The evening has finally arrived. A cool autumn wind stirs the fallen leaves as hordes of children skip merrily along the familiar sidewalks of their old neighborhoods, a never-ending parade of ghosts and ghouls and robots and ninjas and ponies and... whatever the hell else kids like these days.
What do kids like? Is it still Transformers? Honestly, I have no clue.
Do kids even go trick-or-treating, anymore? Once again, I have no earthly idea.
I was going to try and spin some sort of nostalgic Halloween tale here, but I don't even know if the boys and girls are even allowed to celebrate the holiday, because modern parents are so hyper-sensitive and over-protective. Perhaps even the word "Halloween" is simply too much for the kiddies to take, sending them into fits of hysteria, requiring them to be heavily medicated. I don't know.
I imagine everyone just thinks it's no longer safe to send their kids wandering about, knocking on doors and begging for candy. They just know their gentrified little neighborhoods, lined with identical-looking cookie cutter houses, are populated with drooling child rapists and drug-addicted murder junkies, and if they let their precious spawn out of their sight for even a moment, the next time they see their cherubic little faces is when they spot them sewn into Mr. Johnson's new lampshade across the street as it eerily illuminates his living room window, the empty holes where their innocent eyes once sat now casting sinister shadows across the old man's collection of vintage Amish pornography, proudly displayed on a simple bookcase lovingly fashioned from their tiny bones.
That Mr. Johnson is a multi-talented dude. He mows his front yard twice a week, even in the heart of winter when the grass is brown and dead. He just traces lazy circles in the yard on his sputtering old riding mower, sipping cough syrup and giggling gently to himself as his rheumy eyes roll ceaselessly in his wrinkled old head. He's naked on that old mower, and it has to be thirty degrees outside, but he acts like he doesn't even feel the cold as it assaults his shriveled form. His nipples are so erect they could cut glass, and I think he sat on his balls, but he doesn't seem to mind. Have you ever sat on your balls? It's one of the most painful and surprising things that can happen to a man, but old Mr. Johnson is over there acting like it's no big deal.
The guy's clearly out of his mind. And he killed and skinned your children, transforming them into new furniture that, you surely must agree, beautifully matches the existing décor in his immaculate living room. So you feel bad because your kids are dead, but you can't help but admire the old man's carpentry skill, and honestly, your kids sucked, anyway. At least as a lampshade and a bookcase, they're actually serving a purpose, instead of doing whatever the hell it was they were doing at school or church or wherever. You're not even going to call the cops, because what's the point? Mr. Johnson's a nice old man who always sends the most pleasant Christmas cards every year, and you're young enough to make more kids if you really want to, so what's the harm?
I've completely lost track of things. I think the point I was trying to make is that everything sucks, and modern kids are too fucking soft. When my mother was a kid, her mother (my grandmother, you morons) would drive her and her sister several miles away, to the well-to-do part of town, and just leave them there to make their own way back to their house in the ghetto, trick-or-treating the entire way home. They were gone for hours and hours, and when they finally got home, they had so much candy between them they could barely drag it all over the threshold. They were tired, they were exhausted, but they were happy, because they had enough candy to last them both until next Halloween.
And (spoiler alert!) they never died! Not once. Nobody tried to lock them in their creepy basement, or set them on fire just for fun, or anything like that. It was just Halloween, and that's what kids did on Halloween.
Now we can't even call it Halloween, because the word is too scary. It's the "fall festival" or the "harvest festival" or the "throbbing pussy festival" or the "we don't want our weak children to have any real fun" festival, and it's just sad. How screwed up are we as a society when we can't trust our fucking neighbors to do something as simple as not poison our kids on Halloween? Especially since, statistically speaking, that doesn't actually fucking happen? Whatever. I hope Mr. Johnson kidnaps your kids and turns them into furniture. They deserve it.
Before I depart to watch a bunch of Vincent Price movies and drink far too much rye whiskey, I must present to you the most recent installment of Spooky Lies My Spooky Podcast Spooky Told Me, the terrifying three-part podcast extravaganza entitled Parasites & Polymorphs. In it, my late friend Titus and I drink spiced rum and discuss vampires of all stripes throughout pop culture, from the old classics like Bram Stoker's Dracula, to more recent anime and manga like Hellsing and Vampire Hunter D, all the way to the latest cinematic bloodsuckers from the Twilight and Underworld sagas.
It's a bloated, overlong and self-indulgent mess, and it's also so spooky that you'll probably shit your pants, so be warned!
Chapter 89: Parasites & Polymorphs (Part 1)
Chapter 90: Parasites & Polymorphs (Part2)
Chapter 91: Parasites & Polymorphs (Part 3)
That's it. I'm done writing, so you're done reading.
HAPPY HALLOWEEN, MOTHERFUCKERS!
I'm sorry your friend died.
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