text: [Themes: modern, anti-hero, thriller]
  
  Sterling City. There's no place like home. Well, it's not like you actually lived in the city. It's simply the mistress that you keep on the side, visiting her late into the night on the weekends. Your true home lies on the outskirts. Sterling Suburbs. She's a safe place to hang your head, not like bipolar Sterling. Sure, she doesn't offer much excitement, but you'll take breathing over excitement any day. Calm, collected, safe: she's nothing like her erratic sister.
  
  Another day, another carpool line. Like lambs let to the slaughter, minivans, SUVs, and the occasional nine-seater organize themselves neatly in a row. They know the drill. You know the drill. No cutting or you'll be cut! Literally! Your head rests comfortably on the palm of your hand, supported by the car door. Unlike these sheep, you drive classic American muscle. An old black Challenger, its paint starting to wear thin. She purrs though. She purrs real good.
  
  An adult volunteer waves you forward, her reflective vest, short blonde hair, and no-nonsense attitude the very embodiment of PTA. The Challenger roars forward, drawing more than a few stares from nearby parents. They should be used to it by now. Ever since Beth got a job working the front desk at Dr. Hallsburry office, picking up the lil' rascals has been your responsibility. As you pull forward, the PTA lady tightens her lips together. You throw her a salute like the way a commanding officer would treat a new recruit. She doesn't return the gesture.
  
  A few aliens, zombies, and ghosts pour from the school building. Perhaps it's time to hold off on the drinking, bud. No, it's Halloween and the kids are all dressed up. You tenderly pat the pocket flask resting at your hip. Shh no, baby. I wouldn't toss you out. You're safe here with me. The passenger seat door swings open, and two martians climb into the back seat.
  
  "Hi, Daddy," children's voices ring from underneath two sets of alien eyes.
  
  "Hey there, kiddos," you answer, glancing at them in the rear-view mirror. Liz, a nine year old with the attitude of a teenager. Barry, seven, who rarely speaks more than that many words in a day. After his "Hi, Daddy," he's only got five more today. Please can I watch TV? might fill the balance once you're home. I don't know, can you?
  
  After another painful twist of the carpool line knife, you finally make it from the parking lot onto the road. What's the expression? Out of the frying pan, stuck in rush hour traffic? Whether that's the saying or not, you find yourself out of the frying pan, stuck in rush hour traffic, painfully guiding the Challenger up to a whopping 5 MPH before having to slam on the brakes again. Stop and go, baby. Stop and go. Eventually, approximately thirty-five minutes later, you find your home in a neighborhood filled with picture-perfect copies of the same one you live in, but not before passing a few SLOW DOWN, KIDS AT PLAY signs.
  
  Your neighbor, Gary, waves as you pull in, spraying down his flower beds with one thumb on the hose for increased pressure, a stub of a cigarette in the corner of his lips. Welcome to the good ol' fuckin' suburbs.
  
  > Martian daddy
  As soon as you shift the Challenger into park, a little bit before actually, the kiddos slide the passenger seat forward and climb out the door. Two door vehicles: the equivalent of a jungle gym on wheels. You park the Challenger in the driveway, leaving room for Beth to use the safety and protection of the garage. It used to be your spot, but benefits tend to leave when jobs do. Being a stay-at-home father doesn't bring much capital, unfortunately, even in the very place you punch your time card.
  
  On the way indoors, you stop by the garage fridge. Yes, it's exactly what it sounds. Everyone has a refrigerator in the kitchen AND the garage. This is the suburbs, after all. With two Budweisers between your fingers
  We interrupt this public broadcast to shed light on a very serious topic in the modern age. There are stay-at-home fathers everywhere grabbing one beer at a time. Their inefficiency is causing the deaths of hundreds of thousands of children. Just yesterday, little Jimmy electrocuted himself with a good old fashioned fork in the motherfucking electrical socket while his father was busy grabbing beer a bottle at a time. Do yourself and your children a favor and grab your beers two at a time. Do it for little Jimmy. Do it for the safety of children everywhere.
  ,you hit the garage door button and head inside.
  
