Old Man Cravitz

 “So, you ready to head home?”

The two teens trudged down the center of the street, jack-o-lantern buckets swinging with the weight of an evening’s worth of sugar. Evidence of a busy Halloween night was all around them: candy wrappers littered by younger, less environmentally conscious children; wilted pumpkins trying to stay upright; cobwebs strewn on every lawn. It was a clear, cool night - the best Halloween temperatures in years, and turnout had reflected that. But it was getting late, and there were half as many kids as two hours prior.

“There’s gotta be a couple more houses we haven’t hit,” the store-bought Thor said. His name was Easton, and he punctuated this thought by popping a Tootsie Roll in his mouth, though it didn’t prevent him from talking more. “This is our last Halloween trick-or-treating, man. We gotta make it count!”

“Yeah, I just can’t think of any places around here that we’ve missed,” Easton’s friend, an especially ratty Jack Sparrow named - aptly - Jack, said. “But no text from Mom yet, so that pressure’s off.”

“For now.” Easton surveyed the surrounding streets. He dumped the Tootsie Roll wrapper in his candy bucket, on top of the long blond Thor wig that he’d long since removed because it was too itchy. “What about Ashland Circle?” He stopped and looked up at the street sign, so Jack stopped too.

“There’s like two lights on down there, and nobody decorated.”

“That’s just to ward kids off. Everyone buys candy to give for Halloween, and if nobody turns up then that’s candy you get to keep yourself. My uncles do it all the time.”

“You realize how dumb that sounds, right?” Jack said. “Besides, I never liked this area. All those old houses give me the creeps…”

“Come on, where’s your sense of Halloween spirit? This is our last chance to do this!” Easton picked up his candy bucket and strode into the bowels of the cul-de-sac, straight towards the only house that still had lights on.

“Wait!” Jack cried out, gripping onto Easton’s red cape to stop him. He spun him around and clutched him by the shoulders. “Are you crazy? That’s Old Man Cravitz’s house!”

Easton shuddered. Stanley Cravitz was practically a household name in town. He was rude and abrasive to everyone, but he was particularly harsh on who he generally referred to as “the youths.” He’d call the cops on loitering students, he routinely confiscated toys from anyone unlucky enough to disturb him, some said he even ran an unsuccessful campaign in the ‘00s to ban anyone under 20 from visiting the local mall. If there was anyone you didn’t want to disturb on Halloween, it was Old Man Cravitz.

Easton, however, was unconvinced. "Come on, Jack. It’s our last chance to dress up and get candy, and we’ve been everywhere else. He’s not all bad, I think I saw him smile at a poodle once…”

“You’re insane, dude! I’m not getting on that man’s bad side if it kills me.” Jack backed away from his friend, returning to the cul-de-sac entrance. He called out “I’ll wait by the plaza fountain if you make it out alive!” before hurrying back down the street they arrived on and out of sight.

Easton stared up at the foreboding Victorian house at the end of the street. It was a shame the creepiest, likeliest-contender-for-being-built-on-a-cemetery, old house in the neighborhood was owned by the grouchiest, fun-hating person alive. It would have been perfect decked out for Halloween. Even now, swamped in darkness aside for a couple dull lights, it was terrifying to his young brain.

Easton gulped. Was he really that desperate for more candy? He couldn’t turn back now, he’d never hear the end of it from Jack. Besides, isn’t this what Halloween was all about? It would make an outrageous story to tell later on. Easton shook out his body in an attempt to get rid of his fears. Then he took several deep breaths before striding up to the dark house. His heart was thumping in his chest as he stepped up the creaky steps and onto the porch. His hand trembled as he brought it up to the wooden door and gripped the round, iron handle. The harsh crack of metal on polished hardwood echoed around him as he knocked.

Stillness followed, and then, from somewhere in the house: uproarious laughter. And not scary Halloween laughter, but the sound of genuine fun. Easton’s first thought was surprise that big bad Cravitz actually had friends…unless he was hearing the TV, or something. And then he wondered if his knock had been heard. If not, maybe that was a sign to go. He’d tried, and that counted.

Easton turned on his heels and walked to the stairs - and then, there was a boom so loud it made him jump. He froze. That was the sound of a door opening, wasn’t it…

“Leaving so soon?” rasped a deep voice.

Easton slowly turned, and there he was. Stanley Cravitz. The man was short and broad, with a big belly and bald head. There was a sneer on his face and a smoldering cigar in his hand. He coughed out a chuckle. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost!”

“Sorry to bother you…” Easton stammered out.

Cravitz scowled. “Not like you’re the first. You’re here to bother me for free candy, I assume.” He elongated the word ‘candy’ as if it were profanity.

“No!” Easton said, quickly, and then he turned bright red. “Well, yeah…”

Cravitz took a step back. “I got some, I just have to go get it. Already put it away because I thought you brats were done for the night.” He took a drag off his cigar and blasted smoke into the air. “Come inside and give me a moment.”

Easton hesitated, but the temptation of being able to tell everyone what Old Man Cravitz’s house was like was too great. Had anyone EVER been inside of it? He took two cautious steps and then crossed the threshold, flinching as the door shut behind him. In the excitement, he failed to notice Cravitz lock the door behind him.

“Damned brat can’t even dress properly for Halloween… Lazy good fer nothin’…”

Easton cocked his head in confusion until he noticed Cravitz staring at the blond wig leaking out of his candy bucket. “Oh! Sorry…” he mumbled, pulling it out and shoving it on his head. It was still uncomfortable but he wanted to stay on the old man’s good side.

Cravitz sneered at the completed look. “Who’re you s’posed to be, anyhow?”

“Thor,” Easton said, avoiding eye contact.

“Never heard of him.” This was all Cravitz said before he lumbered away and out of sight, leaving Easton alone in the hallway. It was narrow and out of style, with hardwood floors and peeling floral wallpaper. There were only two things on the wall: a mirror, and a hook for coats, on which hung a khaki-colored parka. Easton couldn’t help but be disappointed. He’d expected all kinds of scary stuff, and instead the place was just boring.

“HEY STAN!” boomed a deep voice that made Easton almost leap out of his cape. Into the hallway from another room strode a tall man. He was considerably bigger than Cravitz, with burly shoulders and arms that looked like he could bench press a couch. He was bald with a big, well-kempt gray beard that reached down to the open collar of his white dress shirt. “We’re almost out of-” the man hollered, and then he noticed Easton and stopped. “Well,” he said. “Who’re you?”

“I’m Easton. I’m just trick-or-treating-”

“I can see that.” The man had a huge chest that strained the buttons of his shirt, and he took a deep breath that tested it further. “Think there’s some candy in the living room, c’mon,” he grunted, so Easton followed cautiously.

Around the corner was a dimly lit room decorated less like a traditional living room than an old bar. In the center was a round wooden table covered in playing cards and poker chips, and around it sat three men in addition to the tall bearded one in front of Easton. They were all smoking cigars, which made a gray cloud above their heads and filled the whole room with haze. Easton coughed, and the men turned and looked at him.

“We got a superhero in our midst, fellas,” one of them laughed. He had thick, combed hair and a trim goatee, with dense muscles that filled every inch of his polo shirt. He stuck his cigar in his mouth and pulled out the empty chair next to him. “What’s your name, kid?”

“Easton.”

“Have a seat, Easton.”

“Oh no, it’s okay,” Easton said, staying firmly in the doorway. “I’m just waiting for Old M…for Mr. Cravitz to bring down some candy and I’ll go.”

