The big night approaches fast, but I’m on it.
I’ve stockpiled large quantities of goodies to hand out to the little trick-or-treaters when they knock on my door, though I haven’t yet had a chance to add the drugs to them. I’m hoping Bullet will give me a hand tomorrow to lace the sweets with minute amounts of PCP and psilocybin. And perhaps strychnine, depending on how the mood takes me.
Let’s see now. Do I want demented-running-around with visions from the pits of Hell, or do I want agonised writhing with foaming at the mouth?
Hmm. Not an easy choice. Never easy. Pits-of-Hell / agonised writhing. Agonised writhing / pits-of-Hell. Gnnyyaaahhh!!‚ What to do?
I know! Let’s have both. We’ll mix a little strychnine with some arsenic, some ricin, a bit of cyanide, some Polonium-210, hemlock and botulism. Take that, you botulist bastard!! Now we’re cookin’! Let’s mix it all in with some lysergic acid, the old PCP, psilocybin, a bit of peyote for sudden jumping up on mountains, a little bit of sensemilla. Throw in some DMT, 2C-B, mescaline, DOM, some skunkweed and a healthy lump of old-fashioned DOPE.
There. I think we’re finished. Get to work, Bullet.
I’ve also bought dozens of eggs to pelt the little fuckers’ parents with because I hate these smug yummy-mummy holier-than-thou bastards that shepherd the kids from door to door and stand back there on the footpath watching you in case you abduct the little vermin and cut them in half in front of their smug, horrified middle-class pushy-parent eyes. As if you’d be bothered. As if they’d be any loss.
Fuck you!! I’ll howl at them while my beloved son feeds their little middle-class spawn a fistful of sweets laced with psychoactive chemicals, deadly poisons and radioactive isotopes. Then I’ll pelt their SUV with rotten eggs. Clean that, you condescending fucker!
I have the dogs wound up to a crescendo of rage — achieved very simply, by showing them pictures of people in furry gloves and then kicking them, hard. My plan is simple. Any child that won’t accept the psilocybin-laced sweets will have to run the gauntlet of starving, maddened dogs (mine and all my neighbours’ — we’ve banded together this year). Any survivors will be shouted at in unison by a phalanx of enraged householders: Fuck off, you horrible little prick. You’re ugly and you’ll never amount to anything. And you won’t get into that fee-paying school your crawling slithery furry-hatted parents wanted for you, so there!! Mwooohahahaha!
We’re practising this chant, and it’s starting to gel. Actually, it’s a great way to bring a neighbourhood together.
I’ve also bought a number of catapults for our teenagers to shoot nuts and hard little crab-apples at the children when they see them crying.
With any luck, I’m hoping we can mentally scar even more of the little bastards this year than we did last year.