This idea's been sitting in a folder for a while...so please enjoy.
Note: Timelines? What are those. Chris and Allison are living in a different house cause why not? (And it makes this make some kind of sense)
No matter how he looked at it, the sight before him did not change.
Chris couldn't help the scowl on his face as he stared at the bizarre looking 'decorations' (and, let's be honest, he was being extremely charitable in calling the poorly repurposed garbage that) that were overtaking the front yard of his house.
The Hunter stepped outside to give a scrutinizing look at the misshapen garbage bag witch staked to the ground next to his front step, and gave the offending 'décor' a poke with the toe of his boot as if expecting the thing to explode like some kind of Joker-style prank...which would be right up the alley for weirdness in this town. In all honesty, he probably would have preferred the explosion over the sad, over-sized thing just remaining completely unaffected as if to mock him.
With a scowl, Chris looked back over his yard: shredded black trashbags hung in the trees like so many tangled vines, skeletons made from white trashbags and (what he could only guess were) cardboard rolls from paper towels and toilet paper were suspended from tree branches, coffee canisters were set up to look like a pumpkin patch's worth of jack-o-lanterns (each painted face more gruesome than the last), a circle of ghosts made from white trashbags and toilet paper were off to one side with a circle of black trashbag witches (better formed than the one at the door at least) around what looked like an old Styrofoam cooler that had been painted to resemble a cauldron, and there were more garbage-made bats and spiders on spiderwebs than he wanted to count.
In all honesty, it looked like an internet budget DIY page had just thrown up on his lawn.
The Hunter took a deep breath and rubbed a hand down his face to scratch at his jaw. He didn't know why this was done, but he had a pretty good idea of what pair of nutjobs was just crazy enough to risk doing something like this while he had been doing maintenance on his gear.
A noise from the back yard caught his attention and the Hunter stalked back into his house. Time for Marilyn to get some fresh air.
= [madnessmadnessmadness] =
In the backyard, and seemingly unaware that the owner of the house and yard was in fact aware of their existence, a certain pair of Masters of Mayhem were grumbling as they attempted to position the plastic recyclables just right inside of the trashbags. Who would have guessed that it was so hard to turn trash into corpses in bodybags?
Peter grabbed the duct tape; in all honesty, he wasn't sure how many rolls they had gone through already, but he was certain that no one would question it since they had paid in cash for all of the trashbags and tape to start with. Honestly, that was a good life lesson to take away from everything: if what you're buying looks suspicious, pay in cash. "Hold the milk jugs steady, would you?"
"I'm trying." Stiles grumbled as they finished taping up their 'corpses' and finally moved on to wrapping and taping the trashbags around them. "Outta curiosity, why're we at Mr. Argent's for this?"
"Well, Stiles...it would just be tacky to attempt all of these decorations at the Hale House. After all, Derek might have a fit at the sight of our fake corpses."
Stiles blinked as he processed that before... "And Mr. Argent won't?"
"Well..." Peter said, pausing as he patted down the tape, before looking around. "Last I checked, this wasn't the Argent House of Corpses."
"Even I think that was low to say, Creeper Wolf."
"Shush and start laying out the next bag."
Stiles froze just as he reach for the box of trash bags as his 'prey senses' started tingling something fierce. "Uh...Peter? Do...do you feel like you're hearing boss music right now?"
Peter cautiously stared at the teenager. "With...uh, with lyrics?"
"Gotcha." Came Chris's voice from a few feet behind them.
= [title card reading: "ten minutes later"] =
Sheriff Stilinski had seen a lot of things in his life (most of the worst being ever since becoming the sheriff of Beacon Hills and, after a long-overdue conversation with his son and a pack of errant werewolves about obstruction of justice) but the Halloween-on-a-Budget look overtaking Chris Argent's yard in May was something new at least. Not the weirdest (really...werewolves playing 'world's creepiest game of peek-a-boo' to prove that they existed and not that they all needed to be given medication before being allowed on the streets) but still something new.
With a heavy sigh because, to be fair, this had his son's shenanigans all over it, the Sheriff walked up to the front door...only to veer off-course and head for the back yard because he heard a certain member of the undead cursing loud enough to warrant a noise complaint.
When he finally rounded the corner, the Sheriff had to pause to take in the sight of his son and said-undead trapped in a net that was hanging from a tree like they were the inside part of the world's angriest piñata. Both were thrashing about, Stiles clearly trying figure out a way to escape while Peter was wrecking all of those attempts in favor of trying to wrap his hands around the throat of one just-out-of-reach Chris Argent...who looked far too pleased with himself as he held some kind of weapon over his shoulders.
"IF YOU SAY "SUCK IT" ONE MORE TIME, ARGENT-!"
"Peter! Stop trying to strangle him for one second so I can aim!"
"Come on, Hale...don't you just want to rip my throat out...with your teeth?"
"Stop antagonizing him-ow! Werewolf kicking fragile human over here!"
Sheriff Stilinski just stared at this insanity before deciding to just compartmentalize this and unpack it later when he had a glass of that expensive whiskey that said-undead had given to him for his birthday. "I am getting steak for this. And cheesecake for dessert."
Can someone please give the Sheriff a steak? Like...he deserves it.