by Del Jackson
Chapter
9: Halloween Drennen Dream, or Trick-or-Treat, Ringo!
“JFK’s
ghost is a mean and vengeful ghost—”
“JFK’s
ghost is no joke—”
“He spoiled
my lunch. Swear to God. Haunts our bungalow and spoiled my lunch—“
“We don’t
live in a bungalow, ma’am—”
“JFK haunts
our bungalow,” Joey said.
What a
pair, these two. They were shouting over each other, hoping to get a word in
edge-wise—over each other—to argue the same point, eventually pointing their
fingers accusingly. Wheeler dealers on high, racketeers of old, swindlers.
As if this
poor old lady in her pumpkin vest disagreed, or as if she understood thing #1
about what they were saying, or trying to say.
“I see,”
she said. “And what are you two supposed to be? The Beatles?”
Joey’s face
lit up like the porch jack-o-lantern; it was showtime. He was over the moon
with himself, his costume, his dream.
“You read
the Bible, Mrs. Crabapple?”
“Why yes,
actually.”
“Well
there’s this passage I got memorized, sorta fits the occasion. Ezekiel
25:17?”
* * *
They
were making out like bandits; Jules and Vincent never did it better. Candy up
the ying-yang, a regular raid on neo-Lincoln Square, Halloween 2015. And how
old were they again?
Approaching
the end of the cul-de-sac now, Drennen took pause, pensive. Whether it was the
taste of his Almond Joy, or the evil foreboding of the mansion ahead, something
was just not right. He tucked his hair behind his ears, adjusted his suit and
skinny tie. Drennen Quinn, dressed to kill.
“That’s
Crazy Old Man Kimball’s mansion,” Joey said.
“Did
you ever listen to The Whitey Album by
Ciccone Youth? It was a Sonic Youth side project,” Drennen said.
“Let’s get
into character,” Joey said. He was on; he would not be off tonight. Erwin
Rommel, Joey’s bombastic cat and sometime dance partner, followed closely
behind.
Crazy Old
Man Kimball’s gate creaked open—dilapidated, spooky, all funky juju—and they
made their way inside. Must have triggered a sensor somewhere along the way: “Monster
Mash” (http://www.youtube.com/watch?
“Cute,”
said Drennen.
A bowl full
of candy with a sign: “Just Take One.”
“Sorry
kids, Papa’s gotta eat!” Joey said, pouring the candy into his bag.
A rebel
yell and a shotgun blast the door through. Crazy Old Man Kimball, bearded,
deranged, wearing a Chris Bosh jersey, on a rocking chair and visible now
through the freshly gaping destruction of the mansion door.
Joey
Romaine was killed instantly. Dead gone dead, never had a chance... is
this the promised end? But he got something he always wanted—he was a
cartoon ghost with cartoon wings now; and what more was Joey Romaine in
life
other than the Great Gazoo, anyway?
But irony
is not without a sense of fate. No sooner than Joey had begun to realize his lifelong
dream of a cartoon ghost afterlife, another ghost approached, bad vibes galore.
“Ask not
what your country can do for you, ask how I’m going to ghost machismo rape you,
Joey Romaine!”
Somewhere,
Drennen Quinn, he danced. Erwin Rommel did, too. And the Groovie Goolies sing:
♪♪
They did the mash
They did the monster mash
The monster mash
It was a graveyard smash
They did the mash
It caught on in a flash
They did the mash
They did the monster mash
They did the monster mash
The monster mash
It was a graveyard smash
They did the mash
It caught on in a flash
They did the mash
They did the monster mash
♪♪
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