It’s Wallowe’en, the dread night when a veil slips between our world and the grim otherlife, that half-lit place where shades groan and pookas flit, where untrod boards creak as dark falls and ghastly ghostly ghoulish goblins jump at you from tombstone and tunnel, with cackle and catcall.
It is that awful time when creatures from an occult realm, a place so foul no human mind dreamed nor heart feared, crawl from the slime and drag their suppurating corpse-looking bodies to your door, to call for alms.
For alms. For alms. Save us from the Pit of Hades. Save us from the Seventh Circle of Hell. Save us from Doom, from eternal fire, from torment with the deevils and the boiling tar and the pitchforks. Rescue us from Yog Sotthoth, from Beelzebub, from Azaziel, from Behemoth, Chemosh and Eurynomos. Save us from Kasadia, Oromas and Yeter’el.
We beseech thee to save us for we did not know what awaited us in the pits of eternal damnation.
That’s right. It’s the time when we pay back the unsecured bondholders of the Irish banks.
Now that I think about it, this story seems appropriate: sinners