Every Fall I watch you normies get all excited that “spooky season” is here once again. That means it’s time for you to put up decorations, buy big bags of candy and watch shitty horror movies. But a 10-foot skeleton in your yard is amateur hour crap next to the perpetual mental anguish I experience as a result of the unforgivable acts I’ve committed.
Real horror is being confronted by the memory of running down a drifter on a deserted stretch of highway every time you close your eyes. Your six weeks of spookiness are pretty lame in comparison. Have fun marathoning the “Friday the 13th” series, you child. I’ll be over here quaking in fright, forever reliving the revolting thump-thump of tires rolling over a human body.
After the hit-and-run incident I needed to lay low for a bit, so I took a job on an oil rig in the Gulf. Remember the Deepwater Horizon explosion and oil spill? Yeah, that was me (I was passed out drunk when I was supposed to be monitoring methane levels). I covered my tracks by blaming it on one of the guys who died in the blast. That experience has definitely resulted in a number of long dark nights of the soul for me.
Aww, are you having trouble sleeping because you read a chapter of “Pet Sematary” before bed, you pumpkin-spiced wuss? That’s cute. I can’t fall asleep without ingesting dangerous amounts of pharmaceuticals, lest I be tormented all night by the memories of my wretched misdeeds. I know true dread, like the moment I realized a cigarette I tossed out of my car window likely started the 2018 Mendocino wildfires.
I can only laugh when I see videos of you cowards getting all freaked out at a haunted corn maze. You want to hear about a real nightmare? Imagine being the guy who sold Tom Petty the drugs that killed him. Yup, I’m the piece of shit that ruined that for everybody.
So enjoy your milquetoast spooky season, lightweights. While you’re peeling grapes to make a bowl of “witch’s eyeballs”, I’ll be near-catatonic with a thousand-yard stare, still shell-shocked by the shit I saw in ‘Nam. (Note: Technically I wasn’t in the war, but I did see “Full Metal Jacket” way too young.) Happy Halloween, you dumb babies.