Hallowent

The weekend was a smash. In every sense of the word. We saw a funky performance by a group of misfits calling themselves The Thrillpeddlars. It was a play in the style of le theater du Grand-Guignol. That's French for "theater of the great puppet," which is a sort of theater specializing in naturalistic horror, blood splatter and gore. The perfect fit for Halloween. As we tried to locate to theater, we walked around in circles in a sketchy part of town populated with homeless encampments and factories. Eventually we found it, and the group of actors prepping for the show outside. When we walked in, just on time, a character I can only describe as "ghost dick" stood holding a clipboard and waiting for us. Wearing only a sheet - with eye holes cut into it - and a long, fleshy dildo protruding from a hole cut in place for his penis, he said our names. I asked him how he knew and he said, "because we've been waiting for you." As he escorted us to our seats I saw that everyone was already there. It was a full house. We were to sit up in our very own private booth, plush and equipped with elaborate ancient artifacts and a silk curtain to be used for privacy. We were a veritable Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln, with the best seats in the house. They warned us of impending gunfire and I wondered just how much we looked like Mr. and Mrs. Lincoln. The play was great, full of blood, murder and mayhem. The piece seemed to borrow a bit from Sophocles' Oedipus Rex and Antigone, incorporating incest, murder, a blind prophet, and a good old-fashioned eye-gouging.

We left the theater and continued our tradition of making out in the street, at corners, stop signs, in doorways, under traffic-lights hanging like mistletoe, against parked cars. I flashed my dick and saw it looked formidable and proud. Someone saw me and I said it was a prop, part of my costume. Everyone knows jackrabbits like to fuck, c'mon. We talked about dancing, but worried we'd quickly overheat while wearing our giant animal onesies, so we got into an Uber and headed to a local neighborhood bar. Frozen cocktails were consumed. This produced considerable groping and public displays of affection. We were photographed kissing inside a coffin. The photographer said she would put them up on Instagram. Terrific. Seeing as we were no longer able to control our libidinous desires, I decided we should travel back to my apartment, where it was safe. I nearly got into a fistfight with Chun Li and Guile from Street Fighter after he yelled sonic boom too close to my ear.

We got back home and did the mash. We did the monster mash, twice, with a smoke break and a lavender oil massage in between. What followed was the most awful night's sleep of my life. Terrible heartburn and an intense sensitivity to sound produced a near perfect sleeplessness in me. The whole night I probably only slept for an hour or two. Once the sun rose I gave up all hope and decided to wake sleeping beauty. There's nothing like sweet love in the morning, followed by a shower and lots of food. After wandering around the city in a sleep deprived daze, popping into stores while looking for an easel, we took the long way home and stopped off to drink beers on a patch of sun in the park. Back home we napped like cats.

Later, I stopped off to see T and he cooked a delicious pasta. I met a man named Uncle Mihal. He was an interesting Irishmen, a painter, with many stories to tell. The bottle of wine I brought singed my throat with every sip. It burned so badly I could have sworn my esophagus had melted. We tried in vain to figure out the intricate workings of an old transistor radio on which we would listen to the end of the World Series. We never could get it working though. The rain came and I called a taxi home.

Sleep took me almost instantly.