Fiction, Monologues, Plays & More
Halloween made Pete happy. He’d lost a few girlfriends over it, but, in the moment, he always figured “good riddance.” He might be lonely later. Maybe a little regretful. But he loved Halloween.
Pete liked to disguise himself entirely. He liked to creep people out. Scare his friends. Stand in corners at parties making people nervous because they couldn’t figure out who he was. He’d wear medical gloves and coat them with a thin layer of Vaseline to add even more “creepy” when he shook someone’s hand. If anyone was willing to shake his hand. He always offered.
When he could, he’d quietly come up behind someone he knew very well and stand just a little too close. And he wouldn’t speak. Never. He might grunt or laugh or vocalize some kind of noise, but he would never break character, never speak. He’d been forced to leave parties by people who’d known him for years because he wouldn’t reveal himself. Once he was asked the next day why he’d missed a friend’s party where he’d been in her living room for five hours. She never looked at him the same after he told her he’d been the creepy guy that scared her to death.
That was the fun of Halloween. Playing a creepy character and freaking people out. It’s not like he stood at his door and scared the shit out of little kids Trick-or-Treating. Well, he’d only done that once. Someone called the cops. Spent the night in the drunk tank; they couldn’t believe he was sober. Spending the night in jail with make-up caked on his face had not been worth it. Little kids were too easy anyway.
Sadly, the women he got involved with never understood. It was a shocking deviation from his usual pleasant personality. They didn’t get it when he got pissed off if they gave him away to their friends. And they couldn’t understand why he enjoyed scaring people he usually treated with respect and warmth. Everybody knew he was a really nice guy. Why would he get his jollies being creepy once a year?
Pete figured if he ever met a woman who understood, really got it, she’d be “the one.” But he didn’t hold out much hope.
This Halloween he’d decided on ragged, sharp false teeth and bought a whole carton of fake blood capsules. He smeared his face with gray and purple grease paint and rubbed dry oatmeal in, creating a wonderfully gross complexion. He’d dirtied up a ratty old clown wig – once a rainbow of colors, now dingy and sad. And he started with clean white scrubs, top and bottom, immediately crunching a couple of blood capsules in his mouth to drain down his chin and splatter onto the white. Red swim goggles finished the look.
He admired his handiwork in the mirror, pleased, although a little queasy. He’d eaten too much, but he couldn’t really eat in his Halloween disguises. He’d learned years before to eat big before he got “dolled up” as he liked to call it. He might have overdone it this year. Or he was just excited.
He almost put on the medical gloves and Vaseline again but changed his mind. He broke another blood capsule or two and spread the blood over his hands and up his arms, being sure to cake it into the fingernails. Yep. That worked. Looked great, especially dried.
He filled his pockets with the rest of the blood capsules. He’d be crunching on them all night, letting the blood pour down his face and neck to spread all over his clothes. This was his grossest costume yet – and it would just get grosser and grosser as the night went on!
A new acquaintance (who didn’t know any better) had invited him to a party in an old warehouse downtown. He’d been promised people that were serious about their costumes – and a big costume contest with awards decided by a panel of judges. He wouldn’t have to do a “parade” or tell anyone his name or anything. The judges would wander the party and take pictures to decide and announce the winners. It sounded like the first contest he had a chance of winning: no need to break character!
Pete grabbed a drinking straw before he headed out. He stuck it behind his ear, tucked under the wig. He might not be able to eat, but he liked to be able to wet his whistle at parties without destroying his make-up.
He arrived around 10pm. Pete preferred to arrive after a party was decently filled with at least partially inebriated people. He’d slip in and find a random spot to just stand and stare.
He was having a great night. Several of the judges had taken his picture, and he’d scared a few people into leaving. Some people were so skittish. He didn’t recognize a single person, not even the guy who’d invited him. No one seemed to be hosting. No one looked like they were going to ask him to leave.
He decided to find a bathroom, one of his favorite staring spots. Time to startle a few screams before people got too drunk to give a shit anymore.
He’d been standing a foot outside the restroom door, staring at it, perfectly still, for at least 10 minutes when a woman brushed past him and hurried inside. She didn’t even notice him. Must have had a serious need to evacuate the bladder. He fought a smile. This was gonna be good.
He waited. And waited. He thought it had to be at least 30 minutes since she’d gone in. How long could it take? He started to worry. Maybe she’d overdosed on drugs or something.
After another 15 minutes or so, he couldn’t help himself. He reached out and pushed on the door. It moved. He followed his hand into the bathroom and poked his head around the stall that blocked the view into the rest of the room.
The woman was standing at the mirror, fluffing her hair. She wore a bright red skintight mini dress accented with white rhinestones. Long red gloves. Red stockings. Red stilettos. Glorious red hair. She was really built, too. What a body! Luscious tits practically popping out the top. Her ass was perfect, and he could see the outline of her thong. Skin like peach satin. Stunning.
Best of all, she had on a witch mask. Like a Halloween cherry on top. Green wrinkled skin, large sharp nose with wart. Green make-up covered her face and neck below the mask down to a rhinestone choker, matching up perfectly. It was a dazzling costume. The only one he’d seen all night that was any competition to his own. She even had nasty fake teeth!
She turned around to face him.
“Well, aren’t you delightfully disgusting,” she said. No screams. No fear. Amusement.
“Thank you,” he said. “Are you alright?”
“Of course. Just primping.”
“That is an awesome costume.” He had completely broken character.
“Don’t you just love Halloween?” she said. “Complete anonymity. You can be anyone. Anything.”
“Not many people seem to get that,” Pete said. He felt a little breathless. She was blowing his mind.
