“Oh, fuck it,” fumed Tommy, flipping away his smoke and handing the ax to Larry. “You want something done, goddamn it . . .” He tested the vines with a boot and started up, struggling as much as climbing, the mask doing more to hinder him than anything, and even catching on the stickers near the top. “Baugh,” he panted through rubber, “if you’re jackin’ with me, your ass is grass.”

He cleared the top of the wall and had to readjust his eyeholes to see. Only then did his gaze fall on the ghost pale, glowing face, floating there in the air not a few inches from his own, eyes wide and fangs gnashing. Tommy sucked air so hard the mask collapsed inward and his efforts to backpedal sent him tumbling back to the ground. Larry, having seen Tommy’s terrified reaction, was already in motion, ass to the wall and nose toward the road.

The apparition sat down on top of the wall, gagging with laughter, the tears washing the glow-in-the-dark paint from his face. Doug spat the plastic fangs into his hand and gloated, “Who’s the chickenshit, Tommy?” He bugged his eyes and trembled in imitation, then laughed all the harder. “Man, you better check your shorts.”

Larry was coming back from the road, saying “Baugh, you sonuvabitch, that wasn’t funny,” when Tommy grabbed Doug’s foot and yanked him off the wall. Doug dropped clumsily to the ground and was just as quickly hauled up by the lapels and slammed back into the brick. Tommy Whitten, the smallest, thinnest of the three, held him at bay and Doug made no move to retaliate.

He couldn’t. Not with a gun barrel stuck in his eye.

“Jesus, Tommy!” Larry gasped, stepping forward and then retreating just as quickly, unsure of what to do. “He didn’t mean it, man. Let him go.”

“Hey, Tommy,” Doug was trying to smile, “hey, what’s the gun for, you know? I mean, shit, it was just a joke. Just a joke, goddamn it! C’mon, man, put the gun down. We’re supposed to be friends.” The paint was coming off in streams as sweat beaded on his forehead and lip at the sight of the small but threatening revolver bore. “Calm down, dude. I take it back, okay? Okay?”

Tor Johnson stared at him blankly, unspeaking, and Larry began to wonder if Tommy Whitten was still in there. Finally Tommy lifted the mask. He was smiling. “Had you going, didn’t I?” He lowered the short-barreled gun and stuck it back into his jacket pocket.

“That wasn’t real, was it?”

“The gun?” Tommy shrugged. “Sure.”

Doug wiped his brow, staining his coatsleeve in the process, and quickly lit a cigarette with shaking hands. “What the hell did you bring it for?”