“Candy? Oh, we got some here.” Another one of the men declared in a rich, mellow tone. He had a head of messy, uncombed hair and a chin as round as his belly. He reached into a brass dish nearby and produced a handful of gold-wrapped sweets. He stood up and lumbered toward his Easton, his huge belly shaking and nearly bursting out of his plaid sport shirt. Easton held out his bucket, and the man dumped the candy into it: Werther’s Originals.

“Thanks,” Easton said weakly, knowing he’d never eat them.

The man cackled, his belly jiggling like mad. He patted Easton on the back with such unexpected strength that it knocked the air from his lungs, and the bucket from his hands. Easton gasped for breath as the man shuffled back to his seat, sitting down with a wheeze. The chair audibly creaked under his weight. Easton picked up his bucket and gathered any loose candy that fell to the ground.

“All that junk will only give you cavities, chamaco,” the last man said. He had an M-shaped hairline and the bushiest mustache Easton had seen on a man. His salt and pepper hair contrasted with his darker skin in a way that made it appear whiter than it actually was. Much like the other men at the table, he was powerfully built in ways a man his age usually wouldn’t be. Easton frowned as he continued to clear up. The whole point of Halloween was the candy. It’s not like he gorged himself on sweets regularly. Typical old men giving their opinions without anyone asking…

Standing back up, Easton couldn’t help but gawk at the collection of aged masculinity that surrounded the table. These were Old Man Cravitz’s friends? The man who wins the county fair pie-eating contest every year? It didn’t make a lick of sense. He didn’t want to stick around and find out why either. Easton patted his bucket and mumbled, "Well, I’d better get going. Thanks for the candy…”

Before Easton could make a break for it, Cravitz stepped into view holding a large bottle of expensive whiskey that he placed in the center of the table. There was an ominous look in his eyes. “Leaving so soon?” he sneered, puffing his cigar smoke directly into Easton’s face.

“Well, yeah…” Easton spluttered. He waved the smoke away and cleared his throat before continuing. “Your friend gave me some candy and I didn’t want to interrupt your game any longer…”

“The Werther’s? Tch, that’s not the candy!” Cravitz shooed Easton further into the room so he could get to the door on the other side. As he did so, he muttered, “You youths, always so overzealous… If you’d learn to be patient for once in your life, maybe you’ll get the candy you were due…”

Easton didn’t know how to respond, he’d never been on Cravitz’s bad side before. Or his good side. Or any side, really. He’d mostly kept his distance from the man up to this very moment.

Cravitz opened the door to what appeared to be a kitchen that hadn’t been updated since the ‘70s, still muttering to himself. “Horrid things, the youths… He’d be better off like the others…” He slammed the door behind him, leaving Easton behind in limbo. Should he stay or should he leave? His mind felt muddled.

“Don’t mind him, he’s only cranky because he’s losing,” the big man with the bigger beard said in as quiet a voice as he could. It still felt like the room quaked when he spoke. He gestured to the empty chair between the goateed man and himself. “Come join us, we could do with another player.”

“I don’t know…” Easton mumbled, a little intimidated by the old men. They all stared at him in a way that made him uneasy. Like he was fresh meat ready for the grinder…

“Don’t worry, we won’t bite.” As Easton reluctantly took his seat, the man stuck out his hand. Easton accepted the handshake, only to almost have his arm yanked off by the man’s powerful, enthusiastic grip. “The name’s Klaus,” he said, patting himself on the chest. “The big guy over there is Patrick.” He pointed to the big bellied man in the plaid sport shirt shuffling the cards. “Our Mexican amigo is Carlos.” He pointed to the mustachioed man who barely offered an acknowledging nod in response. “And the old fucker to your right is Richard,” he continued, gesturing to the goateed man in the tight polo shirt.

"Old fucker…” Richard growled under his breath, before exclaiming, “I’ll have you know that 68 is the new 50. I’m as strong and healthy as a man half my age. I bet I can still beat your ass any day!” He stood up and puffed out his chest in pride.

Klaus clicked his neck from left to right, then stood up and puffed out his own chest in response, the buttons desperately struggling to keep his white-furred pecs from escaping. “You wanna go, little man? 'Cause I’m ready!”

The two shot daggers at each other until Patrick yelled, “Ladies, please! Leave the cat fight for later.” Richard and Klaus grumbled and sat back down. Easton hoped being between the two men wouldn’t be dangerous to his health later on…

As Patrick dealt out the cards, he asked, “You know how to play kid?”

Easton shook his head. “Not really, no.”

“I’ll teach ya the ropes. You’ll pick it up in no time!” Klaus bellowed. Easton flinched as he swooped a meaty arm onto his shoulders. It felt like an iron girder had landed on him, only hairier and muskier. “So what kinda name is Easton?”

Easton had never been asked this question before and had no idea how to respond. “It’s uh…just what my parents named me,” he shrugged.

“Not a family name or anything, though.”

Easton shook his head no, and the men filled the silence by taking drags off their cigars and looking at their cards. Easton had never been around so much smoke, and it dawned on him that he might get in trouble if his costume smelled like it. He was just thinking of how to excuse himself when Patrick broke the silence with a question. “What’s a kid your age still out in costume for anyway?”

Easton frowned, he’d been asked the same question a few times that night by suspicious parents, which had cemented his decision to make this his last Halloween. He shrugged his shoulders. “Free candy, I suppose. My friend and I agreed this would be our last night trick or treating, so we wanted to make the most of it. I should be getting back to him, actually,” he said, beginning to rise from his seat. “He’s probably wondering where I got to. Tell Mr. Cravitz that-”

“I remember my last Halloween.” Klaus declared in a theatrical tone. Easton sighed and plopped back in his chair. Klaus stroked his bushy beard as he reminisced on his childhood. “I was 8 years old, I dressed like a spaceman. Things were going just dandy until my friend deserted me when some punk teens whooped my ass and stole all my candy. That moment soured Halloween for me ever since. Then again, it was that moment that I vowed never to let anyone push me around again, and look at me now.” He smirked as he flexed his body, his dress shirt close to ripping off his tough, brawny torso like he was the Hulk.

Richard rolled his eyes at the man’s display, resisting the attempt to egg him into a posing match. “I never liked Halloween. All those sugary handouts do is train kids into expecting more freebies from the authorities later in life. What have they done to deserve these freebies? Nothing! I only went trick or treating once, pressured by my best friend at the time. I didn’t even dress up. Boy was he pissed! I abandoned him halfway into the night out of boredom.” He chuckled to himself as if he’d told a joke.

Patrick drummed his fingers atop his stomach, adding, “I also never liked it. All those witches and ghouls gave me the creeps. Can you believe some folks actually get a kick out of being scared witless? I don’t understand it myself. There are some sick, twisted people out there…”

Everyone looked to Carlos expectantly. He sighed, clearly not happy to talk about his personal life. “We didn’t celebrate Halloween where I grew up. We had Día de Muertos. Now that’s a respectable holiday. Friends and family joining one another to remember and celebrate our lost loved ones, decorating our ofrendas with family portraits and alfeñiques, los tamales de mi abuela…” He trailed off, lost in thought as he combed his fingers through his mustache.

Easton felt a little sad. All these men were as fun-hating as Old Man Cravitz himself. Was that going to happen to him when he was old, was he going to hate Halloween? Trying to lighten the mood, he remarked, “I didn’t realize Halloween was even a thing that long ago.”

Richard scowled. “Of course Halloween was about, we’re not colonizers! How old do you think we are?”

“I dunno, you look older than my grandpa and he’s pretty old.”