  "Please can I watch TV?" Barry asks as you walk in. Called it.
  
  "Sure, kiddo," you answer. A bedroom door slams upstairs, alerting you to Liz's presence. She likely won't appear again until dinner is on the table. There might be an occasional sighting if she needs to run across the hall to use the restroom. Your daughter, a rare species in your own home. Beth won't be back for another hour or so. That gives you plenty of time to...
  
  > work on your mystery novel
  It's been a slow, painful process. The idea of writing a novel felt exactly that. You hadn't gotten good grades in school. In fact, you hated writing essays. But that's school. It was forced labor, free labor at that. Something about writing touches your inner romantic, being a man -- a god, really -- toying with readers' emotions, placing worlds and ideas built by you in their minds. Beers in hand, you sit down to check your progress.
  
  ...
  ...
  ...
  ...
  ...
  
  Fuck writer's block. Hello, Budweiser.
  
  > Continue
  Hearing Beth's car pull in the driveway, you jump up. Shit! She asked you to preheat the oven earlier today. Though in hindsight, you don't remember seeing a choice presented that took you near the kitchen. It's always good to reflect on your day. That way, instead of repeating your mistakes, you can give a friendly wave as you prepare for another lap. You make straight for the oven. It'll be nowhere close to ready, but you turn that bitch to 425.
  
  Beth swings open the door, how she managed to unlock, turn the handle, and pull with an armful of different sized purses and bags is beyond you. Why do women need so many? Plus, apparently she's picked up two large bags of candy on the way home as well, one of those variety packs where the good kind only makes up 10% of the population. Hopefully the percentage increases after giving out the no-good stuff to trick or treaters. Their untrained palette only knows one flavor. Sugar. Hello. It's me, Diabetes. May I come in? My cousin is in town too. Obesity! Get over here and show some goddamn manners!
  
  "Dear, I hope that second Bud is for me," Beth says underneath all her bags. There's only three, but she might as well be a bellhop at Sterling Suites.
  
  "Of course it is," you say, handing her the second you grabbed from the fridge. Beth immediately throws her bags to the floor.
  
  "Yeah right," she laughs, batting a loose strand of blonde hair away from her eye. "Cheers." You gently clink your beer bottles together. Kids nowadays have a different meaning for the action, namely the homosexuals, but in your oblivious maturity, you interpret it literally. They -- not just the homosexuals -- have a term for everything. You can't say anything without hearing a giggle escape their lips. After you mentioned "hiring men to fill the hole in your backyard" at Liz's birthday party last year, you completely gave up on trying to avoid such statements. Still, perhaps that one could have been avoided.
  
  Knocking on the front door breaks your train of thought. Trick or treaters, most likely.
  
  > answer the door
  Grabbing a bag of candy, you chivalrously approach the front door.
  
  "Thanks, dear. I'll be in the kitchen," Beth says. Ignoring the obvious set up, you rip open the bag, take one of the good pieces for yourself, and answer the door.
  
  You're met with a miniature skeleton and two pirates.
  
  "TREAK OR TREAT," they say simultaneously, their parents shrewdly watching the strange man, you, give their kids free candy. What a strange holiday. Almost as strange as Jewish National Pride day.
  
  The skeleton doesn't join in with the pirates, but instead, offers a few "clack, clack, clack, clacks." You silently thank...whoever's orchestrating things that your kids aren't like that. Sure, Barry's silence is worrisome at times, but at least he's not at strangers' doors dressed as a human skeleton speaking like an African tribesman. For whatever reason, neither Barry or Liz really took to trick or treating, or "treak or treating" as the pirates said.
  
  You place a handful of candy in each of their sacks. Wait, is that another euphemism...? After rushing a "thanks," the pirates and skeleton leave you standing alone on the porch with a bag of candy. The sun sets earlier now, and the dark hands of dusk are starting to gently finger the daylight. Strange. Usually the streets are packed with trick or treaters.
  
