While going over the taxable aspects of my soul with a satanic accountant -- horns and black eyes accompanying pocket protector and monstrous fangs -- I heard, what sounded like, a battering ram hammering the front door.  The Creature from the Black Lagoon opened the door only to get covered in cream.  A six foot cock came charging in, held aloft by five tawny Asians in loan clothes.  They snaked their way to the back of the apartment, and I felt a panic sweat kicking in because I knew what awaited them back there:  the Grim Reaper, Richard Nixon, and a roller derby Ellen Paige;  and not one a good conversationalist.  Screams of delight fortunately ensued, drying the sweat.

            Turning back to the accountant, I saw a werewolf opening a can of Coors Light.  Slapping the can out of his paw I shouted, “Jesus you ignorant fucker!  Don’t you know about silver bullets?”  He looked menacing yet blank as if his face had a fixed expression.  Shaking his head, he went off to find another beverage, never once thanking me.   

            The accountant vanished to the chiming of a cell phone leaving me with two witches admiring each other’s wardrobes.  They rolled their eyes, sneering as Ash answered the front door exclaiming, “Marilyn Monroe!”  The sneers vanished when Marilyn came in sporting a full beard, Jack and Bobby Kennedy on each arm, their busts bigger than Ms. Monroe’s.

            Doctor Livingstone, who presumed too much expecting anyone to recognize him, asked me what I thought of the spread.  I told him I didn’t care for the witch’s intestines -- too much pesto.  He nodded, “My thoughts exactly.”  When Zombie Shirley Temple walked past, wagging too much ass for a toddler, the doc started to say something, but I cut him off, “This is no time for a rotisserie.  That child’s parents are probably worried sick.  It’s… fuck all!  Midnight.  The police are liable to be here soon suspecting god only knows what.  I’ll get rid of her and send word by drum when it’s over.  Kids drown quick, and the toilet tank is full.” 

            “I don’t think we need to worry about her folks,” a lingerie model (who claimed to be a mouse) said, giggling.

            “Do you know them?” I asked.  She shook her head.  “Then what the fuck do you know?”  And I went looking for my gun.  No half clad whore is going to tell me what to worry about… vampires smoking dope occupied my bedroom, getting glitter everywhere.  I don’t trust the pretty ones.  They always want relationships not just a suck and a fuck.  I excused myself -- “I have my own dope, thank you, and that shit smells like kitty litter.” -- politely and headed for the back steps. 

            Outside the ghouls smoked cigarettes.  Kurt Cobain strummed a guitar, evidently having blown out the part of his brain that allowed him to play.  A tabloid reporter with Hitler’s brain in a jar snapped shots of all around, particularly Elvira’s cleavage.  The lucky fucker must have been making his career:  Alien grays, a Mayan Priest with Mel Gibson’s beating heart, the heart swearing at spectral Jews when it pulsed, Mark Twain making a move on Courtney Love, clearly gesturing he wished to fist, Dracula and Blackula together at last, a surplus of zombies, two kinds of Jokers, the Afro Samurai, a black leprechaun, one Sex Machine, and Franklin D. Roosevelt walking; and everywhere in-between lingerie models who seemed to think they could just say a costume, “I’m a {fill in animal or profession}.” 

            A quick smoke to settle the nerves then back inside to wrestle the rum from Jack Sparrow (a man glad to be properly recognized though a pirate holding a jug of rum is not necessarily Cap‘n Jack) for a quick refill.  Beverage in hand, I went looking for a chair. 

            Some nights are not meant for mushrooms.