A cowboy, a pirate and the pope walk into a bar…
Nope, no joke here.
Just reminding you of the horror approaching Thursday night.
Remember when “don’t open the door” was the warning usually saved for the unwanted visit from the country pickled-herring salesman, or that strain of Scandinavian religion that Ole and Astrid started out behind the woodshed?
And “trick or treat” was something every household held dear?
Now we turn out the lights, put a muffle on family pets locked in closets and dim the flat-screen televisions to the smallest illumination of “happy light” glow.
When I was a lad my costume was traditional:
A ghost was a turned-out flour sack. A scarecrow was an inverted potato sack. Cowboys could holster guns and walk hand-in-hand with Native Americans, and a werewolf was the pasting of a year’s worth of sit-down family barber sessions in the kitchen (don’t ask…please, don’t ask).
Now, I have no clue what to “go as” on Thursday night.
That is the first question you hear when the Oct. 1 major advertising chains begin dominating the landscape with black and orange team colors, a pre-season if you will, in anticipation of the swag they hope to see pushed upon the fan base on Oct. 31.
This year the best costumes have already been taken.
They have been worn for years, it seems, and appear to be especially trendy this budget-crunch season.
You all have seen them.
You all have felt dread watching their approach.
A seemingly one-minded gait, blood lust aroused, the smell of your hard-working human toil scenting them along.
The hairs electrify on your arms, your grip tightens on your purse and pocketbook.
You want to run but this is a worst-case-nightmare-scenario.
Is it a dream?
If it is, you cannot wake up.
Their mouths open.
You will be consumed.
They have feasted on you for years.
“Why did I not heed the apocalyptic warnings?” you ask yourself.
Yes, why.
You fed them, you nurtured them and now they are out of control.
You threw them the crumbs and now the whole cake is being greedily pursued.
And you don’t have that much flour anymore, do you?
Why did you not stop with the helmet and chinstrap-wearing creatures?
The sounds coming from their fang protectors were horrible.
A seemingly endless wail that sucked your breath away.
A pleading, relentless moaning, like tortured youthful souls strapped into Norwegian bunads.
The terror spread to the frozen demons that chase their unsuspecting victims with large cleaving sticks.
They cornered us and pelted us with large orbs, they threw us down on rubberized floorings.
The wickedness spread and infected across the hard surfaces of every house, school and business.
Lurking on large grassy fields, luring us on to dirt-strewn squares, trapping us in walled mazes of humanity.
They come as lone creatures, or in packs or clubs, teams if you will, intent upon sucking your last will and testament.
Are they from another planet? Were they left here to strategically harvest us?
The wind caresses their stench across the lit town streets, williwaws it along the fence posts, embeds it in misty coverings that define our homes.
Their approaching pace echoing through your temple, clinging down your spine and across your chest in perfect cadence with your escalating heartbeat.
You, I, we…gave. All we could.
Why don’t they stop?
Why? Because we loved them. They were cute and exciting and brought us happiness.
They were a seed that began to take root and then we fed them after midnight.
Now they have changed into something unspeakable.
They have tasted the sustenance you can provide and now they want more.
No, they are not political…although that terror is also unfolding next week.
No, these are like gremlins, we fed them and watered them and they have traveled unchecked out into lands we could only dream of.
So…I have no clue what to “go as” tomorrow night.
I am beaten down, weathered, broken and hungry…
Why…That’s it!
I will proudly wear the costume of a local sports reporter!
• Contact Klas Stolpe at klas stolpe@juneauempire.com.
