text: [Themes: modern]
  
  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.
  
  > run inside and lock the damn door
  If there's anything you learned from childhood Sunday school, it's that mysterious naked women who show up are bad news. Like, Samson was the premier alpha until he met Delilah. Not only did she make him cut his hair, she probably furnished his place with feminine decor. God damn.
  
  The woman's sudden appearance, along with every instinct in your body telling you to run, well, causes you to break into a run towards the back door. Only once you're inside with the little wooden stick thingy blocking the sliding door's path, do you take a breath. What the hell? Naked women don't just appear like that unless it's a rap video or you've placed a few hundred dollar bills on the nightstand. Considering you've never carried that much money and that you're more of a rock'n'roll fella, you can only assume the worst.
  
  "Why're you in a rush?" Beth asks, already fixed and halfway down a homemade vodka martini, aka a glass of vodka with a side of olives.
  
  How do you explain what you saw? "There's a naked woman in our backyard." Ok, that's how.
  
  "What?" Beth exclaims.
  
  "You heard me. Something's off, Bethie."
  
  She takes a sip of vodka. "You are spooked. Never seen you quite like this. Not since we saw that old horror flick. Dear, you really need to learn all that stuff is fake."
  
  The glass sliding door shatters in an explosion of glass. The woman, as naked as the day her V card got punched, wearing dozens of scars, climbs through the opening, re-opening old cuts, covering her body in glass shards and lines of blood.
  
  You gesture towards the woman in a manner much too sarcastic for the current life-or-death situation, just to make sure Beth notices the zombie with the tits invading the safety of your home.
  
  > position yourself in front of Beth
  You may have your faults, but Beth has always been good to you. Hopefully, she would say the same about you, despite your shortcomings. But hey, nobody's perfect. Some people are naturally lazy even if they don't want to be. Other people use cliches like "nobody's perfect." As the zombie approaches, like the protagonist of an epic tale, you position yourself in front of Beth.
  
  It's as if time has slowed down. The soft breeze gently whispers upon your neck, sending the tips of your hair dancing in the air, the look on Beth's face showing recognition of your choice, transitioning from surprise to horror. This is it. Your sacrifice will mean her life.
  
  Then, as if the Play button was pressed, time suddenly returns to normal speed.
  
  "Why the hell are you walking like that?" Beth asks.
  
  "Like what?" you reply.
  
  "Super slow like that, chin high and jaw clenched."
  
  "I always walk like that."
  
  Beth laughs. "Ha ha nooo you don't. "
  
  "Uh, Beth?"
  
  "Yes, dear?"
  
  "Zombie!"
  
  After shouting, you instinctively reach for the nearest weapon. In this case, it ends up being a pizza cutter. Pizza cutter, zombie cutter, same thing, right? What do they call that? Dual purpose? Arms stretched out, head hanging to the side, the zombie woman draws closer. You cut her. You cut her real good, making slices deep enough for a deep dish pizza. Order now for our special twofer deal! Pizza sauce flies in the air, red marinara oozing from your slices, splashing on your face, floor, and Beth.
  
  "Ughh," the zombie woman moans, not exactly in pain, not exactly in pleasure, but because it's the only sound she's capable of making. It's a nice change from the mix of expletives that you and Beth are screaming in accompaniment with your pizza slicing.
  
  The zombie woman falls to the floor, twitching for a few seconds before finally remaining still. It's then that you notice the figure standing behind the woman, hidden from sight beforehand. Thanks for your order! Please fill out this survey to ensure we keep 100% customer satisfaction! The figure, shrouded in a black trench coat and matching fedora, hides his features in the shadows. The soft glow from the cigarette at the corner of his mouth is the only change from his black-on-black color scheme.
  
  "Trick or treat," the man speaks through a puff of smoke. His voice is raspy and deep, like the way a radio announcer would sound in the studio. With a small chuckle, the dark figure turns, snuffs the cigarette out on your wall, and leaves.
  
  "Motherfucker, that's a fresh coat of paint!" Beth exclaims. Damn suburbs can't escape Sterling's nature entirely. Sporadic. Emotional. On the plus side, it wasn't a threefer deal. You're done with Halloween. No more trick or treaters. They can answer to a locked door and dark porchlight, baby. You've got a floor to clean.