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Book: Toil & Trouble: A Know Not Why Halloween (Mis)adventure by Hannah Johnson
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Authors: Hannah Johnson
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John?” Kristy says, brightening a
little.
“Especially Dear John,” Howie says, and doesn’t even
grimace. True selflessness.
“Ma-gic Mike! Ma-gic Mike!” Cora chants.
“If you’re going to chant about stripper movies, can
you at least do it while you’re smearing ketchup all over the gauze
to make it look eerily bloodstained?” Arthur requests.
It’s hard to resist an order like that.
+
When they’re all done, they turn the lights off and
try out the strobe light.
True to Cora’s word, the gauze takes on a menacing,
ghostly vibe. Even though Howie knows the red stains are
from ketchup, well—knowing and feeling are two very different
things.
“It’s awful,” Kristy murmurs.
“And tomato-scented,” Cora observes.
“Which only makes it creepier,” Howie says.
“Well,” Arthur says, “that’s something.”
+
Next up: costumes.
Howie sticks with his jeans and t-shirt; he argues
that the very essence of a chainsaw murderer’s fearsomeness is that
he could be just like anyone else until you put that chainsaw in
his hand. Everyone is too grim-of-spirits to fight him on it.
Arthur looks sort of like the human embodiment of a
Mumford & Sons song. He’s wearing an old jacket with elbow
patches that Howie has always made fun of, and he looks very ready
to wander a long and dusty road and sing his weary heart’s song.
Or, well, Taylor’s weary heart’s song.
Cora is covered in a suit of shaggy fur and a
fur-meets-rubber werewolf mask which boasts a set of seriously
nasty bloody jaws. She, at least, seems right at home.
Kristy is, objectively speaking, a truly adorable
sexy mummy, but she doesn’t look happy about it.
Once they’ve all changed, Cora’s friend Nick—a guy
Howie once lovingly dubbed Tights McGee—comes to the store to do
their makeup. He’s got no tights in sight, and formidable mad
skills with a ... makeup brush thingie.
He gives Arthur the sickly pallor of a ghostly
troubadour, then paints little red dots all over Howie’s face.
“The blood splatter of your victims,” Nick explains.
He sounds way too chill with that idea.
“Is it okay if I just pretend they’re freckles?”
Howie says.
“Sure, Pippi Deathstocking.”
“Pippi Longstocking is creepy enough, like, just as
she is,” Howie says. “You don’t have to embellish.”
“God, I loved Pippi Longstocking when I was a kid,”
Cora says, grinning nostalgically.
“That does not surprise me,” says Arthur.
Nick doesn’t stop with the blood freckles. Nope. He
also attacks Howie’s eyeballs—well, okay, the area around them—with
eyeliner.
“So, uh, am I the David Bowie of chainsaw murderers?”
Howie asks.
“If you want your crazy eyes to be the last thing
your victim remembers, then you gotta make them stand out,” says
Nick, with the kind of simple authority that a guy can wield when
he’s earned the nickname Tights McGee.
Secretly, Howie doesn’t hate it.
Since Cora’s going to have her face all covered in
werewolf mask, she foregoes her chance for freaky makeup. Kristy
goes last, and basically comes out looking like a 1950s pinup girl.
Even though she is definitely the most non-hideous member of the
group, she still isn’t her usual chipper-as-a-human-puppy self.
“You guys are really mopey for a bunch of freaks
about to get their Halloween on,” Nick says. Apparently he is a
dude with the power to read the room.
“Uh, here,” Howie says, handing over his phone. “Take
our picture. I’ll send it to Amber. Let her know that she and Mitch
really need to up their costume game if they wanna roll with this
fierce crowd.”
As they pose, Howie is sort of at a loss with what to
do with this plastic chainsaw. He is just not good at communicating
an air of I’LL FUCK YOU UP, LUMBERJACK STYLE . He gets that
he is probably not
little.
“Especially Dear John,” Howie says, and doesn’t even
grimace. True selflessness.
“Ma-gic Mike! Ma-gic Mike!” Cora chants.
“If you’re going to chant about stripper movies, can
you at least do it while you’re smearing ketchup all over the gauze
to make it look eerily bloodstained?” Arthur requests.
It’s hard to resist an order like that.
+
When they’re all done, they turn the lights off and
try out the strobe light.
True to Cora’s word, the gauze takes on a menacing,
ghostly vibe. Even though Howie knows the red stains are
from ketchup, well—knowing and feeling are two very different
things.
“It’s awful,” Kristy murmurs.
“And tomato-scented,” Cora observes.
“Which only makes it creepier,” Howie says.
“Well,” Arthur says, “that’s something.”
+
Next up: costumes.
Howie sticks with his jeans and t-shirt; he argues
that the very essence of a chainsaw murderer’s fearsomeness is that
he could be just like anyone else until you put that chainsaw in
his hand. Everyone is too grim-of-spirits to fight him on it.
Arthur looks sort of like the human embodiment of a
Mumford & Sons song. He’s wearing an old jacket with elbow
patches that Howie has always made fun of, and he looks very ready
to wander a long and dusty road and sing his weary heart’s song.
Or, well, Taylor’s weary heart’s song.
Cora is covered in a suit of shaggy fur and a
fur-meets-rubber werewolf mask which boasts a set of seriously
nasty bloody jaws. She, at least, seems right at home.
Kristy is, objectively speaking, a truly adorable
sexy mummy, but she doesn’t look happy about it.
Once they’ve all changed, Cora’s friend Nick—a guy
Howie once lovingly dubbed Tights McGee—comes to the store to do
their makeup. He’s got no tights in sight, and formidable mad
skills with a ... makeup brush thingie.
He gives Arthur the sickly pallor of a ghostly
troubadour, then paints little red dots all over Howie’s face.
“The blood splatter of your victims,” Nick explains.
He sounds way too chill with that idea.
“Is it okay if I just pretend they’re freckles?”
Howie says.
“Sure, Pippi Deathstocking.”
“Pippi Longstocking is creepy enough, like, just as
she is,” Howie says. “You don’t have to embellish.”
“God, I loved Pippi Longstocking when I was a kid,”
Cora says, grinning nostalgically.
“That does not surprise me,” says Arthur.
Nick doesn’t stop with the blood freckles. Nope. He
also attacks Howie’s eyeballs—well, okay, the area around them—with
eyeliner.
“So, uh, am I the David Bowie of chainsaw murderers?”
Howie asks.
“If you want your crazy eyes to be the last thing
your victim remembers, then you gotta make them stand out,” says
Nick, with the kind of simple authority that a guy can wield when
he’s earned the nickname Tights McGee.
Secretly, Howie doesn’t hate it.
Since Cora’s going to have her face all covered in
werewolf mask, she foregoes her chance for freaky makeup. Kristy
goes last, and basically comes out looking like a 1950s pinup girl.
Even though she is definitely the most non-hideous member of the
group, she still isn’t her usual chipper-as-a-human-puppy self.
“You guys are really mopey for a bunch of freaks
about to get their Halloween on,” Nick says. Apparently he is a
dude with the power to read the room.
“Uh, here,” Howie says, handing over his phone. “Take
our picture. I’ll send it to Amber. Let her know that she and Mitch
really need to up their costume game if they wanna roll with this
fierce crowd.”
As they pose, Howie is sort of at a loss with what to
do with this plastic chainsaw. He is just not good at communicating
an air of I’LL FUCK YOU UP, LUMBERJACK STYLE . He gets that
he is probably not
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