice and his gumballs spilt out of his dispenser. The loud cackling sound the thunder had made was meant to be laughter at his clumsiness and how he desperately searched in the puddles for his remaining pieces of candy. For both the storm clouds and the gumball machine, it was confirmed: Winter had arrived.
Benson hated winter. There wasn't one specific reason why he disliked it. There were countless reasons why it was such a troublesome season. He grumbled childishly as he picked himself up from the ground and attempted to dry the mud and rainwater off of him with a soaking wet jacket. Then he noticed that the jacket was wetter than him, so he cursed once more and flung it over his shoulder, not really caring how the cold water soaked his arm and ran down his back. The cons outnumbered the pros when it came to winter, and Benson wished that the springtime would finally come out of hiding to rid him of the cold snow and the bitter cold. Why did no one understand him when he told them that he couldn't stand winter, or snow for that matter? How could someone possibly love to roll around in the freezing embrace of the snow, or like to build snowmen with their bare hands? Would no one understand this concept? Why was winter even a season anyway? Perhaps it was just because the underappreciated seasons such as autumn had grown lonely and hardened itself, and wanted everyone around it to feel its wrath. Well, if this was the case, it was succeeding. Benson couldn't remember the last time that we was dry, let alone warm. He thought about this as he walked through the gates of the local park, where he was expected half an hour ago.
But it wasn't his fault he was so late. His car refused to cooperate in cold weather, another reason why winter wasn't one of his favorites. He was planning to stop by the Coffee Shop on his way, to at least warm his insides with a warm mug of Double Mint Mocha Delight; but alas, nothing he ever planned to do followed through. Something would always be in his way, a blockade that would never refuse to move, no matter how hard he tried to find a way around it. Suddenly, a wave of pain went up his foot, causing him to interrupt his self-pitiful thoughts and fall backwards. He fell right back into a puddle and sank deep into the mud. He just lied there for a moment, secretly wishing that the mall would at least carry boots his size, before wriggling his way out of the clingy rainwater and pulling his injured foot up to his face. A sharp piece of glass was imbedded into the arch his foot, and thick blood was slowly oozing down his ankle. Benson sighed deeply and clenched his fists. He hated how the store didn't bother to make at least sneakers that were his size. He also hated how Mordecai, having feet even bigger than his, managed to wear those tiny cleats when he played soccer with Rigby. Angrily, he squeezed the piece of glass between his forefinger and his thumb and yanked the glass out of his foot. Benson bit his bottom lip fiercely to keep from shouting in pain, and was grateful when the throbbing pain greatly declined. He dropped bloody shard of glass, which sank into the puddle behind him, then he cupped his hand and poured the rainwater over the cut. It stung for a second or two, then it gradually numbed as the cold seeped into it and the mud washed out. Benson was satisfied when the bleeding stopped and the pulsation of the deep cut wasn't as painful. He pulled himself up from the ground carefully, and proceeded to walk on the cut open foot. It wasn't at all pleasant, but the sooner he arrived at the park house, the sooner he could treat it and determine whether or not it was a serious matter. He limped in the direction of the house, completely forgetting about the jacket that was left soaking in the puddle at the entrance of the park.
"Why are you arriving late, Beancan? I expected you nearly forty-five minutes ago!" Mr. Maellard's voice boomed through the house. It didn't necessarily affect Mordecai and Rigby, who were too preoccupied with their video game to be paying attention to their boss being yelled at. Benson regretted walking to the park instead of taking the bus, for if he knew that Mr. Maellard would show up unexpectedly to give an early Christmas present to his son, then he would've gotten there early. For now though, Benson had to conceal his anger and disappointment by biting on his lower lip while sitting at the kitchen table across from his boss. Enduring meeting with his boss was almost just like trying to pull out glass from flesh, with the exception that the glass was driven into your bone and the more you pulled at it the more pain you were in. Benson rubbed his cold hands together vigorously as he responded. "I-I-my car wasn't-it, broke down, sir. I had to walk here." The grumpy old lollipop straightened out his jacket and grunted. "You walked all the way here without a jacket or footwear?" Benson lightly shrugged. "Um, no sir. I supposed that the weather would be nicer. I brought a coat, but-"
As if on queue, the door opened and a bulking yeti entered the kitchen wearing a black jacket and jeans. A sopping wet blue coat was in his arms. "Benson, this your jacket?" he asked the gumball machine in a low gravelly voice. Benson nodded and rubbed the back of his head. "I sort of forgot about it." he admitted to Mr. Maellard, who was boring his eyes through the managers' dome. Skips cut in before the lollipop man could scold him for being such an intolerant employee. "How's your foot?" Benson looked at him quizzically. "My-how did you know I-?"