  Besides the group that just knocked, you see maybe two others. Nope, that's one large group with a few aliens straggling behind. You don't remember aliens being such a popular costume. If you can manage to avoid a probing tonight, then you'll consider that a win. Beth may say otherwise though.
  
  You shut the door and join Beth in wondering why the oven takes so long to heat up. You promise to take a look at it tomorrow.
  
  Dinner set on the table, you manage to round up Liz and Barry, the former being infinitely more difficult. She's not even a teenager yet. That nightmare is on the horizon. Better keep a large supply of Johnnie Walker around. Dinner's just a pizza that Beth picked up on the way home, something that isn't an uncommon meal in your home. Pizza and beer: college food. You're feeling more academic already.
  
  Oddly enough, there hasn't been any more knocks on the door. Typically by this time, the front door might as well be propped open with you or Beth standing guard, dutifully placing handful upon handful of candy into plastic pumpkin baskets.
  
  "Odd there's not a lot of people out," Beth comments, pulling the thought from your head. Your wife, full-time receptionist, part-time mind-reader.
  
  "Just means there's more candy for you to scavenge," you say to the kids. Liz flashes a slight smile displaying at least two missing teeth. Ha! Got her. Barry's eyes are still glued to the TV.
  
  "No thanks. I'm a little old for that," Liz answers through a mouth filled with pizza chunks and baby teeth.
  
  "What about you Big Bear?" Beth directs towards Barry. You're silently glad it's not "Big Bare."
  
  Big Bear simply shakes his head. Low maintenance, that one. After dinner you're tasked with taking out the trash, which ends up being a bag full of beer bottles and paper plates. Stumbling out the door, bag in hand, you head for the side of the house where the trash cans are kept. Your movement causes motion-sensing outdoor lights to turn on, guiding your path, but somehow making the darkness even more so in contrast. When it's completely dark, everyone's on an equal level. In the glow of the outdoor light, you might as well be a shining beacon for predators, a neon OPEN sign cutting into the night. I'm right here! Come and get some, big boy! In a clink of glass, the empty beer bottles making themselves known, you slam dunk the trash bag into the bin. You turn around to retrace your steps back into the house. That's when you see it.
  
  The silhouette of a woman, the outline of her body is as naked as a James Bond intro. She stands a few feet from where the outdoor light hits, her head cocked to one side as if pondering a question. Silent, emotionless she stands, any facial expressions shrouded in darkness.
  
  > approach the woman
  It's not every day a naked woman appears in your backyard. That's more of a rare occurrence, even for Sterling's unpredictable nature. Here, in the suburbs, as far away from that cyclone of a city, it makes its presence known. Still, it's a naked woman, despite her sudden appearance. At least the surprise didn't come from a sexually-aroused man in clown makeup. Believe it or not, the "Jackin' Jester" really existed. Even sparked a few copycats. Goddamn city. You just feel sorry for those invited to the birthday parties Jack was hired for. Go on, crank me good. Yes, that's the stuff. Faster, faster, faster. Pop goes the weasel!
  
  "Lady, are you ok?" your voice cuts through the night. She remains silent. You approach closer to see if you can view any sort of response on her face. As you exit the direct light, your eyes start to adjust to the darkness. The woman hasn't moved an inch since suddenly appearing, like she's tied to an invisible pole holding her in place, except for her head which is still leaning to one side of her neck.
  
  Then details become more visible. The woman's naked body is littered with medical staples, strategically placed near her joints as if they are the very thing attaching her limbs to her body. Sizable screws stick out from her neck, like tombstones on a graveyard neck. Two strong hands grip your shoulders, holding you in place. The few times your mind wandered in unfaithfulness, it certainly wasn't anything like this. If anything there were a few more women and a lot less scars.
  
  "Ughh," the zombie woman moans, not in the hot way. No, definitely not in the hot way. You try to struggle. For the first time in your life, you try with all your might to leave the embrace of a naked woman. However, she possesses strength beyond yours, which is something you wish you could say was for the first time. A mouthful of zombie teeth bite your neck. Seconds later, you're bleeding out in your backyard wishing to God that you moved much, much, much further away from damned Sterling City.