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It’s not really a straw.
It’s a small torn piece of notebook paper covered in the boss’s chicken-scratch handwriting.
“Keepin’ it or taking the trade?”
I stuff the small scrap of paper into my pocket and turn, giving Sylvester my back. “Nah. Keepin’ it.”
It’s my favorite. I know I said they all suck, but this one just happens to suck the least.
Our only dark attraction, Shifty’s Fun House. Perfect for Halloween.
A dilapidated haunted house on wheels with a massive clown head for the entrance. When you step into his open mouth you’re met with complete darkness, creepy circus music, and the stench of poorly maintained upholstery.
There’s jump scares by shitty animatronics and enough strobe lights to make anyone feel like they’re seconds away from seizing.
It’s not grade A horror by any means, but in the dark anything can be terrifying.
It even has one of those trippy spinning tunnels that mimic the same sensation as taking too much LSD.
When you near the end of the fun house you meet our very own Shifty the Clown, clad in torn ruffles and splattered with fake blood.
He pops out of the pitch-black darkness when you round the final corner, robotic eyes glowing red with murderous rage.
The screams make for an entertaining evening.
I stalk toward my trailer without speaking to anyone, including Hank as he calls out for me to join their poker game under the tent.
All I can think about is that cold shower and my head hitting the pillow.
Gates open at noon tomorrow, and the first day is always a packed house.
CHAPTER TWO
blair
“This place smells like clogged arteries and sweat.”
I roll my eyes and keep walking down the breezeway, passing the various stands and food trucks offering everything from funnel cake to Italian ice.
“I want one of those lemonades,” I say, gesturing toward a small yellow cart.
“There’s no telling what they put in that shit. Drink at your own risk. I’ll stick to bottled water. If you’re going to drag me around this cesspool, I at least want to survive it. You seriously couldn’t think of a better way to spend Halloween?”
“Mallory, I love you, but Jesus are you wound up tighter than Mrs. Sharpton’s girdle. What? Would you rather be trick-or-treating with your little sister and her friends?”
My best friend lets out a dramatic groan. “Are the guys here already?”
I shrug. “No clue. Travis said they were coming tonight. You know how they are, though.”
A lanky man with a faded butterfly tattoo on his neck is positioned behind the counter of the lemonade cart.
“What size?” he asks, looking me up and down.
“You can’t be serious,” Mallory whispers under her breath, and I drive my elbow into her side.
“Small, please.”
The man reaches for a small plastic cup and positions it under the nozzle.
