Getting out of the house was a breeze for eight year old J.R. His family’s large Victorian was packed with costumed partiers talking at a level three feet over his head. The werewolf preaching to the man in an Obama mask did pat J.R. on the head as he snuck by. Wonder Woman, flirting, with an anemic Hulk, didn’t even glance down. No one noticed when the three foot plus Frankenstein slipped outside.

Outside, J.R. streaked across a sloping lawn to the brick fence surrounding his home. His parents had allowed on large oak to grow up and over the brick wall as if daring him to climb it. J.R. called their bluff. Climbing the tree, he tied a rope on the limb and dropped it down on the wall’s world-side and slid down it.

He only had half an hour before the school carnival close but the wealthy brownstone’s flanking his house called out like chocolate sirens. One or two stops won’t hurt, he thought, pulling out a plastic shopping bag.

Unfortunately a few stops for treats – J.R. would never commit a trick – turned into many. As J.R. finally raced across the playground the lights of the gym went out. The carnival was over.

“What chu got dere?”

J.R. shuddered as an almost-a-teenager wearing a tight cocktail dress and a beehive wig stepped out from behind a backstop.

“Nothing,”

“What the little runt got, Snooki?” Richard Nixon trotted out to join Snooki.

Behinds him a third boy not wearing a costume stepped into the light.

“Who you?” J.R. asked, trying not to cry.

“The Situation.”

“It’ still a stupid costume.”

Without replying, all three of the young candy muggers grabbed J.R.’s bag. When the bag ripped, all the treats wound up in a mud puddle. So did Snooki.

“Yo, you done it, shrimp,” The Situation said.

He and Nixon each grabbed one of J.R.’s arms and used the boy for tug-of-war rope. Terrified, J.R. used the defense his dad had taught him; he stomped on Nixon’s foot and then put a dent in The Situation’s shin. Both boys let go and J.R. escaped.

It was hard running in three inch soles but J.R.’s pursuers were even slower; two limped badly and the third realized why sprinters didn’t wear skin tight cocktail dresses. J.R. grabbed his rope but couldn’t pull himself off the ground. Coming down had been a lot easier. With the boys closing, J.R. ran to the main gate. Unfortunately the main entrance was constructed of huge wooden beams as high as the brick wall. He knew his partying parents would never hear his cries for help. Nixon got to him first and started to get rough.

“Go home, son,“ his dad said calmly reaching out of the gate’s pedestrian door and lifting Nixon seven feet off the ground. J.R.’s dutifully ran to the door. When his dad yelled, “Boo” the scared J.R. howled like his tormentors.

Later, J.R.‘s dad came to tuck him in. He had always liked the green of his dad’s skin. His own complexion was like the watery split-pea soup they served at school. He reached up to touch the bolts in his dad’s neck.

“Dad, does the electricity hurt when, well, you know?”

“It makes you feel like a new man, son.”

“Dad, why did those boys jump me?”

“Probably bored. You shouldn’t have been down there at that time of night anyway. I’m glad you had the sense to run.”

“But why didn’t you punish them, Dad. Hurt em?”

“I gave them a good scare. Isn’t that what Halloween is for, son?”

J.R. nodded. “Worked on me. Sorry I made you and Mommy worry.”

Mr. Frankenstein kissed j.R.’s forehead. “They’re just children. Most of the pre-dead are.”

Wonder Woman entered and stood close to her husband. She was still wearing her super hero costume but had taken off the white makeup. Her normal pretty green skin glistened with cold cream. “Go to sleep, baby,” she said. “We love you.”

“Why do they have to be such bullies,” J.R. mumbled, fading fast.

The Frankensteins responded simultaneously. “Junior, when you grow up you’ll find out that pre-dead humans can be real monsters.”

Jerry Tuck is a retired San Andreas resident and an indie author. Contact him at olwhofan@aol.com or use the Contact Form.