Disclaimer: Low stroke potential, but an interesting story.
Reid looked out at the western sky, painted in vivid pinks and purples like the backdrop for an epic movie. This was the reason he and Heather had moved up to the Sierra foothills - nature, in all it's raging glory. It was humbling, refreshing, awe-inspiring. It was also a good place for marijuana farming, but they kept that reason to themselves.
"Check out the sunset," Reid gasped between tokes. He passed the joint to Heather, but she was busy, munching on the last of her Halloween treat.
"We should've eaten these mushrooms two hours ago," she grimaced, chasing the bitter taste with a gulp of Calistoga water.
"But then we would've thought this sunset was a hallucination. Plus, we would've had to deal with the trick-or-treaters while we were tripping. Can you imagine what a bummer that would have been?"
"And exactly how many trick-or-treaters did we get tonight?"
Reid frowned. "We could still get one."
"I want one of these," Heather giggled, sliding her hand down inside his jeans.
"Heather, babe, remember how you promised to call your folks on every holiday?" Reid gave his wife a squeeze. "You don't want to disappoint them, do you?"
"You're right. This can wait." She picked up the phone and dialed the number.
********
The stereo was blasting The Doors, 'Break On Through to the Other Side' when Alfred heard the jingle of the phone. He dashed past the drunken revelers; Senator Brassly, in a Dracula costume, chasing someone's wife, trying to bite her neck; (and look down her cleavage,) Congressman Tate, dressed like Lil Abner, checking out a rather plump woman's thigh. (Congressman Tate was famous for bringing huge quantities of pork into his district, which is why he was on a 'ham' kick that night, checking women's thighs for pork potential.) Alfred reached the phone just in time.
"Is that you, Hon?" he panted into the receiver. He could hardly hear his daughter over the racket. "Costume party," he replied, as he dashed out onto the deck. "The neighbors, some folks from work. Your brother Peter's here." Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his wife Alicia heading out the back door. He had to admit, her black Elvira dress took ten pounds off her curvy figure, and her slightly tawdry beauty gave him a chill. "Here's your mom." He handed her the phone.
"Your father found a Dick Cheney mask" Alicia told Heather, "and he even dug up the shotgun from down in the basement."
Alfred smiled at the thought of the shotgun. It was loaded with blanks, but it would still be a hell of a stunt, 'accidentally' shooting one of his distinguished guests in the face, just like Dick Cheney had done. That was one advantage to having a bunch of lawyer friends - plenty of targets.
Alfred had one particular target in mind - Thomas, his hotshot Defense Department neighbor. Thomas was after his wife, and although Alfred was pretty certain Alicia hadn't cheated, there was a chemistry there, an undercurrent of understanding that bothered him.
It also bothered him that Thomas had a garage full of munitions he'd 'collected' over the years. That was a problem because Alfred was cheating with Thomas wife Terry, and if he found out, with all those weapons in his garage, that would certainly suck, as his son Peter was fond of saying about anything having to do with responsibility.
********
Peter trudged up the back stairs, dressed in his Muslim terrorist outfit. He'd even fashioned a sword out of a piece of metal pipe he'd found in the basement, which was quite an accomplishment for such a dedicated slacker. He knew the terrorist outfit would piss off his dad, but that was the whole point. Dropping out of college, getting arrested for shoplifting, juggling a lightweight drug habit with his nonexistent finances, it was all for his dad's benefit. In fact, Peter was surprised his dad even let him keep staying down in the guest house. It just proved what a pushover the old man was, and it spurred Peter to push even harder, testing the limits of his dad's patience.
"Looking good, Son," Alfred smiled. Peter traipsed past, giving him a cold stare. How he hated his dad, his mom, this place. Between his dad sneaking around, fucking the neighbor's wife, and the neighbor fucking his mom, was it any wonder he had such a bad attitude? He had a right to be a terrorist, at least for one night. Of course, tonight's planned act of terrorism wouldn't be rewarded with the affection of 72 virgins, but he could probably find at least one who would show him her tits, maybe even give him a blow job.
He spotted a likely candidate; a mousy blonde he'd seen around the neighborhood. He was pretty sure she went to Berkeley, but tonight she wasn't carrying her book bag. She was dressed as a Hooters girl, and he could tell by the way she was laughing she already had a buzz on.
"Wanna see my suicide bomb" he asked. She eyed him suspiciously. He flashed his 'aw shucks' smile, the one he used when he was shoplifting. "I'm Peter, Alfred's son."
Her face lit up. "Peter!" She gave him a limp handshake. "Beverly. Love your outfit."
"Love yours," he said, staring at her large, luscious, Hooters tits. "I can see you're in need of assistance." He snatched the glass from her hand. "Your cup runneth empty."
He marched off towards the kitchen, keeping his eye out for his dad's shotgun, which he found propped up in the corner.
"Perfect,"
he said to himself, as he looked over his shoulder. He crouched, split the rifle open, dumped out the blanks and loaded two double-ought shells into the barrel.
