The House that I parked across from was caught at the edge of a rocky outcrop, made from fibro and brick, and looking like it belonged to the street that Michael Myers stalked along in Halloween, only slightly rundown and at the lower end of middle class. (In the late seventies, it would have been otherwise.) The street did not have any over handing foliage, but instead, had been opened up by demolished houses and the electric powered skyline of Sydney. The Bridge pushed itself up in a feeble attempt to draw the eye, but Sydney has long been about money, and capitalism, and these burn brightly in it.
The party in the House required us to dress up, so we did: black clothes, black nail polish, and teeth the glowed in the dark. The total amount given to this endeavour a startling amount that I will spare the curious, so that their imagination can create a finer image. At any rate, we were the Three People in Black, and we wound out way up the stone stairs, following the fluttering paper shields of the candles into the back, where smoke poured out of a giant oven and children, who had been caught and caged, were locked next to it. Their little arms stuck out feebly, pleading to be released between greasy tears, but it would not happen. Each year, as Sydney's fascination with American culture grew, more children trick or treated, and each year, more ended up in the cages, where they would cry and weep and eventually be devoured for their bone marrow, while their skulls are cracked open and used as cups for the wine.
The Hosts were dead. They have been, I suspect, for a while now, as occasionally a smell can be caught, slipping like a stabbing through the air before quickly masked by cheap perfume, for that is the kind of dead they are. I met them during a curious incident regarding a crocodile and a writer of erotic necrophilia in the middle of Florida. At least, I think it was Florida. These big American cities blur after a while, and the crocodiles appear frequently, but I'll never forget the passionate ways she described the copulations of the living and the dead in Spanish to me as we sat in her backyard, watching the crocodile torture her children, which she had recently purchased from the Hosts. Ah, the memories. But I digress, and must return to the Hosts, because if I do not, I will be forced to edit this, and it will take the amusement out of it for me.
It was not long in the party until Dr. Frank-N-Furter, his date, and the Cardinal arrived. They were accompanied by a fine British individual, whose name must be put aside due to a slight incident involving a bottle of vodka, a child's empty skull, and the Cardinal's suggestion that she wear it like a cap and perform a Voodoo ceremony, the affects of which I was never quite sure of. But that Cardinal was a funny fellow. He would talk about Halloween and how it had awoken in him the belief in God, who he saw personified within the speechless, violent figure of Michael Myers.
"Think about it," he said. "Just think. Here is this featureless, white figure, who goes around punishing young men and women who have non-consensual sex in the eyes of the Lord."
"White?" I repeated.
"Well, isn't that the way of the Western World?" He nodded vigorously, and chewed on the fingers of a child. "But back to my original point. The only people to survive the film are those who support God's way. Jamie Lee Curtis as the virgin who studies hard, the two innocent children, and Police Officer, and the Psychiatrist."
"Isn't Curtis smoking pot at one stage in the film?"
"Pot?" the Cardinal paused. "Pot is illegal?"
Afterwards, I found myself with Dr. Frank-N-Furter, discussing the rise of fake diseases. We cracked open the heads of children, and drunk wine, and he showed me how to dance latin two steps in a pair of spiked heels. I was lucky to not destroy my bone bugs and render me a one living organism creature, as some people will say, but much fun was had. The Hosts, of course, were busy entertaining during this, and I was going by one of the Three People in Black, who proved to be much kinder than I, and made me return the good Dr.'s shoes.
At midnight, we released the final children into the streets, and armed with crossbows and shotguns, we hunted them into the early hours of the morning. I must admit, though, that I proved quite the terrible shot, and ended up having to rely heavily upon the aforementioned Person in Black, who proved that she had more survival skills than I. It was reported that both Dr. Frank-N-Furter and the Cardinal also ate well that night, which should surprise no one who saw them leaving with a net and rifle that fired rubber bullets, to stun and not kill.
"The meat must be tender," Dr. Frank-N-Furter said with the wisdom of one who has hunted before.
"Besides which," the Cardinal added, testing his club, "they scream when dropped into boiling water, and I love that."
Smiling, both (along with the good Dr.'s date) disappeared into the night, the leaves twisting in the air like strangled little barnyard animals in their wake.
The night for everyone.