The scarecrow has been decapitated on Halloween night. Its stitched smile lays lopsided, sideways. Triangle eyes, sewn black border, seem to squint in perpetual play. Straw stuffing scattered all over the farm. Was it human or animal who did this? A crow caws, no longer deterred by making a mess of thing, by the potential of wrecking this barnyard. The hooks of the overalls have left imaginary shoulders. And if the scarecrow is dead, then what the fuck will Dorothy do? He is her first threshold guardian in Oz. The magic has been sucked through a turkey baster. It tastes like shit without it. Now there will be no story. And Dorothy will be stuck in Oz forever, eating apples and being homeless, terrorized by the trees and winged monkeys and Wicked Witch of the West. Her murder for nothing. Tin Man will stay rusted, Lion stay scared. Oz stay a liar. She gets high on poppies all day where she dreams she’s back home in Kansas. Toto goes missing and there is no happy ending. Disaster zone, caution tape, sepia sky and clouds. The orchestra violins never stop playing, L. Frank Baum ensnared in some literary sabotage.