Last year, trick-or-treaters spray-painted my car with graffiti; therefore, I went to the door armed with pumpkin-shaped white chocolates injected with powerful laxatives. I flung open the door to see this terrifying vision. "Oh my fucking God! Belladonna! Have I gone mad?", I muttered.
"Trick or treat, bitch?" said the ghastly vision in front of me, every bit of it resembling Belladonna, my Russian ex-maid, in every excruciatingly hideous detail. Months ago, she was last seen floating off into the summer sky on a hot air balloon. "Get out, bitch!" I shouted and slammed the door ferociously in Belladonna's face and went to search for some silver and holy water.