"I found a bloody piece of glass in the puddle your coat was in. It's a long shard, so that cut of yours must be pretty deep. You mind if I take a look?" Benson shook his head as Skips sat in the chair next to him. He carefully lifted his foot and inspected it while Mr. Maellard resumed his pep talk. "Well, your tardiness will be excused this once, only because you were seemingly injured on the way here. But I won't allow it again, you understand, Beanteen?" Benson nodded gratefully. "Y-yes sir!" Mr. Maellard, after scanning the managers' face once more, nodded in approval and scooped up a packet of paperwork from the table.
"Now then, there's a lot to discuss about the park's scenery matters. Enhancing the landscape with plants and flowers for season's greetings should be enough for this years' alterations to the park. A garden would be quite a nice change for the setting, as well as planting some new trees. And with the amount of work that is due before spring, I strongly suggest that you hire another worker, perhaps one that has experience with gardens or horticulture. This should-"
"Mr. Maellard sir?" Skips interrupted the old man's speech. Mr. Maellard took a strong liking to Skips when he applied for the job, so he wouldn't dare show rudeness to him for interrupting, as he definitely would've done if it were Benson. "Yes, Skips?" "Benson needs to be taken to the hospital, this cut is too large to be treated with a meager first aid kit." Benson, who was struck with fear when Skips said the word 'hospital' immediately took his foot from Skips and examined the cut. It was worse than it looked when he first received it. It was nearly four inches long, and it was starting to bleed once more. "It can't be that bad," Benson squeaked, desperately trying to change his friends' mind. But Skips merely shook his head and turned back to Mr. Maellard. "If you ever want it to get better Benson, it has to have stitches, and it has to be treated as soon as possible." Mr. Maellard hopped from his chair and looked at Benson's foot questioningly. He nodded. "Yes, Skips, it appears you are right. This cut is very serious. How did you get this cut, Bensop?" he asked the gumball machine, who was still anxiously squeezing his ankle in an effort to calm down.
"I stepped on it, and it got stuck in there, so I pulled it out. But it's not that bad!" he claimed. There was another thing he couldn't stand. Hospitals. His last experience at the hospital was the worst, when he had to get his hand stitched up when he tripped and fell down his apartment stairs and a piece of glass from a beer bottle in the alleyway ripped it clean open. He was glad that he was the only one that knew about it, and that the scar from the cut wasn't as visible as it was months ago. The wise yeti sighed.
"That's why the cut is so long Benson. You pulled it out at a wrong angle, so it cut more of it open than it would've if it were taken out at the right angle. You should've just left it alone."
"But then how would I have been able to walk all the way to the house in order to get it pulled out? Besides, I was freezing."
"You don't know much about First Aid, do you?"
"I know enough."
Mr. Maellard whacked Benson on his glass dome with his cane. "Hush boy! I'm sure Skips knows what he's doing. Since you will have to get stitches, you are not to work for the next couple of weeks until you are well enough to work again. From now on, I am making it a requirement that every park worker, gumball machine or mammal nonetheless, is to wear proper attire while working or there will be consequences! Understood!"
"Y-yes sir!" Benson stammered nimbly.