Without warning, Richard crouched down to the teen’s height, clenching his fist on the table. His face was inches away from Easton, close enough to smell the tobacco on his hot breath. Easton gulped. Trust his harmless comment to insult the man with the biggest arms in the room. The bulging boulders looked larger than his head. Even the sleeves of his polo shirt bunched around his shoulders, unable to get any further. Richard spoke with a quiet, threatening growl. “I may be older than your fuckin’ gramps but I sure as hell ain’t no frail, old man. If you weren’t so little, I’d wipe that smug look right off your face…”

Patrick reached across the table, his gut almost tipping it over as it caught the underside, and held onto Richard’s fist. “Cool it Dick, he’s just a kid. He’ll grow up eventually and someone will say the same to his face.”

After a few deep breaths, Richard sighed, “You’re right, you’re right…” He backed away, sticking his cigar back between his curled lips. “Besides, you’re not worth bruising my knuckles for…”

Easton took a few deep breaths of his own. If he wasn’t careful, he was going to get himself killed. He gripped onto his candy bucket and prepared to make a break for it when Old Man Cravitz returned.

“Here,” the man said rudely, dropping a long, thin stick of rock candy in front of Easton on the table. Without another word, he shuffled to his seat and plopped into it, then stared at Easton. “Aren’t you gonna eat it?” he snarled.

“Oh, I usually…wait ‘til I get home…” Easton trailed off, but when Cravitz’s glare didn’t waver, he began unwrapping the candy.

“If you’re gonna come into my home, the least you can do is have it while you’re here,” Cravitz mumbled as he checked his hand. His mouth twisted into an even deeper scowl as he analyzed the cards, but the expression lightened when he looked back at Easton who had gnawed off a chunk of candy. “There ya go. You like it?”

Easton did not like it. The rock candy was almost hard enough to break teeth. It was like pure sugar on his tongue, but it had a really weird aftertaste that he couldn’t place, and the mixture of the two flavors was distinctly unappetizing. “It’s good!” he smiled, legs bobbing nervously under the table.

“Good thing you haven’t looked at your cards yet, or I’d think you were talking about your hand,” Richard smirked as he analyzed his own cards. Even relaxed, his beefy body rippled through his shirt.

“My…oh, my cards!” Easton blurted out, the rock candy falling from his lips. It knocked against the table on the way down, giving him time to catch it before it hit his costume. He stuck the candy back in his mouth, sucking on it tighter as he surveyed his hand. He didn’t know anything about poker, but two Queens seemed like a good thing to have. As he sat in silence, he noticed Cravitz pouring whiskey into six shot glasses, one of which slid his way. “Oh, I don’t think I…”

“Just a little whiskey,” Klaus winked. “That’ll put some hair on your chest!”

Easton didn’t know the phrase. “But I don’t want hair on my chest…”

The whole table erupted with laughter at this. Easton’s cheeks turned red, but he forced himself to laugh too, though it trailed into coughing from all the smoke. “Now you have to drink it!” Klaus chuckled, clinking his glass against Easton’s and downing it in one go. Easton hesitated, then did the same, his entire face contorting as he gulped down the liquid. It felt like fire in his throat, and he gagged before he put the rock candy back in his mouth to eradicate the strongest taste.

“Get him a beer,” Cravitz barked to Carlos, who reached behind himself into a small cooler and produced an ice cold Budweiser. With no bottle opener in sight, Carlos knocked the neck of the bottle against the table, popping the cap off before placing the Bud in front of Easton.

“I don’t think I should…”

“Don’t be stupid. Just had your first whiskey, playin’ your first game of poker I assume, why not have your first beer too?” Cravitz leered. “Unless you’re afraid of getting a big hairy chest.” The men at the table laughed at this joke - except for Cravitz, who just watched Easton take a hesitant sip. “You like it?”

“It’s…good,” Easton lied. He hoped Jack would think he was cool for having a whiskey and a beer, let alone for playing cards. “You fellas…you GUYS aren’t using real money in this game, are you?”

The men exchanged incriminating looks as Easton took another swig of beer. “Nah, the chips are just for fun, so we know who the winner is.”

“So we know how bad Stanley lost!” Patrick hooted with a swat of his big belly.

The men laughed except for Cravitz, who pounded his fist into the table. “I don’t know why I invited you all in if you were just gonna drain me dry…” he muttered with disdain.

Patrick patted him on the back with faux sympathy. “Aw, you love us really.”

“I tolerate you. There’s a difference.”

The roar of laughter built up again. Easton laughed too, until right as the sound subsided, when he unleashed a loud burp that he hadn’t felt coming.

“Good one, kid,” Klaus complimented, swatting Easton on the back, which resulted in another belch.

“That’s it, don’t hold it in. Otherwise you’ll end up like me!” Patrick whacked his belly with a cackle. Despite its size, it didn’t ripple like a fat man’s stomach. It shook from side to side, firm as a rock.

Easton’s cheeks turned bright red. It was bad enough that these old men had pressured him into staying and drinking alcohol, but their constant bantering was humiliating him. He wanted to sink into the ground. It was a good thing he kept his Thor wig on, as he brushed the long, synthetic hairs in front of his face and sucked nervously on the cheap rock candy.

“What’s his name,” Cravitz asked Klaus, motioning to Easton.

“You missed the intro. This is Easton.”

“What kinda name is Easton?” Cravitz sneered.

“That’s what I asked!” Klaus laughed.

Easton jerked the rock candy out of his mouth. “Yeah, well, what kinda name is KLAUS?”

The table’s occupants roared, and Klaus shook his head with a chuckle. “Fair question. My parents were German. They named my sister Helga, I’d say I got off easy.” He took a puff of his cigar, pecs swelling with pride. Easton, still feeling momentarily feisty, replicated the gesture with his rock candy. “Watch it, kid, your shoulder is sharp as a knife,” Klaus said, rubbing his big arm where Easton’s shoulder had jabbed into it.

Easton scooted his chair a bit. “Sorry…didn’t notice we were so close together.”

“Kid’s broad as a barn door,” Richard said. “You all notice that when he came in too?”

Everyone nodded, but Easton had no idea what they were talking about. Him? He was not wide. His shoulders were too broad for his costume, sure, but that was just because the costume was small, not because he himself was big. “Nah,” was all he said humbly, reaching for his beer. The seam around his costume’s sleeve popped apart from the stretch, and Easton pulled his arm back hoping no one saw. The following swig from the beer bottle was extra cautious so that he didn’t rip his costume any further.

“Where d’you work?” Patrick said to Easton.

“Work?! He doesn’t have a job, dumbass,” Cravitz snarled.

“Yeah, I don’t work,” Easton said. “I’m retired.”

The whole table laughed, though Easton didn’t get why. “Do you know what ‘retired’ means?” Patrick asked him.

“It means I don’t work, right?”

“It means you don’t work anymore. You’ve had your career and put away enough money to live the rest of your life without working.”

“That sounds like what I want!” Easton said eagerly, popping another side seam on his costume as he took a drink.

“Say that again,” Cravitz said, as Easton set the beer bottle down.

“I said, uh, being retired sounds fun?”

“Hear that voice of his, boys? I think it’s starting to change.” Cravitz chuckled and popped his cigar in his mouth, leaning back. Easton clamped his mouth together, no longer desiring to say anything. He sounded exactly the same, he didn’t know what Cravitz was talking about.

“I remember when mine changed,” Richard said, scratching his goatee. “Literally turned into this overnight. I came down to breakfast and asked for some waffles and my mom started to cry because I had a deeper voice than my dad.” He flexed his bulging biceps. “Wasn’t soon after that I got taller and bigger than him, too.”

