TREAT by C. Lakewood _________________________ | | | HOSMER BLOTE | | Assistant Floor Manager | |_________________________| He looked at the badge with disgust...as usual. He was 41 years old and had hated his name since he was old enough to realize just how grotesque it was. Back when he was younger, he'd been determined to change it and, four times, had painfully scrimped until he'd saved almost enough to hire a lawyer and pay the court costs. But, each time, some catastrophe had intervened, draining his savings and his hopes. After the fourth time, he'd decided he was basically doomed and had quit trying. He glanced again at the badge. "Assistant Floor Manager"! One promotion in 18 years at Frink & Son -- and a paltry one at that. He'd been assistant floor manager nine years ago when William Axford had been hired as a salesman. And now Axford was sales manager.... Dropping the badge on the table, beside the big, candy-filled glass bowl, he sighed at the insignificant noise it made -- "insignificant," how appropriate. He pulled off the cheap, clip-on tie and began unbuttoning the white shirt that was beginning to fray at collar and cuffs. The discount store black shoes and the grey polyester trousers followed, and he turned to the scarecrow costume laid out on the couch. ****************************** "I've got this party to go to," Axford had said. "And a really hot-to-trot date, too -- just what I need after all the divorce shit. Geez! I'll be SO fucking glad when it's finally settled. (That damned bitch, Grace! Fortunately, my lawyer's better than hers, and we'll nail her to the wall.) But I got a Halloween tradition to maintain. Picture this: on the porch a big bowl filled with miniature candy bars of all sorts, next to a dummy, dressed like a scarecrow with a jack-o-lantern head, slumped in a chair. When a kid is concentrating on the candy, the "dummy" -- me -- jumps up and shrieks...scares the bejesus out of the little bastards.... Sometimes they even crap themselves." He chuckled. You'll have to sit in for me; we're pretty much the same size, so you should have no trouble wearing the costume." "But won't that trick work only one year?" Hosmer had asked. "Nah. Of course the kids who've been there before know what's gonna happen, but they hang back and let the little kids screw themselves. It's hilarious. Anyway, I'm taking the afternoon off. Here's a key to my front door. I've laid everything out in the front room, but you should get there by about 6:30, so you'll have time to change and set the scene...." ****************************** It wasn't a request -- or even an order -- it was merely an assumption. There had once been a time when that wouldn't have been tolerated. Hosmer could occasionally remember the days when he still had ambition and energy and self-esteem, but those memories were becoming rarer and rarer, gathering mainly at night as he lay tired but sleepless in his stuffy little efficiency apartment. He was afraid, however, that, one day, they'd stop entirely. For, as down as they made him feel, he knew that he'd be truly a hollow man without them. ****************************** He put on the long-sleeved plaid shirt, the bib overalls, the clodhopper shoes, and the white gardening gloves. The plastic jack-o-lantern slid down neatly over his own head. Axford had been right; everything was a good fit. He carried the bowl of candy out to the front porch, turned the house lights off and the porch light on, and sank down into the rump-sprung old chair, where he sprawled motionless. So far, everything was according to plan. But what he was NOT going to do, however, was scare the crap out of a bunch of little kids. He'd remain silent and motionless -- like a good dummy -- as they came and went. He yawned. The chair, though dilapidated, was comfortable. He wondered how long it would be...before they...the kids...started arriving.... ****************************** The porch light going out roused him from his doze. Squinting through the pumpkin mask, he made out a female form outlined against the feeble glow of the distant street lamp. She crouched down in front of him, unfastened his overalls, and fished out his hardening prick. "It's Grace, Billy-boy. I'm here to make this a memorable Halloween for you...the last one before the divorce is final." Before Hosmer could say a word, she sucked up his erection, and, once she'd begun working on it with lips and tongue, he was utterly speechless. It must have gone on for half an hour; every time he got close to an orgasm, she'd squeeze him, even bite him lightly, to slow things down. And, all the while, she was moaning and mewling.... At last, she relented, and he filled her mouth to capacity. She scrambled to her feet and spit over the porch railing. "There, you bastard! That's the best blow job you've ever had...and the last you'll ever get from me. Something to remember me by...something to long for the rest of your miserable life." She stalked off, and Hosmer, still speechless, watched her go. ****************************** Some minutes later, as he was changing clothes, and re-playing it all in his mind, and feeling more alive than he had in years, an axiom from some long-ago political science course suddenly blossomed in his brain: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend." "Food for thought," he smiled. He even allowed himself to contemplate the future.