Death Does Dressup

by pseudonym-of-mine

It’s gonna be a long night, I think angrily. Jerkoffs.

I officially hate fraternities. Or, at least, this one. Kappa Delta Phi! We’re the guys! You don’t like us, you can kiss your ass goodbye! Shitty rhyme, but it shows their IQ levels accurately.

Ha. Ha. Ha. Really witty, jerkoffs. Next year, their asses are sitting outside. Ruined a perfectly good Halloween, they did. I’m stuck on the front porch with a bucket of candy, a rainbow wig, and my cigarettes; the other guys have got the beer, the ladies, and my luck. I hope they die from alcohol poisoning---the day that I manage to actually draw the short straw is the day of the best party of the year.

So. Out here handing out candy. To little kids. I wonder if I can blow smoke rings in their faces….nah. Too much trouble. There’s a little kid in front of me, dressed up like a cop. If those guys have gotten into my stash, they’re dead, I think as I put a lollipop into the kid’s bucket. The look on his face is so happy, I start to wish that I could go trick-or-treating again, and walk into the house, holding my bucket of candy like a kid whose gotten more than his friends. (Nah-nah-nah! I got more than you, doodyhead!)

Nope. I’m too old. But hey, anything’s better than sitting on a front porch, wondering when your next buzz will be.

There’s another little kid, and then more keep coming, one by one by one. It’s cute. Well, it’s cute until a teenage girl and some of her friends come by. She’s dressed like a skanky schoolgirl, and the rest of her friends are either goths or some shit like that.

“Have you got some candy for me, mister?” she says, flashing her eyes naughtily at me. I warily move the bucket of candy back, protecting my more favored areas with thin orange plastic and some chocolate.

“Nope. Go away, cause you’re not getting any.”

Her friends and her take this completely the wrong way, and she moves towards me, swaying her hips. She looks drunk. “Are you sure about that, sir?”

“Well…if you put it that way…” I say slowly, taking off my wig and messing up my short brown hair. I can see her eyes darken with lust. Hoo yeah, baby. Drink it in.

“If I put it what way, big boy?

“Put it up your ass. Go the hell away.” My middle finger flips upwards.

She scowls at me. I smirk at her, and wave her good-bye. Her friends and her walk away. (They still strut like drunkards) “What a loser.”

Yeah, I guess so. But still.

---

By now, it’s somewhere past eleven o’clock, and it’s really cold. Really. Really. Cold. You know the type where you swear your toes are going to fall off, and they do? Yeah. I forget the word for it, but that’s what it feels like. I jump up, and begin to jog in place for a minute, until the years of smoking bitchslaps the breath right out of me. Warmer, but still damn cold.

Hmm. My wig isn’t doing too much for me. I consider burning it, but decide that plastic burns smelly. Cigarettes. That’s what I need now.

…and then it hits me. I’m out.

“Damn it!” rings around the block, and people shout right back to me. I would get more from inside, but I’ve realized while sitting here that Robby is a mean drunk and John is a pervy drunk, so I’m not so keen on going back in there quite yet. Also, there’s pride, but I won’t go into that.

“Hello?”

I look up, and find myself staring at possibly the most realistic costume ever. There’s a man in his mid-20s standing in front of me, his body scarred and sewn, bandages and pieces of flesh slowly falling off of his pale blue skin. His hair and eyes are both silvery, and I think that’s a scythe in his hand.

“Hello? Were you the one swearing?”

Oh crap. My expression must give it away, because his scarred face breaks out in a wide grin. I shiver as I see small fangs. Daaaaaaamn.

“Just wondering. Any way I can help?”

Huh? Oh.

“Got any cigarettes?” I ask warily, scooting over a bit. He doesn’t seem to mind, and sits next to me, pulling out a gold-embossed pack. It’s a brand I don’t recognize (rare as that is), and as I light it, a pungent smell that’s not too unlike orange rinds mixed with pot fills the air. The smoke is sweet going down my lungs. His grin grows even wider.

“Any reason you’re out here at this time, friend?” he says to me, lighting a cigarette of his own, the glowing tip reflecting off of his eyes.

“I could ask the same of you. Any reason you’re wearing that zombie costume? I know it’s Halloween, but still. That’s pretty damn good.”

“No reason. Felt like dressing down a bit. Generally I’m stuck in all black, ya know?”

I didn’t, but I nod my agreement. This guy was probably here for the party, and looked to be a firm believer in the “better late than never” school of thought.

“So, what do you think about death?”

What?

“I mean, how do you think you’ll die? How do you think your friends will die?”

What. The. Fuck. It showed on my face, as well, and I wasn’t making any attempt at disguising it.

“You’ll die from lung cancer. They,” he gestures at the house, “will die from alcohol poisoning, or suffocation. You know, both of those can be prevented, but they won’t be. Idiotic bunch of fucks in there, and a suicidal fuck right here.” His small smile shows teeth.

I stand up and walk off of the porch. “If you’re going to the party, you’d better go in now,” I say, my voice as can as I could make it, hoping it won’t tremble. It doesn’t.

He smiles his awkward grin again, throwing the butt on the ground and stomping it out with his bandaged blue feet. “Righty then.” The guy opens the heavy door with ease, his grin nearly splitting his face.

Quickly, everything was silent in the house, the pounding music and loud voices gone. I want to go in, but my cold feet stay rooted to the frozen ground.

OhgodohgodohgodohgodohgodfuckI’mgonnadiegodhelp

I must have stayed like that, frozen for half an hour until he comes out, shutting the door carefully behind him.

“It’s okay to go and get some cigarettes now, man.”

I shake my head mutely, looking at his scythe. It was dripping with something that I hope desperately is dark red beer. He follows my line of sight, and laughed uncomfortably.

“It’s okay, it’s only…um…blood...” his voice trails off. “Man, that’s awkward. I hate it when that happens.”

Still, I was silent. He sighs.

“Okay. So. I’m not gonna see you for about…oh, twenty years at the least. It’s been good to know you, even if you are a bit of a prick.” His hair shines in the moonlight as he walks off the porch and away from the ominously silent house. My toes curl against the cold ground, telling me to run, to call the cops, to go to my mom. But I can’t, and I watch him walk away.

I'm almost able to move again, until he stops, and jogs back towards me.

“Here. You’re gonna need these more than I will.” He presses something into my shaking hands. “Have a good life, man.”

And with that, he leaves, walking briskly towards god-knows-where.

I look down at my hands. In them is the cigarette box, its shining surface winking innocently up at me.

Hands still shaking, I take one of the cigarettes out and light it, the orange scent filling my head.

It's gonna be a long fuckin’ night.