You Forgot the Blood

Ordering pizza on Halloween never made sense to me. Shouldn’t people be full enough with candy?

My motorbike rattles to a stop at the address. I curse under my breathe at Papa Vitali’s Pizzeria for making me drive on dirt roads in the middle of nowhere. 3 pepperoni pies can’t be worth all this effort.

A few seconds after I ring the doorbell, an elderly couple answers.

“Ah, thank you dear” breezes the wife, hurriedly rifling through her purse for money. “You can just go ahead and leave the pizzas on the front porch.”

“You want me to leave your pizza on your doorstep?” I repeat, incredulous.

“That’s what we’re paying you for, isn’t it?” barks her white-haired husband.

Following the instructions of this wackadoo couple, I pop open one of the lids and prepare to toss pizza on the floor.

“Wait!” yelps the woman all of a sudden, her face going pale white. “You forgot the blood!”

“The…the blood?”

“The fresh pig’s blood we requested on our pizzas when we ordered. It’s not on there.”

“Uh, I guess we just assumed- you know- that it was a joke. Cause it’s Halloween?“

I give a nervous chuckle, expecting laughter, but the fogies only grow more and more stone-faced.

“Look lady, I don’t know what to tell you” I interject. “I don’t even know why they put those little-round-plastic-table-thingies in the pizza boxes. I just deliver stuff. If you and your husband really want to eat pig’s blood then-“

“Idiot boy, the pizzas aren’t for us!” shouts the man furiously. “They’re for…”

His voice trails off suddenly as he notices something in the distance.

Looking over my shoulder, I see a crowd of small figures approaching from the end of the road. In the dim moonlight, I can just about make out the trick-or-treaters’ decomposing costumes. What are the odds of every kid on the street dressing as the same monster?

That’s when it clicks- I didn’t see any other houses on my drive here. Only a graveyard…

Panicked, I turn back to see that the couple have slammed the door in my face. Unless I can coat these pizzas in fresh blood within the next minute, I’m zombie-chow.

I still don’t know what that little-round-plastic-table-thingy in the pizza box is for.

But, pressing its jagged prongs against my forearm, I think I’ve found one good use for it.

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Credits