“Aw, she knew her little boy was going away,” Patrick said.

“She knew a big-ass man would be taking his place too!” Richard roared, pounding the table as the men’s laughs filled the room.

Easton felt his belly rumble as that familiar feeling of an upcoming belch tickled at his throat. Placing a hand on his stomach, it felt unusually hard and bloated. Patrick was only joking earlier, right? The belch was rising but he didn’t want to draw attention to himself again. Ignoring the man’s warning, Easton clenched his teeth and gulped to force the feeling to go away. However, all that built up pressure had to go somewhere. He just wasn’t expecting it to settle in the middle. His arms were thrust back as his chest suddenly expanded beyond all limits. He was speechless, he couldn’t even see over the top of his new rack. He grasped at his meaty pecs to make sure he wasn’t imagining things, but they were really there. They had to be larger than Thor’s themselves. Hell, they were almost as big as Klaus’ outrageous chest.

Easton was brought back to reality by a resounding jeer around the table. In the process of gaining man-tits, Easton had accidentally toppled his beer bottle in the process. The foul smelling liquid had spilled down his costume, and seeped into his pants. Underneath the damp clothing, he felt an odd tingling. But that was the least of Easton’s worries. He groaned loudly, things were going from bad to worse for him. He was going to be grounded until college at this rate… He swiftly removed his cape to wipe up any remaining beer, he had nothing to lose at this point. He attempted to leave the table, only for Richard to grasp him by the arm. “Woah there, hotshot. Where do you think you’re going?”

“To clean up, I got most of that beer down myself.”

Richard looked him up and down with squinting eyes that accentuated his crows feet. He shrugged his mighty shoulders. “You look fine to me.” The other men murmured in agreement.

Easton patted himself down, he was dry as a bone. But he could’ve sworn… He sat back down in his seat, a little lost. Cravitz stubbed out his cigar with a grunt. “Are you done with your little display? Toss the rag and get back to the cards!”

As the cranky old man retrieved another cigar from his pocket, Easton’s eyes widened in shock. He knew he was holding a bright red superhero cape, he even removed it from his own shoulders. Yet there was now a damp, shabby dishrag in his hand. Come to think of it, his costume seemed more tattered than usual. It may have been a hand-me-down from his older brother but surely it wasn’t tearing at the seams earlier in the evening. He couldn’t place what was wrong, but it was unnerving.

While the dampness was gone, that odd tingling remained. When he scratched at his chest, it felt like something wiry was underneath his costume. It made a scritching sound as the fabric moved. If he didn’t know any better, it was a lot like hair. He pinched a section of the costume between his mountains and pulled outwards. He felt a light tugging of the skin and the unmistakable feeling of hair strands slipping through his fingertips. The beer really did do as advertised. It also puddled into his lap at the time. Did that mean…

Easton stuck a hand below his waistband in as subtle a manner he could muster. He immediately withdrew it upon feeling a furry bush that had spilled out of his underwear. He yelped, leaping up from his seat. Was all that hair really a part of him? Realising all eyes were on him, once again, Easton moved to sit down but grimaced and braced himself on the table. “Y’alright, kid?” Richard asked.

Easton nodded as he stared at his feet over his chest. “Yeah, I just…I just need to stretch for a second…” He grit his teeth and shut his eyes, feeling an intense compression in his spine that suddenly loosened with a loud pop. His feet ached, his knees hurt. He stood upright and reached up toward the ceiling, tearing his costume further as a series of audible cracks echoed through the room. Then he plopped back in his seat, big chest now hovering over the table. “Sorry about that,” he rasped. “I was really fucking stiff.”

“We’re a bad influence on this kid. Now he’s swearing.”

“Am I?” Easton covered his mouth. “I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright, it suits ya,” Klaus chuckled. He patted Easton on the back, and Easton noticed that now he was looking all the men at the table in the eyes, instead of looking up at them. They must’ve raised his seat while he was standing up. That had to be it. “At the rate you’re going, I may have a new rival in town,” Klaus continued, giving Easton’s bulging chest a bump with his fist. Easton grunted and leaned back, accidentally allowing his jugs to fan out wider in front of him, testing the limits of his clothes.

Richard huffed. “He won’t get that far. I doubt he wants to look like he’s smuggling watermelons everywhere he goes.”

“You’re one to talk. You walk about in those tight pants looking like you stuffed your breakfast down them. We don’t want to see your sausage and eggs all the damn time.”

As the two men once again bickered over their manly bodies, the other men sighed in annoyance. “Every poker night…” Carlos mumbled, taking one last look at his cards before chucking them onto the table. “I fold.”

As every other player made their call, it came to Easton. “Whaddya say kid? You in or out?”

He held his cards close to his face, the only way he could see them over his enlarged chest. He had no idea what he was looking for. There was another Queen and two Aces in the middle. Something clicked in his head, hadn’t he heard once that three of the same cards was good? It must have been on some TV show he watched recently. It was all he had to go by, and it wasn’t like he was playing for actual money, right? He grabbed a handful of chips, chucked them into the middle and declared “I’m in.”

It was down to Richard and Easton. Richard turned over his cards to reveal two Kings with a shit-eating grin. A grin that was subsequently wiped from his face as Easton revealed his full house. “Sonnovabitch,” he uttered in disbelief. “He only beat me!”

“Good going, chamaco,” Carlos said. Easton could tell that was high praise coming from the stoic man.

“I thought you said you’d never played before.”

“Beginner’s luck, I guess…” he muttered, chomping his teeth down hard on his rock candy. It tasted awful now - the sugary sweetness was gone, but Easton didn’t want to be rude and throw it out. Except his attempt at politeness went out the window when he heard himself grunt, “This tastes like shit.”

“Don’t chomp on it, just hold it in your mouth!” Patrick said.

“Listen to his voice change,” Cravitz said from across the table.

Easton was getting annoyed. “It’s not changing,” he croaked. “There’s just gunk in my throat from all this shit.” He cleared his throat loudly. “See? Back to normal.” He popped the rock candy back in his mouth.

“No it ain’t. Your voice is changing, kid. Happens to all men.”

Easton jerked the candy back out. “But not this fast, I’m telling you, it’s just the candy. Watch.” He put the stick in his mouth and sucked hard on it, filling his mouth with sticky goo. Then he spoke in baritone: “See?” He coughed, put the candy back in his mouth, sucked harder, coughed some more. “It’s just the candy, dipshit,” Easton rumbled. He sucked on the candy again and coughed loudly, fanning smoke away from his face as he said in a low, gravelly bass: “That’s all it is.”

“The cigar might have something to do with it.”

Easton took the fat cigar that had been his rock candy out of his mouth and blew smoke angrily from his nostrils. “I’m not smoking a fucking cigar,” he said, his deep foghorn voice making heads jerk his way. “Now stop giving me shit and give me my fucking chips.” He clenched his cigar back in his teeth and grinned as the betting pool was pushed his way.

“Give the man a beer, he earned it,” Cravitz ordered. Carlos produced another Bud and replicated his bottle opener trick. He handed it to Easton, who took it and chugged half the bottle.

“Easy there, young fella,” Patrick said from across the table.

“Sorry. I’m kinda nervous,” Easton said, his bass still rough and imposing, but without the confidence to back it up.

“Nervous about what?”

“I just feel kinda funny…like something weird is happening,” Easton shrugged, sending splits through the top of his costume, his big chest heaving out larger over the table. As he took another swig of beer, his bicep hulked through his costume’s sleeve, revealing a muscle in competition for biggest at the table.

