A Greener Garden

"How does he do it?" was all Gordon Price could ask as he watched his next door neighbor, Rich Lambie, accept first prize in the annual Laverton Lawn of the Year competition. Gordon, as per his tradition, had been a bitter runner up -- but he could not understand why. He had tried every organic, chemical and even metaphysical combination of seed and soil and fertilizer to ensure that his lawn was a pristine example of grassy perfection, ideal for picnics and even worthy of a golf course.

But no, Rich Lambie's lawn always seemed a little greener, a little thicker, better smelling and just all around more perfect than Gordon's. Between seasons, Gordon once cornered Rich at a community barbecue and asked the man if he used actual grass or some kind of experimental AstroTurf.

"Oh c'mon, Gordo -- you wouldn't ask David Copperfield how he pulls off his tricks, would you?" was Rich's only reply.

Gordon had resisted throwing his glass in his landscaping rival's face -- instead he laughed with Rich and envisioned an army of trained gophers turning Rich's emerald triumph into a huge, green swath of Swiss cheese. Gordon's only consolation, and the only blemish on Rich's record of lawn related victories, was the man's steadfast habit of displaying three of the most repulsive garden gnomes ever presented. To Gordon, they looked like the offspring of gargoyles and the troll toys of the eighties and nineties and they throned in the center of Rich's lawn.

Gordon stared bitterly at the gnomes as Rich posed for photographs, holding his first place victory ribbon above his head. The gnomes stared through Gordon's soul.

@@@@@

Once the celebrations were finished and the neighborhood returned to its calm, mundane serenity, Gorgon sat for dinner with his wife of fifteen years, Gloria, and he watched as she deposited a plate of tenderized steak, mashed potatoes and fancy string beans in front of him. Gloria was the epitome of the suburban house wife: on a first name basis with the local butcher and all the other wives on their patch of pavement. She was a common contributor to any event that had the word community attached to it and Gordon loved her selfish generosity. But even Gloria's big smile and home cooked meal could not wash away his scalding defeat.

"Did you know he thanked me for my competition this year?" Gordon said as Gloria sat down to enjoy the meal. "He thanked me for keeping him on his toes ... the nerve!"

Gloria affectionately rolled her eyes at her husband's outburst and sipped from her glass of water. "He did seem to have done an exceptional job with the lawn this year, dear," she said. "Maybe next year'll be the year of the Price lawn."

Gordon glared for a moment at his loving wife, irritated at her optimism but also loving her attempt at giving him hope for the next competition.

"Maybe you're right," he sighed. "Hey, have you seen Pepper tonight?"

At the sound of the name of their beloved miniature poodle, Gloria's face darkened with concern. "I wanted to wait till the whole lawn nonsense was over but I let her out into the backyard last night, and she never came back."

"After dinner, I'll go out with a flashlight and find the little rascal," Gordon reassured his wife -- hinting at the critter's habit of staying out all night. But their dog's timely disappearance would give him an opportunity for some gardening related snooping.

@@@@@

Gordon dressed in a dark jacket and a dark baseball cap and picked up a flashlight from a junk drawer in the kitchen. As Gloria piled rinsed dishes in the dishwasher, he opened the back door, stepping out into their backyard. Though it was as meticulously maintained as the front lawn, the backyard lacked the wow factor Gordon worked for in the front. Where the front lawn was the visage he presented to the neighborhood, the backyard was his sanctum -- messier and more personal.

He slapped the rear of the flashlight and the long, black tube spat out a luminous white ray that inundated the yard with a pocketful of sunshine. Gordon scanned from left to right, slowly panning the light in search of any sign where the miniature poodle might have run off to. He then stepped out into the yard and away from the weak porch light -- it was a moonless night so the mighty flashlight was his only illumination. He found the edge of the property, a hedge that bordered his property and Rich's, and Gordon squatted, looking for some displaced branches that might indicate a passage the little dog might have used -- he had dug into Rich's yard before.

"Bingo," Gordon quietly exclaimed when he found some newly displaced soil where Pepper likely crossed to Rich's backyard. Gordon stood and peered through the tangle of branches and made sure all the lights were off in Rich's house. Once he confirmed that Rich was either gone or had settled in for the night, Gordon wiggled his way into his neighbor's yard and crouched low, keeping the beam of his flashlight aimed downwards from his waistline.

He scanned his neighbor's yard -- 500 square feet of meticulously maintained greenery as impressive as the front. Even without the flashlight, Gordon felt he could sense the color of the grass as much as see it. Even though Gordon hated the fact he had been by shown up by his neighbor five years in a row since he'd arrived in Laverton, he had to give Rich credit -- the man was a mass-grass genius.

Gordon proceeded to do some interloping around Rich's palace of a shed, hoping to see signs of his wife's beloved Pepper and gather insight into his neighbor's landscaping wizardry.

"Pepper?" Gordon said as he jiggled the handle to the shed -- to his surprise he found the door unlocked, so he surreptitiously slipped inside.

"Pepper -- are you in here, girl?" Gordon asked again, listening for the dog's typical plaintive whine, or the sound of her claws rattling on the cement floor of the shed. But all was still.

Circling an oddly low to the ground work bench, Gordon went then to investigate the various instruments hanging from hooks lining each wall of the shed -- gardening tools he recognized hung at chest level: hoes, shovels, trowels, and rakes. But near the floor hung tools more suited for a medieval butcher shop or even a torture chamber.

Just as Gordon was about to select one of the items on a lower hook, he heard something scurry across the floor. The door to the shed slowly creaked open. Gordon froze, thinking Rich was about to make an appearance. But there was no sign of his neighbor -- Gordon watched as mist and the ambient darkness crept into the shed. He then stood and walked to the open door, expecting to see Pepper jumping around on the grass, hopefully ready to leave Rich a big steaming turd as a souvenir, but instead he saw the hideous garden gnomes that usually decorated Rich's front lawn. They seemed less plasticky as their shapes had a weight to them and their tattered clothes seemed made of real fabric -- their faces had mischievous dark eyes and their deformed noses and lips carried a moist sheen of condensation and spit.

Gordon shook as his blood ran cold and he backed away from the menacing lawn decorations -- garden gnomes weren't supposed to move, and you weren't supposed to see air escape their nostrils as they breathed.

Gordon's meticulous and logical mind recoiled at the thought of garden gnomes coming to life until he stumbled into the low lying workbench -- on it, he recognized a bloody dog collar that he had bought for Pepper on the dog's third birthday as a favor for his loving wife. Gordon suddenly remembered an almost yearly tradition of fliers for missing animals appearing on telephone poles, asking for information on a missing Fido or Mr Clawstruck.

Gordon was about to turn tail and sprint from the shed until two small but inhumanly strong hands grabbed his pant cuffs -- he looked down in bewildered horror as leathery skinned fingers yanked his legs from under him and he fell backwards, the back of his head striking the concrete floor of the shed with a stunning thud.

Lying there dazed, Gordon heard the rattling of steel as oddly shaped blades were picked from the hooks that were level with the gnomes. He felt his baseball cap be yanked off roughly and cold fingers grabbed his hair.

Gordon's vision cleared and he stared up at the distorted face of a garden gnome from hell, the creature's gruesome eyes glowing as it pressed a knife to the helpless man's scalp.

"Meat and mulch for next year's growing season, boys," the gnome said and it began to work the knife.

The door to the shed in Rich's backyard closed. Gordon's logical mind was still denying he had fallen victim to the gardeners from hell while his body accepted its fate and he screamed.

But beyond the shed, there was no one to hear.