"We can't fuck around," Shannie told my reflection in Diane's vanity mirror as she applied my makeup. I loved being the center of her attention. Concentration oozed from her eyes as she finished touching up my makeup. "We have to be in and out of Lucas's in ten minutes," she said.
For her part, Shannie was bewitching: her usually unruly hair was brushed straight back and held captive in a tight French braid. Her face ashen, like a glazed over snow pack, disguised of any sign of life. Her eyebrows and eyelashes, heavy with mascara, entombed luminous green eyes - they seemed as out of place as a smiley face on a hearse.
The condition for borrowing the truck, Bear wanted a glimpse of his 'rent-a-daughter' decked out. I got a case of the willies walking past the tombstones. I couldn't get my mind off the task at hand. I didn't want to touch a dead body.
"Don't get your shorts in a knot," Count told me as we drove to the funeral parlor. "It's just like a slab of meat."
"I'm not a butcher," I said.
Shannie had Count park the truck around the corner from the funeral parlor. "I don't want to draw Old Man Lucas's attention," Shannie explained to Count.
"The things we get away with at Halloween," Shannie said as we walked to the funeral parlor. "Imagine if we tried this in April."
As we turned the corner, we were met by the pacing figure of Steve Lucas. Janice managed a miracle- Steve looked suave in his pall bearing attire - prompting Shannie to comment that if desperate, she would consider parking her shoes under his bed.
"It's about time you morons show up," Steve said.
"Speak for yourself Dipshit," Count said feigning a shove. A group of early parade goers trudged by. The dim streetlight, immediately above us, cast a gloomy shadow over us. A toddler in the passing clan cried noticing four zombies bantering in front of a funeral parlor.
"You anus," Count said to Steve. "You scared that little girl." This time he gave Steve a hefty shove, sending him earthward. Shannie punched Count's arm; "Where's your head? He's wearing a tux; it better not be stained." Raising an open palm to Count Shannie warned, "I oughta crack you!"
Count looked down as if he were counting toes.
"Yeah well, I wish that was our only problem," the funeral director's son said gaining his feet. "My dad's on another call," he said brushing off his tux.