“Nothing weird is happening,” Richard said as Easton puffed on his fat cigar.

“I know you’re right,” Easton replied between drags, his voice deeper than ever. “I just feel different.”

“Different how?”

“Bigger. I dunno.” Easton’s body expanded under his costume, his chair creaking loudly as his butt grew wider than the seat, forcing him to shift his weight forward. His back was wide and meaty, his waist thick, but the main attraction continued to be his chest, which was now so massive it made his head look like an afterthought on top. Easton fidgeted in his seat, the blond wig he’d stuck back on his head was beginning to itch again. Maybe it was the unexpected thrill of winning his first round of poker, or maybe it was the smoke-filled humid air but the itchy feeling was worse than ever. He stuck a hand underneath the cheap, synthetic wig to have a good scratch, yet froze in horror. Instead of his usual lush hair, his fingertips encountered a gritty roughness akin to sandpaper. Further up was even worse, as he only encountered the smooth and oily feeling of bare skin.

He must have made a noise since the other men all looked in his direction. Cravitz frowned and said, “I admit it was a little funny when you arrived with that rug on your head, but now it’s getting pathetic.”

Patrick nodded and added, “We all know what’s underneath, get rid of it!”

Before Easton could react, Richard tugged the cheap wig off his head. Easton yelped and patted at his freshly nuded scalp. Not a single hair remained. It was as if the man had ripped the very follicles out along with the wig. “That’s better, now we can see your ugly mug and your shiny head,” the man said with a smug smirk before tossing the mass of blond curls across the room.

Klaus glared at his rival and said, “Ignore him, us baldies have got to stick together, huh? I think it looks very becoming on you.” Easton looked at the large, barrel-chested man and smiled weakly. At least he had a beard to compensate for the chrome dome…

Richard cackled. “You say that but I know you wish you still had luscious locks like mine.”

“No way. When it’s hair you lack, you don’t want it back.”

“That’s not a real saying. Nobody’s ever said that in their life!”

As the older men argued over their hair, or the lack of it, Easton flushed with embarrassment. He was bald! Not just shaved bald, but hair loss bald! How could this have happened? He was only… How old was he? He certainly wasn’t old enough to be losing his hair by any means. There was something wrong with this house, something that was possibly altering his very being. And worse yet, the poker players didn’t even seem to notice. That, or they were encouraging it… Were they in on it? Did the house change them too? He had to make a break for it, even if it meant leaving his hard-earned candy behind. But what to do…

“Hey, Stan? Erm, Mr. Cravitz?”

“What is it?” he snapped.

Easton stammered, he didn’t know what to say. “Uhm…”

“Spit it out, we don’t have all day!”

Before he could stop himself, Easton blurted, “Where’s the can, I’ve gotta piss like a racehorse!” He covered his mouth in shock. “I mean, may I use your bathroom please?”

The old man didn’t even register the vulgar outburst. He rolled his eyes and said, “Up the stairs, end of the hallway. Don’t you dare go snooping, I’ll know…”

Easton nodded and jumped up from his seat. He was now so top-heavy, he almost fell back into his chair. As he ran out the doorway, he heard someone remark, “You ever heard of leg day?” to resounding laughter. Easton didn’t care what they thought of him at this point, he just had to get out of the house.

Instead of going upstairs, he turned left and headed straight for the front door. He gripped the door handle and yanked with such unexpected force that he accidentally bent the metal backwards. “Fuck!” When did he become so strong? He tried to straighten it back to normal before taking a moment to actually check if the door was locked. It was. Easton pounded at the wall in frustration. “Who locks their front door with a fuckin’ key!” he growled. Things really were starting to get to him.

Before he could search for the missing key, Easton felt a sudden pressure in his groin. Maybe he actually did want to take a piss after all. And badly… He quick-stepped up the staircase and followed the short hallway with garish lime green and bronze striped wallpaper until he found the bathroom.

Easton struggled with his belt, almost ripping it off in frustration. He just managed to get his cock out in time before he burst. He audibly sighed as he felt sweet release, his rumbling bass echoing off the tiles. As he shook himself clean, he pondered over its size. Surely he’d remember having a garden hose for a cock. It snaked out of his fist and hung past his lower knuckles. Things were so muddled in his mind right now, suddenly being well-endowed wasn’t exactly high on his list of priorities. However, a new addition did give him pause for thought. He knew for a fact that he was circumcised, so where did the thick foreskin that surrounded his reddened head come from? 

Easton had instinctively pulled his new foreskin back before he pissed, so he slowly slid the soft skin back over the mushroom tip, shivering from the feeling. Curious, he pulled it back again, and his knees buckled a little from the electric jolt of pleasure that rushed up his spine, a guttural groan escaping his lips. His sensitive member pulsed in his hand, pumping with blood as it hardened within his grip. He pumped his hand up and down a few times, his breath quickening before he came to his senses. What was he doing!? Now wasn’t the time or the place to be jacking off! With a bit of a struggle, Easton managed to tuck his hard rod back into his boxers where it joined his jawbreaker sized testicles in forming an obscene bulge in his pants. He thought it even surpassed the Dickmeister himself… Richard! It appeared bigger than Richard’s…

Easton leaned over the sink and splashed some water into his face, hoping it would give him some relief. Yet looking at himself in the mirrored cabinet above the sink, it did not. His reflection truly was a sight to behold. He had the overdeveloped torso of a pro weightlifter, the shiny, bald head of an old man, and the cherub-like face of a young teen. His costume was a tattered mess with holes and tears all over the place. Looking closely, he could even see newly grown dark hairs poking through.

There was that odd feeling again. The need to belch. Holding it in didn’t help, but neither did releasing it. He groaned, clenched his eyes shut, and gritted his teeth. He didn’t want to change again! There was a loud rip as his Thor costume tore straight down the middle, exposing him to the elements. He panted heavily, not wanting to see himself. Eventually, he brought up the courage to raise his head. He gasped. There was a forest of hair smothering every inch of exposed skin. It grew heavier between the middle of his pecs, and sparser on the sides of his torso, but not a single part of his body was spared. He even knew without looking that his back had a similar coating. He brushed a hand through the dense strands, sliding it down over his bloated chest until he rested it on his stomach. It looked larger, rounder. He turned to the side and raised an eyebrow. It wasn’t as big as Patrick’s bulbous belly, it wasn’t even as big as Cravitz’s gut, but it still curved outwards and protruded over his khaki pants. It could’ve been worse, he thought to himself. He tugged on the ends of his floral print shirt and redid the buttons, making sure to leave the top two undone since the third barely connected over his fat pecs. The points of his collar morphed out of the ruins of his costume just as he reached to spread the collar wide and give his furry chest some room to breathe. Finally, he tucked his dress shirt into his pants and buckled his belt.

