Virgil Templeton stood resolutely in the former camp. He loved Candy Corn. He loved everything about Candy Corn. The honey smell. The triangular shape; nibbling off sections by color. And which was sweeter? White, orange or yellow? Virgil could spend an entire afternoon chomping and testing, trying to decide.
But in the end, every section proved to be delicious. A just and righteous cuisine; Candy Corn does not discriminate.
In fact, Virgil adored Candy Corn so much; he became confused and even angered by the changes being made to his favorite Halloween treat. Even at his tender age, Virgil soured into an intractable purist in the face of the designer flavors being introduced to the racks at Walgreen's. Apple Pie flavored? S'mores? Caramel Macchiato? What the crap is Macchiato?
Virgil couldn't wrap his mind around these horrors, and that's how it all started.
***
"Mom," Virgil strode into the kitchen. "What's this?" He slammed a bag down on the island counter.
Standing at the sink, Mary Templeton cast a quick glance over her shoulder and said, "You can have some, dear, but not too much."
Virgil pinched the bridge of his nose and shook his head. "No, Mom. No. What is this?" He held the bag up and showed her the lettering on the package.
"Candy Corn, honey. I know how much you like it."
Virgil sighed and his shoulders slumped. "Mom. It is bag of Candy Corn and peanuts. Peanuts, mom. They put peanuts in with the Candy Corn."
Mary glanced again. "Oh, so they did. Well, eat around the peanuts, dear."
A shadow fell across Virgil's face. He tapped his finger against the counter. Eventually he said, "This cannot stand. I have to put a stop to this before it gets any worse. Next they'll be mixing Candy Corn with marshmallows. Or pretzels."
"You like pretzels."
"Not with my Candy Corn!" Virgil exploded.
"Yes, dear." Mary took a knife to the lettuce. "Dinner is in an hour, so don't eat too much."
Virgil stomped out of the kitchen.
***
Storm clouds rolled in and forked lighting tore across the sky over the Bruch's candy factory. Twin smokestacks on either side of the boxy building added to the rolling black clouds. A large circular window in the middle of the entry-way gable glowed yellow, like a jaundiced eye gazing into the darkness.
Lighting flashed and thunder cracked. A trick of the light made it seem as if the window moved, redirected its focus, and came to rest looking right at Virgil Templeton.
The boy stood at the elaborately decorative iron gates and scowled. His hand clenched around the offending package of Candy Corn and Peanuts. The factory would not scare him away with its intimidating size and foreboding appearance - he was on a mission!
Virgil pressed and ground his finger firmly into the gate's buzzer.
"Yes, yes? What do you want?" a haggard, disembodied voice came out of the intercom.
"I need to speak to someone about this!" Virgil shouted, holding the bag up to the factory's window-eye.
After a long moment of silence save for the static from the speaker, the voice responded, "Very well. Come ahead."
A buzzing sound followed by a click indicated the gate had been remotely unlocked. Virgil pushed it open, hinges squeaking in agonized protest, and started up the long, winding path to the factory's door.
***
The sky opened up pouring buckets of rain on Virgil before he reached the entry. By the time the heavy, oak door swung laboriously open, he was soaked through and through.
"Oh, dear," the factory manager said as a greeting. "You're all wet."
Standing in the foyer, looking just like a drowned puppy with his dirty blonde hair plastered against his forehead, water dripping from his brow, and a puddle spreading around his feet, Virgil scowled at the tall, thin bureaucrat. He held up the offensive package of Candy Corn and peanuts and demanded, "Why did you do this?"
The manager sighed. He lifted the package from Virgil's hands and shook his head sadly. "I can offer no apology, only an explanation. First, however, let me see if we can't find a towel. Maybe some tea, or, no, hot chocolate? And we'll talk in my office where it is warm."
***
Later, dry and comfortable, sitting in an over-sized leather chair at a desk across from the manager whose nameplate read "Mr. Muncie", Virgil ignored the steaming cup of coco at his elbow and glared hatefully at the bag of Candy Corn and peanuts resting at the center of the otherwise empty desk.
Mr. Muncie cleared his throat. "How's the chocolate?" he asked, trying to sound conversational, but lack of experience in polities made the words seem aggressively inquisitive. Virgil didn't answer. He just looked at the manager's eyes, then back to the package, then the eyes again, before returning with blistering intensity to the bag.
"Oh very well," Mr. Muncie swept the bag from the top of the desk, hiding it in a drawer. "As I said before, there is no suitable apology. It is awful; but we can't take it back now."
