Pouring PBR, as galavanting ghouls shout hysterics in the night.
Smirking teenagers take aim, and soon toilet paper pirouettes as rolls are released.
Kooks cackle and abdomens ache.
Suddenly, all is silent. A single distinguished drop douses the dirt.
A drop of… Blood? Wenches wail!
No, it could not be. Drip. Drop. Dripp. Dropp. Drippp… Drunk?
Hunter’s schnoz streams saltwater, still salivating and suffering since brutal beatdowns and blustery barrels.
A Mischief Night Murder? Alas, no…
Mild mummification and a salty celebration with spirits and suds.
Drue’s drunk dancing– the moon shines as moonshine drips down.
Slipping, slopping, sleepyness slinking.
Weary eyes waver as waves wash in. Sloshed and surfed out, I hope Mischief Night will never end.