It happened last Halloween. Ray had driven more than 90 minutes upstate into the boonies for the costume party. He’d heard there would be a lot of action at this, the biggest bar in the small town, including swinger wives and some young hippie chicks who worked on organic farms in the area and dug orgasms for a natural high. There was nothing else to do but drink and fuck when the landscape was mostly farms and graveyards.
He finished his third beer, blearily scanning the scene for a potential fuck, alone and in a sexy costume, but so far, nothing. He flipped his eye patch up for a better look. The thin elastic snapped and broke. He shrugged, removed the pirate hat and decided that looking “poetic” in his puffy white shirt would be enough. Instead of a “pirate of the Caribbean,” he could say he was John Milton, looking for paradise lost between a woman’s legs.
The hired band came back from their break, and the lead singer, bearded and dressed in black, grunted, “No more Black Sabbath requests, okay? Here’s an original about the owner of a bar in Hawley who went nuts and killed his wife and himself. His final destination: the ground!” Ominous riffs rang out, the drums kicked like gunshots, and Ray could only think he was dying . . . to get laid.