"But why?" Virgil pressed. "Why would you do such a thing? What were you thinking?"
Mr. Muncie took a deep, chest-full of air through his narrow nose, held it, and exhaled mightily. "What's your name?" he asked.
"Virgil."
"Yes. Okay, Virgil. Do you know how much Candy Corn we make in a year? Last year it was 35 million pounds; roughly 9 billion pieces. They say there are only around 8 billion people alive on the face of this earth. That's one piece and a section for each man, woman, and child alive."
Virgil considered - Candy Corn for everyone? The man just described utopia!
"I see you're impressed," the manager continued. "As well you should be. We do work hard here, Virgil.
"But for all our hard work, we face a rather daunting and, seemingly, insurmountable problem. Can you guess what it is?"
Virgil shook his head.
"Simply and concisely - people hate Candy Corn."
"No!" Virgil exclaimed. "Candy Corn is the best! It tastes just like heaven! I could eat Candy Corn until-
Mr. Muncie held up a hand to stop the boy's outburst.
"Yes, yes, Virgil. You love Candy Corn, and we do appreciate it. And there are a few others like you, and we appreciate them, too; however...," Mr. Muncie took a remote from the inside pocket of his jacket and pushed some buttons. A wide screen monitor descended from the ceiling and flickered to life. In a short moment, the internet site Google was displayed.
Mr. Muncie worked his fingers over the remote and Virgil saw the search term 'most hated halloween candy' appear on the display. The magnifying glass was selected and a host of links appeared. Every one had a picture of Candy Corn next to it.
"No," Virgil whispered, eyes wide and moist as Mr. Muncie worked through the list.
"Dozens. Hundreds of websites," the manager explained as he continued surfing. Each page he visited had something negative to say about Candy Corn. "All of them filled with vitriolic hatred towards our product."
"Please, stop." Virgil wept openly. He wiped his eyes and said, "None of that's true. Candy Corn is not made of sadness and tears."
Mr. Muncie clicked a button and the screen went dark and then ascended back into the ceiling.
"Walk with me, Virgil," he said. "I need to show you something."
***
As they traversed down a long corridor lined with poster sized, elegantly framed pictures of Candy Corn, Mr. Muncie continued his explanation:
"...and juxtaposed against these sentiments is the incongruous fact that sales are up. Soaring, in fact...."
Virgil understood maybe every third or fourth word, but trailed along expectantly. He felt certain they were approaching a revelation.
"....so what does that tell us?"
Mr. Muncie paused, waiting for an answer. Virgil looked at him blankly.
"Well, Virgil. It can only mean one thing. People are buying our candy, but not eating it."
Virgil slammed a clenched fist into his palm. No!
"Indeed. They purchase it to use as decoration or, sometimes, a cruel joke. I've seen instances of pranks where cars, even a swimming pool, were filled with Candy Corn. Thousands of pounds - tons - of our candy being rendered inedible for a moment of childish devilry."
"Those rotten...!" Virgil muttered.
"Just so," Mr. Muncie nodded.
***
In the anteroom leading to the factory floor, wall-mounted display cases housed the many different varieties of Candy Corn based treats manufactured by Bruch's. Each display had a bag, a printed page with marketing language, and a lever that could be pulled to receive a sample. Virgil studied the options; many of which he'd already seen, some were new and confusing: pomegranate strawberry Candy Corn, root beer float Candy Corn, kale currant Candy Corn...?
"All this just to get people to eat Candy Corn," Mr. Muncie said, hands behind his back. "Feel free to take any samples."
Virgil shook his head.
"I don't blame you." Mr. Muncie pulled a lever for a handful of Candy Corn with the color pattern black, grey, purple. He rattled it in his fist like dice then tossed it in a trash can. "They are distasteful to the eye as well as palate."
"Then why do you do it?" Virgil asked. "Why do you care if people eat it as long as they are buying it?"
"A very good question." Mr. Muncie put his hands on the double-doors leading to the factory floor, paused theatrically, and then gave a mighty shove. Mr. Muncie motioned for Virgil to enter.
Virgil stepped forward slowly. His eyes grew wide as he looked around the over-sized warehouse.
Monsters! Dozens of giant, shapeless blobs sprawled at intervals along the concrete floor. Their skin was grey and slick with slime, with no legs or arms, just shifting rolls of blubber twitching under the florescent lights. Their massive heads lolled woefully from their own weight. Rows of fluttering tentacles covered their mouths and their noses were but gaping slits in their faces.
