Cannabis sat sideways to the direction of travel. She wore a nose ring and blue eye shadow, and she didn’t act like she could be excited or playful about anything. Someone would say, “I like your costume,” and she’d barely respond – a meager smile, a slight tilt of her head. She pulled a log wrapped in a bath towel out of her bag, confusing everyone.
Tobias Funke was down on the street. Lines of power rangers, Wizard of Oz characters, girls in short dresses atop truly massive heels, cats, witches, jungle maidens, gods of thunder issued out of packed bars and into the people-filled street. A group in a crosswalk chanted “Roof – ee – O!" A cop put tickets on the windshields of every car parked on his side of the street.
In one bar that had tiles with ornate veins that spread spider-web fashion across the ceiling a cactus pressed his face up against the window. He stepped back and shook his arms around trying to dislodge fake cobwebs. Music played, if you aren’t drinking shots get the fuck out the club. He was with a tumbleweed girl with sticks in her hair.
Jesus made his way from bar to bar. The pope consecrated some rum. The Count in a cape and large canines picketed: #occupy Sesame Street. The cop was getting curb stomped by a pack of bananas. And Peter was wearing nothing at all.
A woman told some girls wearing normal clothes, “I love your costumes.”
Cannabis said, “I’m bringing it for my friend, the log lady” by way of explanation, and notes on parked cars up one side of the street read: Happy Halloween.
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