It started like any other Halloween night. Trick-or-treaters guilting adults into giving them bigger handfuls of candy, adults without kids trying desperately to figure out how to construct a costume using a single pillow case and...what is that...a bowtie from Men's Warehouse they didn't return after the wedding? Dapper half-ghost it is.
But you...you have other plans. Axe-y plans. You're on your way back from Choptober to...let's say...TRANSYLVANIA?!?
No, no. That's too on the nose. Uh...
PENNSYLVANIA!!!
It's a short trip from New Jersey, but tonight. Tonight - tonight the veil between sobriety and inebriation are thinned. Like so many cheap, polyblend tights on so many thighs in so many Halloween parties. And you, dear thrower, you're going to pay the PRICE!
You've stopped at Wawa, despite knowing that Royal Farms is the superior choice, and that's when you notice him. A man in a beat-up 2001 Honda Elantra. You only catch a glimpse of him through the window while you're getting your pierogi quesadilla. And you can almost swear that his eyes are...red? But the Wawa-ista calls your number, and when you look back out the window, he's gone!
So you continue your trip home, trying to fuggin raw dawg that nightmare of a meal into your gullet without hating yourself, and you turn on the radio...because that's definitely something that people do in 2023, and you hear the tail end of a special announcement:
"...anyone driving on route 76 is advised to be alert and avoid pit stops until reaching their destination. Do not stop for motorists who appear to be in distress, and do not pick up hitchhikers..."
After you get over the use of "motorists" like you're in some sort of 1920's time jump, you notice the same broken-headlight behind you that you saw crossing the PA/NJ border. The car is directly behind yours, a little too close. You can see the vanity front license plate that reads...what is that? AXMDR?!
You push your car to a very brave 65 miles per hour. You're so brave. A real Mario Andretti.
Your exit comes, just as the clouds part and you get a clear view of the pursuing car in the moonlight. He takes the exit with you. You're sure of it - AXMRDR is following you. You adjust the rearview to get a better view and you're sure of it. Red Eyes. A sardonic smile.
You weigh your options.
You have axes in your back seat. You can defend yourself from a distance as long as this nightmare Honda Elantra AXMDR stands still at about 170 inches and looks target-y. But you don't have a vanity front license plate that says "AXETHR" and maybe he just has that kind of confidence. Maybe he's really good at axe murdering, good enough to get that kind of vanity license plate and not be, you know, pretentious about it.
So you make your decision. Pull over on this SUPER SPOOKY one lane road (was it always one lane? You don't know. It's Hallowe'en after all), get out of your car and grab an axe, and wait for your murderous stalker to look like a bullseye.
You pull over.
You start getting out of your car but realize you didn't put it in park.
You put it in park. A cat OR A WOLF?! howls/yeowls in the distance.
You get your back door open and realize, with horror, that your axe bag has, like, a million zippers. Why do you have so many zippers, bag?! And why did you strap down each axe like it's going into space?
In your struggle to free even one axe, you don't hear the door open and close behind you. You don't hear the big, VERY SCARY footsteps approaching you.
But you do notice the large, strong hand grasp around your shoulder. You hear what sounds like a very small dog yip as if its owner just stepped on its little paw. Not like, hard enough to hurt it, but enough to scare the life out of it. You realize you made that noise.
"Oh, didn't mean to scare you, bud," you hear a voice say - and as you turn, the blood draining from your face, you see...oh.
Oh it's one of the axe throwers from Choptober you met. The guy who designs those cool, coffin handle axes.
Your eyes go back to the front of his car. AXMKR. Oh.
"Oh," you unsuprisingly say. Trying to cover for whatever noise just came from your voice, you lower your voice a little, "Uh, what's up? Why did you follow me all the way from Jersey?"
"Well, you didn't produce your 81 coin when I challenged that group of throwers," the thrower says, his bloodshot eyes making his face look like some horrifying, mis-painted clown, "you owe me a drink."
"Wow. Okay. Well I guess we're close to my house. I have some PBR there, I think," you say. "Oh, I never drink. Beer," he says back, his lips curling, revealing a set of fangs.
And then he bites your neck, because he was talking about blood, because he's a vampire! THE OL' DOUBLE REVERSIE! I don't know. HAPPY HALLOWEEN!
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