Still, the whole phenomenon was relatively safe regardless of how fucked up it was. Over the years, Tom Two and The Membrane had never been seriously assaulted by any of the townspeople during reverse trick-or-treating despite the threats of violence involved in the practice. However, minor incidents occurred on occasion, usually involving children who didn’t know any better.
Case in point: on this particular Halloween, after visiting about one-third of the houses on the north side of town, the trio encountered a boy of about eight or nine who was dressed up as Chucky from Child’s Play. He was with his little sister, a kindergartener dressed as Miley Cyrus (complete with a plastic sledgehammer for lascivious licking). Their mother, one Sharon Simmons—an uppity-looking, sour-faced, she-bitch of a woman—accompanied them. While people generally moved out of their way on the sidewalk, these folks blocked their path and refused to move.
“Why, I’ll smack your little hand, Tom Two!” Sharon said.
The woman’s slutty little Miley Cyrus-with-a-sledgehammer daughter followed that up with, “Why, I’ll step on your toe, Tom Two!”
“Just move out of their way,” Weak Bitch said to his nephews, “and walk on the grass, guys.”
Tom Two did as Weak Bitch said, sidestepping onto the tree lawn to go around the hateful trick-or-treaters.
Gripping a long, thick stick he’d picked up off the sidewalk moments ago, the boy dressed as Chucky said, “Why, I’ll smart you on your knee with this stick, Tom Two!”
The sincerity of the kid’s tone made Weak Bitch a little nervous. “Hey, Sharon,” he said. “Keep your friggin’ kids in line, okay?”
“Don’t you talk to me, you south side Lamont scum!”
As Tom Two passed the boy, he wound the stick back and swung hard, aiming for Tom Two’s knee, but Tom Two was quick enough to use his candy bag as a shield to block the blow.
Weak Bitch snatched the stick from the kid’s hands. Turning to face the mother, he gripped it in both hands like a samurai sword, wound back, and shook with rage as his glaring eyes locked with hers.
“Go ahead,” she said.
Other trick-or-treaters and parents pressed in on both sides of the confrontation, curious to see what was going on.
“Go ahead and swing at me, My Tiny Little Weak Bitch,” the mother said, smiling sardonically, “and you’ll be spending the rest of your Halloween in a fucking jail cell.”
Weak Bitch held her gaze for another moment, imagining the satisfaction of breaking the stick over her head, but after exhaling a deep breath, he tossed it into the street. The trio then moved on.
Chapter 13
L uckily for our reverse trick-or-treaters, not everyone in town was a complete blithering asshole. In fact, a few Selohssa residents actually supported and pitied Tom Two and The Membrane. Despite their sympathy and their deep disapproval of the cruel practice of reverse trick-or-treating, these individuals were bound by law to receive reverse trick-or-treating candy on Halloween just like everyone else. And these folks were forbidden to give Tom Two and The Membrane Halloween candy, however much they might wish to ease the boys’ misery just a bit by doing so. In fact, giving candy or any other gifts to Tom Two and The Membrane on Halloween night was an offense punishable by death. As such, a Selohssa resident could never be sure there wasn’t someone hiding in their front bushes or behind a nearby tree, someone who’d been tasked to follow Tom Two and The Membrane around all night long, someone just waiting to catch a sympathetic person in the illicit act of slipping Tom Two a piddly-ass lollipop or something.
But no rules existed to prevent the few kindhearted individuals in town from offering Tom Two and The Membrane hugs and words of encouragement.
Django Ferdinando was one such individual.
But before I go ahead and describe Django Ferdinando at great length and in meticulous detail—i.e., all the man’s hopes, dreams, strengths, scruples, virtues, fears, accomplishments, flaws, failures, likes, dislikes, beliefs, habits, and idiosyncrasies; the childhood spent in the gypsy caravans of Eastern Europe; the young adulthood experienced as a clown in the Satanic traveling circuses of Central Europe; the years spent in France as a fancy-pants, artsy-fartsy, beret-wearing fancy dude; the years employed as a cloaked Illuminati assassin in the Far East; the harrowing, nearly fatal transatlantic voyage to the Americas via sea kayak; the years spent in Canada as a lumberjack/crab fisherman/ice road trucker; nay, before I proceed to tell this man’s whole goddamn life story, I’d just like to remark briefly on the correction pronunciation of his name.