As Easton turned to leave, he noticed something in the corner. There, over the bathtub. It was a window! He clamored over the side of the tub, pried the window pane open and looked down. There was a shallow sloped roof directly below. This was his opportunity to make a break for it! He hoisted himself up to the ledge and stuck his arms through, then pulled himself out until he felt his chest painfully slam into the ledge. He twisted himself this way and that but it was no use. The window was too small. Maybe he could have slipped through in another lifetime, but he’d grown too big. Curse his impeccably broad shoulders! He growled quietly and slid his body down into the tub, only for his pecs to get caught in-between. Great, he was even too big to bathe properly…

After a minute of self-reflection, Easton eventually gripped onto the tub side and clamored out onto the floor. He gripped onto the sink once more and glowered at his reflection. He rubbed his chin uneasily. Something about his blocky lantern jaw didn’t seem right. Neither did his bulbous, crooked nose. It was like it had broken and healed sometime in the past. Wouldn’t he remember something like that? He sighed loudly. The way the bathroom light cast shadows across his face, it almost looked like his forehead was creased and dark bags rested under his eyes. Easton felt as old as he looked at that moment. It didn’t help that all of his hair had vanished. He’d never noticed how big his ears looked before, each one stuck out like satellite dishes. Under the fluorescent lights, he could make out the thin band of stubbly shadow that remained of his hair around the sides of his head. It looked dull, almost gray. He stroked it wistfully. He could barely remember what it felt like to even have hair at this point…

There was a loud banging on the bathroom door. “Hurry it up Esten! You jacking off or something? I gotta go!” He froze, did they just call him Esten? What kinda name is Esten? The knock came again, even more impatient. Esten opened the door and Patrick barged straight past him, almost knocking him out with that incredible belly of his.

Esten turned as the door locked, hoping to talk to Patrick alone for a moment, but when he heard the sound of the stream inside he knew it would be a while. With a sigh, he descended the stairs, his belly distending a bit further with each step, until it was a full cauldron of muscle protruding straight from his midsection, his shirt buttons struggling to hold it in. He rubbed its contents with a hint of pride. It took years of hard work to get a muscle gut so perfectly shaped. He did wonder when he had the time to accumulate such gains at his age however. He stroked his chin in thought, only to wince at the feeling of his rough, calloused fingertips against his smooth, square jaw. He looked at his hands curiously. They were wide palms with stumpy fingers, and a bushel of black hairs graced every digit. He undid the cuffs of his dress shirt and expertly rolled them up to his elbows. He still couldn’t quite believe how hairy he was, the thick blankets that encircled his arms were excessive to say the least. He couldn’t even feel the skin underneath the immense coverage. He hated to imagine what his back looked like.

As he reached the bottom of the stairs, he looked at the door and wondered if he could kick it down, then he remembered: Jack! He could text Jack! Esten patted the pockets of his khakis, their assorted contents jingling and jangling as he searched for his phone. Then he remembered he kept it on his belt so he didn’t lose it. “Dumbass,” he grunted to himself, unclipping the old flip phone from his hip. Esten opened it and frowned. Wasn’t his phone…different? Newer than this? Esten mashed some buttons and was reminded how bulky and indelicate his fingers were. His hands looked like baseball mitts, and they didn’t navigate the phone easily - and he couldn’t figure out how to text. Had he ever texted before? He couldn’t call that kid, they’d hear him talking. With a disappointed sigh, Esten clipped his phone back onto his belt and made his way back to the living room, his penny loafers clomping on the hardwood floor.

He stepped into the smoke-heavy room and took a few deep breaths. Despite the lingering smoke, he caught a whiff of cologne. It was a complex aroma of musk, wood, and spices: an old man’s cologne. Yet a sniff of the wrist confirmed it was coming from Esten himself. The overpowering odor clung to his nostrils and he felt the tickle of an oncoming sneeze.

“Atchoo!” he managed to catch it in his elbow, as etiquette dictated. Esten rubbed the back of his hand under his nose and flinched. The skin under his nose felt gritty and abrasive. He dragged the back of his hand over his face, feeling that same scratchy feeling across his cheeks and chin. It felt like his ol’ pa’s face when he hadn’t shaved in the morning. The feeling of stubble.

“AtcHOo!” he caught the sneeze in his hands this time, and felt the stubble instantaneously grow into a thick, short beard. He rubbed at his face, feeling the prickles in a mixture of horror and amazement. Beards couldn’t just grow from nothing, could they?

“ATCHOO!!” He failed to cover his mouth, and his loud, energetic sneeze echoed around the room. Esten’s head snapped back from the force, hair exploding outward from his jaw. He wiped a hand across his mouth and then his pants. His beard had grown once again, now several inches long. It was large enough to hide his thick neck from view and lightly brush against the collar of his shirt. His beard was wilder than Klaus’, whiskers long and curly. It looked like he’d made no attempt of shaping it, the shiny hairs growing high above his cheekbones.

“Damn it Esten, cover your mouth the next time you honk like that!” Cravitz yelled from the far corner of the room. The men seemed to have abandoned their poker game for now and were situated around the room, each with a drink or cigar in their hands, except for Carlos who was flipping through an old photo album he’d retrieved from his bag. Esten liked that about Carlos, that he was a quiet, thoughtful guy. His sweater vest may have made him look unassuming, but the skin-tight sleeves of his underlying shirt exposed the truth. His biceps looked ready to bust through the seams with every turn of the page. He was a contender for one of the strongest men in the house. But unlike Richard and Klaus, he wasn’t boastful about it. He didn’t feel the need to make himself the center of attention, because people gravitated to him anyway.

That gravitation came into play as Esten plopped down with the man as he flipped through the pages. It was a distinguished, well-organized album of family photos old and new. “Mi familia” Carlos said, pointing to a large family gathering. It was an old, faded photo with dozens of smiling faces. Yet Esten couldn’t find Carlos in the mix.

“Where are you?”

Carlos pointed to a tiny child standing front and center of the photo. It was hard to believe such a frail boy would grow up to become such a macho, beefy man. Curiously, it almost looked like the boy had a modern, undercut hairstyle. Maybe it was just the picture quality… Ignoring the anachronism, Esten remarked, “You have a big family.”

“Si.” He paused. “This time of year always brings up the memories, you know? Memories of those who have gone.”

Esten wanted to comfort the man, but he knew Carlos was strong in both body and mind. The sort of man who’d prefer to be detached from his emotions than appear vulnerable. Although it did raise another question. “Why are here instead of celebrating the dia los murtas or whatever?”

“Día de Muertos. It’s not for another two days. I’m flying back to my hometown tomorrow to pay my respects, catch up with folks, and to see the grandkids.” There was a hint of a smile on the man’s usually stoic face. It vanished as soon as it appeared. “How’s your family?” he asked.

Esten blinked a few times. How was his family? He’d barely thought about them at all since he entered the house. He struggled to think. “Well, my big bro’s doing his college thing, my parents are still arguing over the kitchen, my-”

“Your parents?” he asked, a little amazed. “They’re still alive?”

“Well yeah, why wouldn’t they be?”

“Sorry, it’s just uncommon at our age. Mi madre passed away late last year. Oh but she was a fighter to the very end!” There was that shadow of a smile on Carlos’ lips again, mostly obscured by that bushy moustache.

What did Carlos mean by our age, Esten thought. He was far younger than the man. At least he thought he was. The more Esten thought about it, the less it made sense. Maybe it wasn’t his parents he was thinking of after all. No, it was his nephew and his wife who were arguing over the kitchen. He’d heard all about their opposing ideas on layouts the last time he paid them a visit. Strange, maybe his mind was beginning to go… His younger brother did name his twins after their parents, god rest their souls, so maybe that caused the mix-up. The thought of having kids of his own had never appealed to him, and the window of opportunity had long since passed. In Esten’s viewpoint, his nieces, nephews and their kids were trouble enough. Although he did recall how chuffed his ol’ pa was to finally have grandkids. If only he lived long enough to see them grow up…

Esten blinked a few times, there was something in his eyes. He brought a hand up to them. They were tears. He couldn’t be seen crying around these manly men! He forced his emotions back down, trying to be as apathetic as the man beside him, then wiped his eyes clean. As he rubbed at his eyes, his skin grew looser and rougher. It stretched and sagged from the motion, getting ever more rugged. The bags under his eyes deepened. Crow’s feet clawed out from the corners and cracked his skin. Deep ridges furrowed into his forehead. Once he had finished, there were decades of life experience etched into every crack and fold of his craggy face.

