Halloween Hooligans: Creepy Crawling the Side Streets
One of the most obnoxious things I have ever done was on Halloween, perhaps in 1995 or 1996. I was sixteen or seventeen years old. Dressed in cheap store-bought monster masks, wearing old jeans and sneakers, my friend Bill and I prowled the streets of my hometown. We terrorized churches, children, and old ladies. We were equal opportunity in those days, relying on our innate sense of indecency.
We creepy-crawled that town. Like that scene in Pink Flamingos, when the furniture ejects people because of the sheer badness of Divine and her twisted family, we meant to be as evil as possible. We ignored the comments that we were too old to be trick or treating. It did not matter that both of us were over six feet tall and Bill weighed over two hundred pounds. We just wanted more candy. We weren't going to take no lip. Forget about the razor blades in the candy, bub. I don't want any more sweet tarts.
The mission was fraught with peril. Weirdness abounded at every corner. We gripped our pillow sacks and prepared for the worst. An old lady told Bill, "That's a pretty big sack you have there." Of course, this left us rolling on the ground; immaturity was at an all time high. The old lady looked at us completely unaware. We stopped by a church, and when we were told they didn't believe in Halloween, one of us yelled, "We worship Satan." It was not my finest moment. I don't even think we got that much candy. I felt like we were the only ones on the street, the only ones in the world. On Halloween, Small Town America, too old to go door to door, too young to do anything fun. We parted ways -- the mission was aborted. Stuck in a small town, I felt rejected by Halloween. It never lived up to the hype. I'm sure I went home and blasted the Misfits or Samhain, and forgot all about my troubles.
We creepy-crawled that town. Like that scene in Pink Flamingos, when the furniture ejects people because of the sheer badness of Divine and her twisted family, we meant to be as evil as possible. We ignored the comments that we were too old to be trick or treating. It did not matter that both of us were over six feet tall and Bill weighed over two hundred pounds. We just wanted more candy. We weren't going to take no lip. Forget about the razor blades in the candy, bub. I don't want any more sweet tarts.
The mission was fraught with peril. Weirdness abounded at every corner. We gripped our pillow sacks and prepared for the worst. An old lady told Bill, "That's a pretty big sack you have there." Of course, this left us rolling on the ground; immaturity was at an all time high. The old lady looked at us completely unaware. We stopped by a church, and when we were told they didn't believe in Halloween, one of us yelled, "We worship Satan." It was not my finest moment. I don't even think we got that much candy. I felt like we were the only ones on the street, the only ones in the world. On Halloween, Small Town America, too old to go door to door, too young to do anything fun. We parted ways -- the mission was aborted. Stuck in a small town, I felt rejected by Halloween. It never lived up to the hype. I'm sure I went home and blasted the Misfits or Samhain, and forgot all about my troubles.
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