Which is to say I would simply like to point out that the “D” in Django is silent.
Oh, wait a second. Now that I think about it, the “j” is silent too.
Hm. Now that I think about it even more, it appears the “a” is also not pronounced.
Whoa. Upon even more thought on this subject, I must note that the “n” in Django is silent as well.
And the “g.”
And the “o.”
What’s more, and as odd as it may seem, if we are to properly enunciate the man’s full name, we must also refuse to pronounce the “F” in Ferdinando.
And believe it or not, the “e” following the silent “F” is just as silent!
As is the “r” and the “d” and the “i” and the “n” and the “a” and the second “n” and the second “d” and the final “o.”
Of course, what all this means is that the man’s entire name is silent!
But that can’t be right.
Can it?
Shit. Now I’m confused.
Hm…
Hm…
Oh, now I remember! The reason Django Ferdinando’s name is completely silent is (drumroll please)…
BECAUSE THERE IS NO DJANGO FERDINANDO!
You wanna know why? Well, remember when I claimed earlier in this chapter that not everyone in town was a complete blithering asshole? That there were also good people who supported Tom Two and The Membrane?
I LIED!
Why the hell would I lie about that?
Man, I don’t even know. Maybe I just wanted to pretend, if only for a moment, that things weren’t as bad in Selohssa as they actually were.
Because basically EVERYONE IN FUCKING TOWN was a COMPLETE BLITHERING, BLATHERING, BLUSTERING FUCKING ASSHOLE! So sorry for the contradictory information presented earlier in this chapter and any confusion it may have caused.
And if you doubt me at all about the incredible amount of assholery that gripped the little burgh of Selohssa, Pennsylvania, just take a look at what “Selohssa” spells backwards, yo!
Humph!
>:(
Chapter 13
W hen the trio approached Lance Montgomery’s mansion on the sidewalk of Diamond Boi Drive, the time was a quarter till ten, and the boys’ candy sacks were nearly empty. They had only a few houses to go. Though glad to be nearly done with reverse trick-or-treating for another year, Weak Bitch was filled with dread—dread at still having to stop at Lance’s place and Fallingwater.
And he wasn’t sure which stop he dreaded more.
As they turned off the sidewalk and passed through the stone pillars and tall iron gate at the end of the house’s long driveway, Weak Bitch hoped this would be one of those years where Lance was too busy partying to come out to harass them, usually by daring Weak Bitch to try a BigBoy XXL on for size in front of a jeering crowd of drunken guests, but he knew that was probably asking for too much.
Two and a half acres of well-groomed lawn lay to the right of the car-lined driveway, while a row of tall, closely planted pine trees flanked the left side. Closer to the house, the driveway divided into a circle that led in either direction to the mansion’s Doric-columned portico. When the group reached the broad stone steps that led up to the front door, they peered into the house through the high, lighted windows of the front façade, the curtains drawn, the rooms overflowing with costumed guests, the windowpanes vibrating with the bumping bass of shitty dance-p
op music.
The Membrane formed its limbs and signed up at Weak Bitch: Hey, that naughty nurse just flashed her tits!
“Don’t look, Tom Two,” Weak Bitch said, covering Tom Two’s eyes with one hand.
Why not? I’m eons old! Tom Two signed.
“Enough peeping already. Ring the doorbell, Tom Two.”
A few seconds after Tom Two did so, a butler answered the door. He looked from Tom Two to The Membrane to Weak Bitch.
“Go ahead, guys,” Weak Bitch said. “Give him some candy. Then we’ll get going.”
“One moment, sirs. Please wait here,” the butler said before stepping back and pulling the door shut after him.
Fucking great, Weak Bitch thought.
When the door opened again a moment later, Lance Montgomery stepped out onto the portico accompanied by a small entourage of partygoers, among them Amanda, who was dressed up as a Sexy Little Red Riding Hood. She averted her eyes when she saw Weak Bitch.
Dressed as a king—complete with a long wine-colored robe, jeweled crown, and golden scepter—Lance handed the scepter to one of his frat boy buddies before crouching down in front of Tom Two.