"Very good now. Skips, have you any idea how long the surgery should take?" Skips shrugged. "Sir, all I know is that Benson will have to use crutches if he wants to get around at all for the next month or so." Benson groaned, only to be whacked in the head again by his boss. "Therefore, you're not allowed to be going anywhere when you get back from the hospital. You are to stay on park grounds until your foot is healed. There's no way you'll be able to take care of yourself in such a condition."
"But-but sir," Benson started to say, before being bonked on the head for the third time in a row. "I'll try to find someone who can watch after you for the time being. Well, what are you waiting for? You should get going if this wound must be treated as soon as possible!" Before Benson could tell Mr. Maellard that the cut shouldn't interfere with his getting back to his apartment, Skips scooped him up as if he were a rag doll and skipped out the door. Oh, this is going to be fun, Benson thought to himself. Rigby, hearing all of the ruckus that resulted in him losing the game, peeked over the couch in curiosity and saw the door slam. He also noted a puddle of blood on the floor. "Um, hey, Mr. Maellard sir?" he said. The lollipop man turned around. "W-what happened just now?"
"It's nothing, my son. Your boss simply has sustained an injury as a result of trying to walk to the park in the winter months. May this serve as a lesson to you both," he pointed his finger at Rigby and Mordecai, who had heard Mr. Maellard approach and paused his game to pay attention. "Winter is not one to befriend. It is cruel, and if it really wanted to, it would show no mercy." At that, Mr. Maellard trotted up the stairs gaily, flailing his top hat behind him as a farewell to the lazy mammals sitting upon the couch staring at him in confusion.
"Dude…did you hear that?" the blue jay said to the raccoon before they continued their videogame. "I didn't get any of that funky poetry." Mordecai face palmed himself. "No dude. Because of Benson getting hurt, that old guy is gonna make us wear clothes. Human clothes." "WHAT?" Rigby shouted, standing up on the couch and flinging the controller up in the air.
"He can't make us do that."
"Yes he can Rigby."
"How? Is he gonna walk in on us and try putting it on us himself?"
"Dude, Mr. Maellard is Benson's boss, who is our boss. If we don't listen to him, we might as well tell Benson that we want to quit."
"But we don't!"
"Exactly. So we have to wear clothes. End of story."
Rigby slumped down into the scruffy couch somberly, the controller sliding from his numb fingers. "Did he say what we have to wear? Like, just a shirt or something?" Mordecai shrugged as he handed Rigby his controller and started the game. "I don't know dude. I think he said proper attire." Mordecai replied as he quickly tapped the buttons on the controller with ease. Rigby struggled and fumbled with his controller as he tried to multitask, play the videogame and hold up a conversation at the same time. "Does that mean we have to wear everything? Like the socks, and the shoes, and the…underwear?" Mordecai chuckled. "Dude, I think we should start wearing clothes anyway. Isn't it a little odd that we walk around without any pants, let alone underpants?" At this comment, Rigby looked at his pelvic area curiously, only to look back at the screen and realize that he lost again. "Hey, not fair!" he shouted. "I know dude. Life's not fair. But we'll have to live with doing laundry I guess." "What?" Rigby questioned him, tugging on the controller and unplugging the entire game console.
"Dude! Look what you did!" Mordecai boomed. He stood up and plugged in the back of the game console. "I sleep in dirty laundry, man! Why don't we just pay someone to do our laundry for us?" Mordecai thought about his friends' comment for a second, stopping what he was doing, before turning the console off and putting his controller away. "Dude, I don't think we'll have to pay someone to do it for us. Mr. Maellard is finding someone to take care of Benson while his injury is getting better, so we'll just trick him into doing our laundry."
"Dude…that can actually work! Why didn't I think of that?"
"Because, Rigby, I'm smarter than you. And you're sort of stupid."
"Hey!"
"Just kidding bro. C'mon, let's drive the cart over to the hospital to see how Benson's coping."
The two mammals walked around the small puddle of blood in the kitchen and exited the back door, heading for the garage to get the golf cart to drive to their boss. Neither of them realized that the television screen tore open and revealed a gaping grey vortex to the human world.