Previous Post Title Pending The Belvaire Hotel’s Paramount Room had been the chosen venue for the Daughters of Paradopolis’s Halloween party for the last forty eight years. Its dark navy wallpaper and maroon curtains were well-suited for such a gala. The lights in the Paramount Room’s four chandeliers were replaced with flickering black and orange bulbs, and yards of silken brocades doubled as cobwebs. The mahogany floor was tarped over to allow the use of a dry ice machine, creating a low hanging fog. Completing the atmosphere were a score of expertly carved jack-o-lanterns placed in the less trafficked areas of the room, away from the dance floor, the DJ booth, and the lanes the servers, themselves dressed as various creatures of the night, used to deliver treats to the party goers. “Is that another deviled egg?” Jenni Wooster demanded to know from her half of her and her sister’s Halloween costume. “Nope,” Trudi lied as she popped the hellish hors-de-voures into her mouth, “Mushroom cap.” Jenni’s pique, while muffled under layers of fabric, was still obvious, “I don’t believe you, Trudi. Deviled eggs are your crack. You’d wolf down an entire tray if you could, leaving you bloated and gassy, or should I say more bloated and gassy, and me at Ground Zero of the aftermath.” “You’re just bitter because you lost the coin toss and wound up having to play the tail,” her fraternal twin smirked as she reached up to adjust their costume’s horn. “And that’s another thing! I think the coin toss was rigged!” “Sister, dear, how would I get a two headed coin? You make me sound like some low rent scam artist instead of the heiress to a twenty five million dollar fortune.” “You might not be a low rent scam artist, but for sure you’ve dated plenty!” Jenni stamped her hooves, “Trudi Wooster, I demand that you pass that coin back here for inspection.” “I don’t have it.” “Like fun you don’t,” Jenni began to pat down her sister from inside their costume. “Hey! Knock it off!” “Assume the position, bunco!” The rest of the partiers ceased their conversations to watch the equine in their midst seemingly fight with itself. “Is that part of the gimmick?” a young man ignorant of pony culture inquired. Constance Blott watched the pair dourly, “No,” she hissed before stalking over to the sisters, who had by now stumbled close to several pumpkins and were at risk of smashing them, “Children, cease your inanity at once!” “Mother? I thought you said you weren’t coming,” the horse’s haunches unzipped, and Jenni poked her head out, “Oh, its you Constance. Hello.” “And its you, Trudi and Jenni Wooster. As if it could have been anyone else.” “I am going to choose to take that as a compliment,” Trudi proclaimed as she pulled back the costume’s muzzle to expose her face. “You would,” the daughter of the world’s most prolific arms dealer retorted, “Such an admission provides further evidence of your capacity of self-delusion. As if your choice of costume wasn’t enough proof. A unicorn? Really?” “Not just any unicorn, dummy. We’re Rarity, the coolest, hippest, most fashion conscious pony in all of Ponyville.” “I know who you two are supposed to be. I came as Rarity last year, the difference being I was smart enough to dress as a more anthropomorphized representation of her, which allowed me freedom of movement and greater comfort,” Constance wrinkled her nose at the twins, “Unlike, say, galumphing in tandem while dressed as a horse. Look at the two of you. I’m sure the last time you sweat so much you were waiting on the results of your HPTs.” Jenni gritted her teeth, “Well, perhaps we should switch places then. Heaven knows you could afford to burn a few extra calories.” “Not even you are stupid enough to believe that,” Blott preened in her costume: a skin tight black catsuit that accentuated her figure, “This outfit has the same measurements Scarlett’s did for Iron Man. Of course, mine has some enhancements on the original design.” “A padded bra?” “A series of micro-motors woven into the fabric which effectively quintuple my strength and stamina,” Constance shot back with a smirk, “Not to mention the suit is made from special fibers that are highly resistant to impact and extremes of temperatures.” “Well, congratulations Constance Blott: your daddy made you the best costume out of everyone here. You’re a shoe-in for first prize, which you can put with all your other trophies and hope its the accolade that fills the void in your heart caused by the realization that no one likes you and you’re going to die a bitter, old, armor-plated shrew,” Trudi trudged over to the taller ingenue to square off, pulling her sister along. “Whoa,” Jenni breathed, noting how Constance’s face had darkened and that her fists were now clenching and unclenching, “Um, just how much more of something when its quintupled?” “Enough to to bash your empty heads together and reduce them to bleached blond mush,” she snarled, “But why bother getting my hands dirty when I can just shoot you with the suit’s wrist-mounted tasers?” “Okay! Okay!” a figure in red and blue vaulted over to the trio, whose stand-off had now drawn a crowd, “You don’t need danger sense to know things are getting a bit heated here. How about everybody just counts to ten and back down before things go too far?” “And who the hell are you?” Constance glared at the newcomer. From behind his mask Michael Wooster fought back the urge to yelp, “Me? Just your Friendly Neighborhood Spider Samaritan.” **** I ended the story here because I’m debating which direction to go next. There’s a dangling subplot involving the Alumniati that could be addressed, or other story elements (pun intended) could be introduced that are more in spirit (ditto) with the season. Not knowing myself which I’d rather do, I’m leaving it up to the readers. Let me know in your reply which you’d rather see, and I’ll tabulate the results later in the week.

Fun stuff!

Keep the fun coming.

Though...I vote for the Alumniati.

Al B.