“Hail, little fellow,” Lance said in a bad British accent delivered with an uncharacteristically friendly tone of voice and a broad smile. He patted Tom Two lightly on the head.
Tom Two waved back.
“Art thou having a fun Halloween so far, Sir Two?”
Tom Two nodded, smiling at being called “Sir Two.”
“Well, I’m glad to hear it,” Lance said.
Tom Two reached into his bag, pulled out a lollipop, held it out to Lance.
“Thank thee,” Lance said as he took the candy.
Weak Bitch watched this entire exchange with scorn, knowing this friendly bit was just a ruse, one that would end any second now—a cruel prelude to whatever manner of bullying Lance had planned for them tonight.
The Membrane slid up next to Tom Two and offered Lance a fun-sized Milky Way. Again, Lance accepted the gift. “And thank thee as well, Sir Membrane. Oh, that I could return the gesture by giving the two of thee some candy of thine own, but as thou knowest, the rules doth forbid it. I do, however, wish all three of thee a very happy and safe Halloween.”
Lance stood, took his scepter back in one gloved hand, and placed his other hand on his hip, affecting some sort of regal pose. “Thou art free to go now,” he said.
There’s no way this is gonna be that easy, Weak Bitch thought. He looked uncertainly down at Tom Two, then at The Membrane, and back up at Lance, who continued to stand on the portico, a kingly statue, his costumed entourage gathered around him and almost eerily silent.
“Okay, guys,” Weak Bitch said. “Let’s get going.”
The trio turned to leave, doubling back down the driveway. Well, maybe it is going to be this easy, Weak Bitch thought.
When they reached the point where the circle driveway merged into a straight path, Weak Bitch glanced over his shoulder. The group was still on the portico, a tableau with a faux king at its center, apparently content to watch them as they receded toward the street. He faced forward again and fixed his eyes on the open gate at the end of the driveway, watching the gate grow larger as the distance between it and him shrank.
“Let’s speed it up, guys,” Weak Bitch said, quickening his step. Seconds later, he looked over his shoulder again. The group remained at the entrance, perhaps waiting for him and his nephews to completely disappear from view. Ten paces later and they were nearly at the end of the drive. Weak Bitch glanced back one more time: the group still lingered at the entrance.
He turned back around just as they were about to pass between the two stone pillars, but the moment his foot crossed into the space beyond the gate, Lance screamed through cupped hands: “Halt, thee, My Little Tiny Weak Bitch!”
Fuck, Weak Bitch thought, stopping just outside the gate, reluctantly turning around.
“Get thee back here, knave!”
Weak Bitch started back down the driveway, his step quick, with Tom Two and The Membrane struggling to keep up with him. They stopped about halfway back to the house.
“Sorry, but your one minute is way over,” Weak Bitch shouted. “That’s the rule. We’re outta here.”
“Oh, I don’t care about those two freaks and reverse trick-or-treat. They can go on their merry fucking way for all I care. I said for thee to get back here! Get back here now or thou art fired!”
***
Once again, Weak Bitch stood at the bottom of Lance’s front steps, Tom Two and The Membrane now cowering behind him.
“I know I dismissed thee before,” Lance said, “but then I remembered I needed thee to do me a little favor.” Lance pointed his scepter down at Weak Bitch in a gesture of condemnation. “Namely, I need thee to bite off thy bottom lip, peasant! Do so now, My Tiny Little Weak Bitch!”
Lance’s friends laughed.
“Wh-wh-what?” Weak Bitch blurted. “Is that even possible?”
“Thou shalt address me as Your Majesty, ye rapscallion! And, yes, of course it’s possible. Just bite down really, really hard. If thou really want to keep thy job so thou can keep thy house, feed and shelter thy family of freaks, and pay for thy mother’s medicines, I imagine a great deal is possible!”
Amanda appeared at the front of the crowd. “Don’t do it, Glont!” she cried.
“His name is not Glont, wench.” Lance said. “His name is My Tiny Little Weak Bitch. Now do as thy king hath biddeth, My Tiny Little Weak Bitch!”
“Yes, Your Majesty,” Weak Bitch said. He turned to Amanda. “Sorry, but I have to do what he says.”