Confident that he’d cleared his eyes, Esten looked back at the photo album. Were these photos out of focus? He squinted and leaned in closer, but couldn’t make anything out but a blur. Maybe he’d rubbed his eyes too hard? Richard, who’d been watching from a distance, now stepped over to him. Being the 'helpful’ man he was, he barked “Hey Einstein, you don’t have your glasses on!”

Before Esten could respond, Richard knocked the top of his head and suddenly, everything was clear again. He reached up and adjusted the rectangular, thick-rimmed glasses that had slipped down onto his nose. “Thanks Dick…” he mumbled. Richard made that shit-eating grin of his and got back to sorting his poker winnings. Esten rubbed the top of his smooth head where Richard had bumped him. Without any hair to cover his head, he hoped it wouldn’t bruise. In fact, where he rubbed, splotches of discolored skin faded into existence, then jumped to his hands. He looked at them with concern. They were still as unfamiliar as the rest of him. Large, leathery paws covered with white hairs and speckled with age spots. His arms were just as unfamiliar, you could hardly make out the skin underneath the white pelts that enclosed them. He rubbed his hairy arms anxiously. This didn’t feel right, it didn’t feel like him. He hadn’t felt like himself since he came to Stan’s house… To Cravitz’s house.

Esten handed Carlos back his photo album and stood up, shaking out his left leg. The ol’ trick knee. He stood still as he surveyed the room, scratching at his hairy chest through the open top buttons of his shirt. Then he stroked his beard, fingers trembling nervously. He needed to calm down. Needed to think. “Can I have another cigar?” He meant to ask it only to Cravitz, but the abrupt boom of his voice made all the heads in the room turn his way. They looked at him with new eyes. Esten didn’t know what to make of it.

“No more costume?” Cravitz asked.

“Costume?” Esten lowered his hand, his biceps stretching the fabric of his sleeves tight as a drum.

“Your Halloween costume.”

“Halloween? Why would I dress up for Halloween? I…I…” Esten’s mind was racing. “I don’t even like Halloween that much,” he finally said.

“Do you like it at all?”

“Well, it…I…” Esten scratched his bald head and shivered. “It has its charms for some, but it’s not my cup of tea. Always thought it was kind of annoying myself. Real annoying. Just fucking…fuckin’ awful, really. And unsafe! Little brats buggin’ the shit out of everyone, and you never know whose door you’re knocking on.” Esten’s tone got edgier and rougher as he ranted. A part of him knew he didn’t believe what he was saying - Halloween was fun! - but it still felt good to get it off his chest, and it was received well. He clomped over to his candy bucket, which appeared to be melting where it sat. The orange plastic puddled over the treats inside, merging into something brown and stiff that opened like a book. “But you fellas know, I got a helluva sweet tooth,” Esten rumbled, reaching for the sole surviving piece of candy: a misshapen Snickers bar. The logo faded off the wrapper as he lifted it to his lips, and he clenched it in his teeth as one end of the former candy bar got bigger and rounder.

“You like candy?”

“I fuckin’ hate candy,” Esten growled, removing what was now an impressive pipe from his mouth. “You think I grew these muscles eating sugar?”

His shirt tightened further over his expanding frame. Most of the new growth  happened in his legs, which thickened into powerful haunches capped by a massive boulder of an ass that strained against Esten’s khakis. His big butt rocked up and down as he walked back to the middle of the room, swinging his muscled legs around each other and feeling his shirt buttons struggle over his hairy chest. He planted his feet in a defiant stance and blew a stream of smoke out of his nostrils, courtesy of his trusty pipe. It hung in the air around him, clinging to his beard and chest hair, gradually staining the dark hairs with every puff.

Nearby, Cravitz was chuckling as he watched.

“The fuck are you laughing at, you old coot?” Esten snarled, smoke pouring from his graying beard.

“You,” Cravitz said, thrusting his finger toward Esten. “You’re real different than you were earlier.”

“I ain’t different.”

“Oh yes you are. Everything about you is changing.” Cravitz leaned forward and patted the bulging buttons of Esten’s shirt. “You’re turning into a man right before our eyes.”

Esten’s eyes shut, and his feet wobbled, but his voice remained firm and intimidating. “I’m not fucking changing.” He didn’t want to talk anymore, so he clenched his pipe in his teeth and puffed, enjoying the feeling of the bowl resting in his white beard. He was such a virile man…

…fuck, what was happening…Stan was really getting under his fucking skin. He opened his eyes and looked around just to get his bearings, when he noticed Klaus by the doorway. Out of all the men, he seemed to be the most understanding. Esten walked up and nodded towards the hallway. “Hey, can we chat for a bit?”

They both walked through to the hall and stopped by the staircase. Klaus leaned on its railing, his cigar lazily hung from his lips. “What’s up, little man?”

Esten frowned, he was anything but little. They were almost the same size. Sure, Klaus was a few inches taller, but he himself was more than a few inches wider. If waistlines were anything to go by, only Patrick had him beat. He shook his head to clear his mind, he could worry about measurements later. He spoke slowly, his gravelly baritone rumbled around him. “There’s something weird about tonight. I keep feeling different, and my mind’s all a mess. It’s like I’m changing but nobody realizes…”

“You have been acting strange…” Klaus stroked his beard, which Esten unintentionally mimicked. It felt soothing to feel his calloused fingers slip through its shaggy mass. After a moment of silence, Klaus’ eyes narrowed. “Is this about the wig?”

“Huh?”

Klaus pulled him in close, or as close as the two could stand given their size. “I get that it was a joke but this ain’t really the audience who’d appreciate it.” Esten nodded. He knew it was a mistake to bring it along. Why did he have it anyway? Klaus puffed out a long drawl of smoke before continuing, “I don’t get what the problem is. I reckon you’ve been bald more than half your life at this point, and it’s not bothered you once. What’s brought this on now?”

Esten scoffed. “More than half? Fuck off!” he said, with ridicule. There’s no way that was true.

Klaus chuckled. “Well you’d lost it all before we first met, and that was a good 30 years ago so it’s possible.”

Something didn’t add up. Esten knew he couldn’t have met this man 30 years ago, he wasn’t even alive back then. Right? And even if that were true, which it wasn’t, and he was bald when they first met, which he wasn’t, then for him to have been bald for over half his life, which he hasn’t, he’d have to be as old as his fellow poker players, which he most definitely wasn’t! Right…?

Klaus tapped him on the chest with his cigar-free hand. “Don’t let Dicky get in your head, lord knows how often he pushes my buttons… But you’re different! You’ve always been confident in yourself. You were the one who got me to shave my own hair when it started receding and I’ve not looked back since! Neither should you.”

As Esten looked into his pal’s wrinkled mug, he felt a wave of courage take over. He straightened his back, an action that managed to stretch his spine and add a couple more inches onto his height until he was an inch shy of Klaus. He held onto his pipe and jabbed the air with it to punctuate his words. “You’re right! Fuck Dick, and fuck feeling humiliated! I’m fuckin’ sick of it!” Why was he so worried about his baldness anyway? Even if he had a full head of hair, he’d shave it 'til it felt like silk. It was the sign of a true man. A man so overflowing with testosterone that his chest was bigger than his waist, and his back was furrier than his scalp. He gave his head a good rub with his free hand and smirked. It was velvety smooth. Just the way he liked it.