“Wanna dance?” she asked. She walked over to him and leaned in very close, tilting her head far to one side to avoid stabbing him with her witchy nose. She licked the tip of his nose, then kissed his mouth hard. She took his hand, and led him out of the bathroom and onto the dance floor. Some of the blood from his mouth had transferred to hers.
Pete didn’t usually do much dancing, but the fact that he could watch her move, that he could reach out and touch her, that she would reach out and touch him… He was inspired. Maybe hypnotized. It was fun. He popped a few more blood capsules, and they both laughed as the fake blood drained down his neck and into his shirt. She swiped one gloved finger across his gory Adam’s apple and painted a bloody heart on the bulge of her left breast.
They took a break and went outside where she smoked. She had a long silver cigarette holder.
“You could take off the mask. And the teeth, if you want something to eat. I won’t tell,” he said. He found he really wanted to see her face. And he didn’t seem able to keep his mouth shut.
“Now what would be the fun in that? Besides, I’m not hungry just yet.” She took a deep drag, blew smoke, then knocked the cigarette butt out of her holder and ground it out with one dangerous looking red stiletto.
“No, really, take off the mask. Let me see the real you.”
“Not yet, mister. It’s still Halloween. They haven’t even announced the winner of the costume contest yet.” And with that, she led him back inside to the bar where it turned out she was carrying a drinking straw of her own. Seeing that, he felt his groin stir. They stood sipping beer through straws and swayed to the loud music, enjoying the occasional inspection by a judge and inevitable pictures taken. He kept thinking, she said not yet.
Not long after midnight, the music stopped and the pictures taken by the judges were projected on a large wall. There were more pictures of Bloody Clown and Witch Woman than any other costumes. Like a fairy tale, they were crowned king and queen of the contest.
With rare pleasure, they waltzed their characters in a spotlight, like a homecoming dance. But when the spotlight started to rove over other dancing couples, they pressed closer and closer. His dick was so hard it ached, and he could swear he smelled her heat. The lust, the desire was the most intense he’d ever experienced. And she was literally panting.
When the song ended, she put her mouth against his ear and whispered, “Take me home.”
They ran out of the building. He ground the gears of his car trying to get it started. Forced himself to drive with some care. Luckily, he only lived a few miles away. They didn’t speak a word, but both of them were breathing hard, glancing at each other, smiling, laughing, giddy.
They staggered out of the car and into his apartment, barely closing the front door before they grabbed onto each other. She tilted her head and their fake teeth bumped as their tongues found each other, hungry, desperate, ready. He guided her blindly into the bedroom.
He yanked the cover off the bed. She found the light switch and turned it on. He turned slowly and reached for her. She moved into his arms willingly. They kissed again, but he realized her neck must be uncomfortable at that extreme angle, and he could see his “gross complexion” smearing all over her face. He stepped back.
“I’m going to go wash my face, get this crap off. I’ll bring you a washcloth.” He paused at the door. “Feel free to take off that mask now. Hell, take off whatever you want!”
He hurried down the hall, tore off the swim goggles, and grabbed a box of baby wipes to scrape off the bulk of the make-up, pushing the wig back on his head. When he’d gotten enough off, he ran the hot water and scrubbed off the rest with soap, then went to work on his hands and arms. He stripped off the bloody scrubs and cleaned off the bloody residue on his chest and legs as best he could, but his rock hard dick was distracting, and he didn’t want to leave her alone too long. He grabbed a towel and wrapped it around his waist, yanked the wig off his head and popped the false teeth out into the sink. He’d deal with those later. He wished he could take a shower, but maybe they would take one together later. He wet a washcloth for her, drenching the wig and teeth piled in the sink.
When he opened the bedroom door the first thing he saw was a red stiletto on the floor, then another, then the red dress, the red stockings, a red thong, leading to her. She looked out the window with her back to the door, wrapped in his bathrobe which reached the floor on her, her glorious red hair wild and hiding her face. She was still wearing the tiara they’d given her for her costume prize. He noticed what looked to be a slip or something puddled at her feet, but he didn’t see the green mask with the nose anywhere.
Maybe she’d decided to let him take it off for her. His dick throbbed.
“Okay,” she said. She turned toward him, the mask still in place on her face.
“Are you ready?” she asked.
He could barely breathe. “Yes.”
She hummed a little striptease music and started pulling the robe open.
“Please, take off your mask first.”
“But I’ve already taken the mask off, darling.”
She opened the robe and dropped it at her feet, stepping away from that strange puddle which briefly clung to the heel of a black and green foot.
Her stunning body now sagged, the breasts pendulous and deflated, shockingly long, the nipples hard and black, her skin wrinkled and spotty, with drooping flab and cellulite. And it was green. Her skin was green and matched her mask!
She took the washcloth and wiped his transferred make-up off her face. The green mottled skin remained. She wasn’t wearing a face mask.
He realized the puddle left peeking out from under the robe she’d dropped was the color of peach satin.
She reached out with gnarled green claws to pull the towel from his waist and take hold of his wilting erection. His eyes bulged in horror.
She whispered, “I’m hungry now.” It dawned on him that her nasty teeth were also real when she exposed them in a grotesque smile as she knelt down to take a bite.
He heard her laugh the laugh of a wicked, wicked witch just before pain eclipsed everything.
Taylor Ashbrook’s current favorite quote about writing: “Words are sacred. They deserve respect. If you get the right ones, in the right order, you can nudge the world a little.” By one of her favorite playwrights, Tom Stoppard. A born and bred “Theater Geek,” Taylor aspires to write more than she actually manages to put words down on paper. Having written mostly with partners for live theater projects, she hopes to someday write a novel she would enjoy reading. Currently, she’s working on a dark, full length play – sans partners – just to get it out of her head. Except she takes a lot of breaks to direct, act and produce. Taylor has been a Member of The Eclectic Company Theatre, except for a couple brief years, since 1990.