Weak Bitch sucked his lower lip into his mouth—a warm, wet blanket of flesh pulling over his bottom teeth—and rested his top teeth on the other side. Pressing his eyes shut and bracing himself for the pain, he counted down in his head from five: Five…four…three… two…ONE.
A flash of blinding pain and the salty, metallic taste of blood filled his mouth. But he’d only barely broken the skin. Overcoming his mind’s attempt to complete the painful act of self-mutilation, his body’s automatic response was to pull its teeth away from its own flesh.
“I can’t do it!” he cried.
“Surely thou canst! Oh, I almost forgot! Whilst thou art biting off thy bottom lip, pluck thine eyes out of thy face!” He waved the scepter at Weak Bitch again. “Do it now, ye villainous cur!”
After drawing his bleeding, abraded lower lip back into his mouth, Weak Bitch extended the thumb, index finger, and middle finger on each of his hands to form two three-fingered claws and raised them to his eyes. He counted down again in his head: five…four…three…two…ONE.
As the pain exploded in his lower lip, Weak Bitch dug into his eye sockets, his fingers and thumbs sliding beneath his eyelids to grab at his wet, slippery orbs while crimson tears of blood oozed down his cheeks.
In tears herself, Amanda seized Lance by the front of his robe and shouted into his face: “Make him stop or I’m leaving right now!”
Lance rolled his eyes, shook his head, and turned back to Weak Bitch. “Okay, fucker, you can stop now,” he said, abandoning the British accent and the thee’s and the thou’s.
Weak Bitch released his mutilated lip from his teeth, his eyeballs from his fingers. He fell to his knees, his entire body shaking as he stared at his bloodied digits. But though his eyes hurt and his vision was blurry, he could still see.
“Do you do everything anyone tells you to?” Lance asked. “Christ, you were really going to gouge your eyes out and bite your lip off! Man, you need to grow a pair, bro. Heh. What a gutless coward you are. Well, it’s just as well, seeing as how I have better things to do than stand around out here and waste my time torturing useless, milquetoast geeks like you. I have to get back to my party, where I’m about to nab kingly amounts of ass. So gather up thy retarded abominations of nature and get thee far away from my castle, fags!”
Chapter 14
A s they hit the
last few houses on Diamond Boi Drive for reverse trick-or-treat, Weak Bitch held a hand over his mouth and chin, applying pressure to his lip in an attempt to stop the bleeding. He knew he probably needed stitches, but the boys had to wrap up reverse trick-or-treating by midnight or else be lynched by the townspeople. It was only a little past ten, but a trip to a potentially crowded ER was out of the question. He’d just have to keep applying pressure and hope for the best.
After they visited the last house on Diamond Boi, they made their way back to Klin-Klat Street at the southeastern end of town. Klin-Klat terminated in a dead end, where a footpath in the woods led down to a once-popular stretch of Bear Run where most visitors to Fallingwater used to enter the stream back in the day.
Weak Bitch could tell Tom Two and The Membrane were nervous as they entered the dark woods. He took out a flashlight and flicked it on.
“Alright, fellas,” he said, his voice faking a lighthearted, enthusiastic tone for the benefit of his nephews lest he betray his own fear. “We’re almost done. All we have left to do is enjoy ourselves on a little canoe trip, drop off the last of your candy at Fallingwater, then ride that old water slide out of the place. It’ll be just like old times. After that, we’ll go home and have our Halloween party!”
Not for the first time, Weak Bitch wondered how anyone in town would know if they even visited Fallingwater. Just because the KEEP OUT signs and the NO CANOEING signs and the barbed wire fence had all been removed didn’t necessarily mean the mysterious, never-before-seen owner of the house was home. And if the owner was home, would they be waiting for trick-or-treaters and reverse trick-or-treaters alike? And even if they were, was the owner in contact with at least one other person in town, a person to whom the owner could pass on the message that Tom Two and The Membrane had or had not fulfilled their civic duty? There was a good chance the answer to that question was no. In other words, Tom Two, The Membrane, and Weak Bitch could possibly skip going out to Fallingwater altogether and say they reverse trick-or-treated at the place without anyone knowing any different.
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