Klaus pumped his fist in the air and hooted “Now there’s the confident Jeten we all know! Come ‘ere!”

Jeten… That wasn’t right, was it? But it was close. The two men shared a meaningful man-hug, each struggling to get their arms around the other’s thick-set bodies. Nevertheless, Jeten felt right in the man’s arms, comforted even. He hadn’t been so intimate with another man in a long time… Before he could stop himself, Jeten leaned forward and pressed his lips against Klaus’, who himself leaned into the kiss, shoving his tongue into Jeten’s mouth with a wild passion. As they broke free, Jeten looked into Klaus’ eyes, who growled and gave him a cheeky wink. Before he could process what had happened, Patrick trudged down the stairs, his belly comically bounced with every step he took. “What are you loverboys up to?”

They stepped apart and Klaus sheepishly rubbed the back of his neck. “Just a pep talk.” he said with a cough, his beard tactically hiding his blushing cheeks.

Unperturbed by the disruption, Jeten asked Patrick, “Do I look different to you?” He looked him square in the eye like he was posing for a picture.

“Different?” Patrick narrowed his eyes and looked Jeten up and down. “Hmm…new haircut?”

It took a moment for Jeten to realize Patrick was joking, but once he did, he burst out laughing - a loud, wet bellow that blared through the hallway and shook his big chest. More wrinkles appeared on his face, and his beard extended outward another inch, the tips of his bushy mustache curling into natural handlebars. “That makes me feel better, thanks,” he said, patting Patrick on the shoulder.

Stanley walked out from the living room, crankier than usual. “What the fuck are you all standing out here for? We got more poker to play, quit jabbering.”

“Only if you got more whiskey,” Patrick said, rubbing his belly as he lumbered back. Klaus patted Jeten a bit too low on the back before following behind. Jeten moved to follow the other men until Stanley stopped him.

“Heard you asking Patrick if he thinks you look different.”

Jeten puffed on his pipe, unbothered. “Yeah, so?”

“Would it be bad if you did?” The question was strange, and Stanley’s expression was even odder; he had an uncharacteristic grin on his face while he asked it.

Jeten’s bushy gray eyebrows furrowed. “Yeah. I like how I look.”

“Why don’t you look in that mirror. Tell me if you look different.”

Jeten turned his head toward the old square mirror mounted on the wall nearby. He clomped toward it nervously, wondering what Stanley was getting it…the guy was acting strange today. Jeten wondered how he’d react if he did look different. He did have this feeling in the back of his head that something inexplicable was happening to him, that he was undergoing some sort of dramatic change.

He got to the mirror and stared. His enormous gray beard hid half his face, and the bowl of his big pipe rested in the whiskers like a bird in a nest. The upper half of his face was a complicated array of wrinkles and weathering, with his bright eyes peering out from below a heavy brow. Big nose, big ears, and a shiny bald head. Holding his breath, he took a step back, looking at his shirt tightly fitted around his massive, brutal body; his long chest hair meeting with the end of his beard…massive shoulders that seemed to fill the whole hallway…

He wrenched his pipe out of his mouth and turned to Stan.

“I don’t look different at all!” he said with palpable relief.

Stan chuckled and patted Jeten on his back. “That’s right. Not different at all.”

“Hey Gene!” hollered Klaus from the living room. “Am I dealing you in?”

Jeten looked at Stan, who nodded at him. “You staying for another game, Gene?”

Gene… “Yeah, I’m in,” Gene said, placing his pipe back in his mouth and walking to his seat at the table. He eased into the chair carefully, moving slowly so his belly didn’t knock anything over. As his big ass settled into the seat, he felt something under it, and realized Klaus was copping a feel. They exchanged a flirtatious look as his hand slid further up towards his infamous bulge. A look that broke when they heard knocking on the front door.

“Who the fuck would that be?” Gene grunted, frustrated by the disturbance.

“Your nurse come to take you back home?” Richard teased.

“Fuck you,” Gene chortled. Curious, he eased back up onto his feet, much to Klaus’ dismay, and poked his head around the corner to the hall. Stanley was talking to a kid dressed in costume. He tutted and shook his head in irritation. Who lets their kid stay out begging for candy at this hour? Stanley had some real patience to deal with this brat.

“What are you, a tramp?”

“Uh, no… I’m Jack Sparrow?”

“Never heard of him… Stay here, I’ll get your treat…”

“But I…” the kid stammered before being abandoned.

As Stanley left the kid standing in the hallway, Gene took it upon himself to keep him company, and maybe find out who his parents were so he could have a good chat with them about enforcing curfews. As he rounded the corner, he saw the kid recoil from his presence. No doubt impressed by his size, he thought with pride. “Hey there, Jack,” he bellowed in his distinct, gravelly bass.

The kid froze up. “How did you know my name…?” he whispered.

Not a bright kid, Gene thought. “You just fuckin’ said it a minute ago. Jack Swallow or summin’.”

The kid sighed in relief. “Sparrow. That’s who I’m dressed as. But my real name is Jack too.”

“Hmm… Right…” Gene eyed him up and down. He was a scrawny lad, his scruffy costume swamped him. He could do with some beefing up. After puffing on his pipe, Gene growled, “I suppose you’re here for candy.” He spat the word like it was something dirty. “Can’t stand the stuff myself. It’s a nutritional wasteland and rots your teeth something crazy. You think I get teeth like this from candy?” He bared his teeth in a snarl. They were stained by decades of tobacco usage, but otherwise all intact.

The boy shuffled on the spot. “No, uhm… My friend came here about an hour ago, and I’m worried. We were supposed to meet by the plaza fountain and he never showed up. I tried to get in touch but there must be no signal around here.”

Gene fondled his beard. That sounded oddly familiar… “Short brat, stringy hair, hardly any meat on him? I think I’ve seen him. Looked like me when I was a youngster. Before I grew into the big, beefy bear I am today.”

Jack’s eyes lit up. “You saw Easton? Is he still here?”

What kinda name was Easton? Parents today naming their brats the stupidest things… “Maybe? We’ve been preoccupied with poker.” At that moment, the roar of laughter echoed from the living room. He was itching to get back, but he couldn’t just ditch the kid in the hallway…

Jack tried to gaze past him, but Gene was wide enough to fill the entire hallway. He asked “There’s more of you? I didn’t know Old Man… Ol’ Mr. Cravitz had so many friends.”

“I dunno if I’d call us all friends, rather like-minded men. We get together once in a while for poker and cigars. What else are you gonna do in retirement, huh?”

“Isn’t it getting late for you guys?”

“Late? It’s barely ten o’ clock. We ain’t in nursing homes. How old do you think we are?”

The kid shrugged. “Well my grandpa is almost sixty, and he has a bedtime schedule. You look older than he is. So…”

Gene scowled. Of course they were older than this twerp’s gramps, he himself was 67 goddamned years old and proud of it too. But he knew someone who hated to be reminded of his age. Gene cracked a smile at the thought and guffawed. “Fuckin’ cheek! Don’t let Dick catch you saying shit like that, he’ll flip his lid!”

Jack giggled nervously, unclear who Dick was. Gene took a slow puff of his pipe with a smirk, maybe this kid wasn’t so bad, he had some spunk! As he exhaled a plume of smoke, the kid piped up. "So my friend…”

“Right, right. C'mon kid, maybe the others know who this Ester is.” Gene slipped an arm behind Jack’s back and guided him to the living room before he could correct him. “Say, you ever played poker before? We could always use another player.”

 

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