But their eyes! Their eyes were huge and dark, soulful and sad. Each had an expression of such fathomless misery, Virgil felt a lump of pity rise in his throat whenever he caught one of their eyes.
Mist fell from pipes in the ceiling and men in hazmat suits walked the floor with brooms and mops, scrubbing the mysterious beasts in a way that seemed to bring comfort. Like scratching their backs - if they had backs.
On the far side of the warehouse, a movie-theater screen displayed a 24 hour news channel, currently showing war footage; from each side of the room, rows of speakers played sad, old country songs.
"What the...?" Virgil started, but then it happened.
One of the creatures let out a slow, agonized moan. All the workers on the floor rushed towards it, working their mops over its gross skin. The moan rose to a wail and the eyes - those mournful eyes - rolled back.
And suddenly the beast cried out and, from its eyes, geysers of Candy Corn tears burst forth. The first salvo was of such volume, it completely covered the warehouse floor with rattling candy. Subsequent sobs brought forth more waves of the white, yellow orange confection, but at lesser amounts. When it was over, Virgil stood knee deep in an ocean of his favorite treat.
A hanger door opened and a harvesting machine rumbled in to collect the bounty.
"So you see, Virgil." Mr. Muncie put a hand on the boy's shoulder. "Candy Corn actually is made of sadness and tears."
***
Back in the office, Mr. Muncie fortified Virgil with another cup of hot chocolate and tried to explain things in a way the boy could understand.
"There is an overage of agony in the world, an imbalance if you will, and those creatures you saw do their best to control the distribution of sadness among all people. They take as much as they can hold, but eventually there has to be a release. As a sort of gift to us humans, their surfeit is a delicious treat - Candy Corn. Well. You and I consider it delicious, don't we?"
Virgil sipped chocolate and waited.
"Indeed we do. But we're in the minority. Therefore, tons of this converted-sadness is not being ingested in a joyful manner. Instead, it is returning to the earth where it decays and festers into yet more imbalanced sadness.
"Does this make any sense to you?"
"No," Virgil said. "Not really. But if the point is I need to eat more Candy Corn, then I'm okay with that."
Mr. Muncie smiled wanly. "I know you are. Unfortunately it is not that simple. For all your enthusiasm, you alone cannot make a significant difference. What we need is to find a way to make large amounts of Candy Corn tasty to a vast majority of people.
"I don't know what to tell you," Virgil said. "Candy Corn is pure and good just like it is. Giving it weird flavors is unnatural."
In a heretofore unseen burst of emotion, Mr. Muncie slammed his fist on the desktop and exclaimed, "What choice do we have! We have to do something!"
Embarrassed by his own outburst, Mr. Muncie sat back and rubbed his mouth. "I am sorry. Forgive me."
Virgil shrugged.
"The thing is; each new flavor we try comes at a great cost. Every failure is.... painful."
"Is there anything I can do to help?"
Mr. Muncie stood up and paced the room. He moved his lips silently, as if reasoning with himself, then nodded and returned to his chair.
"Virgil," he said, "There is something you can do."
"Anything!" Virgil drained his coco and licked marshmallow foam from his lip. "You name it."
"Based on what you've seen," Mr. Muncie fixed his eyes on Virgil, "can you guess how we develop the new flavors?"
Virgil shook his head and, for some reason, that simple action made him dizzy. The room tilted and he had to put both hands on the desktop to stead himself.
Mr. Muncie continued. "I'll make this fast so you understand. It is in the diet we feed them. That's how we effect the change. Mostly they prefer plants; easy to attain vegetation such as hay and lawn clippings. But we've found that by secretly adding other organic materials to the compost they ingest, it changes the color and flavor of the Candy Corn they expel.
"At first we tried other fruits and vegetables with little success.
"Then we tried artificial vitamins and supplements - that was a disaster.
"Meat, however, yielded promising results - some of which you've seen and, I'm sure tasted. Nothing exemplary, but enough to give us hope to continue trying.
"The issue, then, becomes one of trial and error: what kind of meat will deliver the most flavorful treat?"
Virgil tried to stand up, failed, and collapsed back into the giant leather chair. His vision blurred and grew dark around the edges. Mr. Muncie's face appeared and filled the landscape.
"Little girls gave us the root beer float flavor," The manager said, reaching out and grabbing Virgil's shoulders with two vice-like hands. "And we have high hopes for you, Virgil.
"If it is any consolation," Virgil felt himself being lifted and carried away, "you will be mourned."
Happy Halloween!
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