By Greg Horner, Informer.
I’m sitting alone as I write this; I’m not sure how much time I’ll have. I think I’m the only one left, the only who isn’t wearing a mask. I can hear them across the street dancing at another party I wasn’t invited to.
Each day comes with the same question, “Do you know what you’re going to be?” Every time the same response, “Do you know what you’ve become?”
They line up at grocery stores, their shopping carts shaking with diabetes and mouths filled with cavities. Their sons and daughters — heartless little children — tear at each other for the saddest non-trademarked costume they can get their hands on. When the children grow up they tear at each other for the cheapest bottle of liquor they can get their mouths around — while “Monster Mash” plays on an endless repeat.
I have seen the insanity of pumpkin-spiced vomit percolating in a toilet bowl while faces I haven’t seen since high-school dance as clowns, gorillas and unfortunate ethnic stereotypes. “It’s only the nineteenth!” I cry out, “Has everyone lost their minds?” and the godforsaken crowd screams back, “Consume!”
When I go to the dollar store to preach about unjust labor practices, I see — to my horror — that they are no more. The building is a facade selling more facades and burning filthy lies, “This was a Dollar Tree last week! Don’t tell me I’m crazy!”
When I turn on the television to find a little sanctuary from all the madness it’s always the same damn episode! “We get it Ross, you’re Spud-nik! Just kiss Monica already!”
I don’t answer the door anymore. I used to greet the children with a lecture on supply-side economics and the detrimental gender norms of trick-or-treating; they called me a traitor and started stealing my mail.
When there’s nothing left to celebrate they’ll stop caring about appearances; theirs is the madness of conformity. Rotted pumpkins will adorn porches until December, the smell of guts and seeds blanketing the suburbs.
The vibration of my phone snaps me back to reality, it’s an old voice I haven’t heard in some time. “Quit being lame, you don’t need a costume just come out.”
But it is too late. I’ve already buttoned my cape and my mouth is filled with fake plastic teeth. I’ve given into their inanity, I never stood a chance. As my hand reaches for the door, I look in the mirror at the sad Dracula staring back, and from my throat a low groan escapes from my lips.
“Happy Halloween.”
