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October is the one month a year these whores get to dress like the product they've always been and call it a personality, and it's the one month a year they get reminded exactly what the product is for. Count the fabric: a yard, half a yard, a napkin, a strip of tape. That's the whole costume, that's the whole invitation, and the night takes them up on it. It starts with the walking: heels they can't walk in, blisters by block two, tape surrendering to sweat, one strap snapped in the bathroom line and pinned by a stranger who never gets thanked, tits shoved up into tops that gave up the second they bent over, and they bend over, at the bar, on the dance floor, into the lens, for every phone in the room, because the bending is the actual costume and they know it and they do it anyway. Then the night stops being polite. A bat across the back of the thighs and the whole pack shrieks. A bat in the ribs and the screaming goes wet. Knees out from under them on the curb, dragged up by the hair with the horns still on, mascara running in two black tracks to the chin, whiskers smeared into a bruise, wings crushed flat under somebody's knee in the gravel. Then it's not a party anymore, it's a queue: bent over the hood of the car that smells like vanilla body spray and cheap tequila, one after another, skirt up around the waist, tail in her fist because it's the only thing she's still holding, and she's screaming into the cold metal and the flash is going the whole time, close enough to count the safety pin. Every hole, more than once, harder than she asked for, and the ones waiting in line get to watch and cry before it's their turn. Somewhere in there the makeup is gone entirely, the costume is a rag hanging off one shoulder, and one of them is on her knees in the smoking area sobbing with her mouth still open, ruined, mascara to the collarbone, doing the math on whether she's even a person anymore, and the answer that night is no, she's a nurse, a cat, a devil, a pumpkin, an angel with no wings, and nothing else. The designated mom of the pack, least attractive one, holds five jackets and five phones and takes four hundred flash photos of a garage door while her friends get wrecked, and nobody takes one of her. Morning after, the whole thing in a pile on the floor, three runs in the fishnets, one bent wing, one heel, candy nobody ate and a bunch of girls sitting on the edge of a bed staring at a phone full of proof, cum dried stiff in the polyester, sobbing at the ceiling and genuinely asking out loud why they even bother being alive, and then posting the best three anyway. Rank them by how little fabric they bothered with. Find the one who cried first, find the one who cried last, find the one still leaking on the walk home. Pick a favorite by naming the exact detail that finished her and destroy them in the comments! - The last of my halloween galleries for this time!
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