Chapter 7
Let’s Get Our Hallowienie On!
A Bitches Costume Party
McCormick struts across the court in his full-body hot dog costume, chest out, mustard stripe proudly displayed. He’s not even pretending to hand out candy. No, he’s flinging individual ketchup and mustard packets at people like they’re blessings from the gods of processed meat.
“Condiment?” he asks, tossing one at Brandt, who catches it like a bouquet.
Brandt’s dressed as Maverick, all aviators and attitude. West, beside him as Iceman, dramatically bites the corner of his fake dog tags and says, “Talk to me, Goose.”
“Jesus,” McCormick mutters. “We get it, you watched Top Gun.” He rolls his eyes and strolls toward Nash, who’s nursing a root beer in a skull goblet and wearing a cowboy hat, a cape, and a T-shirt that says, “I’m The Problem, It’s Me.”
“Touch my costume,” McCormick says. “It feels realistic.”
Nash, dressed as a pirate skeleton cowboy (it’s unclear), squints at him. “I don’t wanna touch your fucking meat.”
“C’mon, just touch it. Right here. I’m premium beef.” He strokes his mustard stripe obscenely.
“I don’t want to touch it, I don’t want to stroke it, I don’t want anything to do with your hot dog. Next thing you’ll ask me to cradle your meat. No. Hard pass.”
“Missed opportunity,” McCormick says, tossing a mustard packet at his chest.
Stiles waddles up in a bun costume, arms stuck out awkwardly like a bread-shaped scarecrow. “I feel like a mattress for lonely people,” he mutters.
West chokes on his soda and covers his mouth. “So you’re the bottom.”
Stiles blinks. “What do you mean bottom?”
“Well,” West explains, gesturing matter-of-factly, “he’s the hot dog. He slides his dog into your bun. You’re the bottom.”
Stiles looks horrified. “No. That’s not—Mac! We need to talk about these costumes. Now.”
They both disappear into the locker room like someone called a Code Black.
Meanwhile, Pharo struts in wearing an elaborate King Tut costume, complete with eyeliner and gold sandals.
Jax, on his heels, wears a plastic helmet and a windbreaker that says Flight Crew.
Brandt looks him over. “What are you supposed to be?”
“I’m Pharo. Too cool for school helicopter pilot.”
“You’re just wearing a Spirit Halloween Top Gun Lite costume,” Brandt mutters.
“No,” Jax insists, adjusting his dollar-store aviators. “I pilot the Raven. Guys want to be me. Girls want to ride me. I’m radiating sex appeal and magnetism.”
Everyone stares at him.
“I think it’s just dumb,” Nash mutters, sipping from a Capri Sun he stole from the kids’ table.
Pharo covers his laugh behind his hand.
“You’re just cosplaying as ‘disappointing Maverick,’” West says, agreeing with Brandt.
Jax grins. “It’s conceptual.”
“Yeah, conceptually dumb,” mutters Brewer, who walks by in a wrinkled sexy nurse outfit, unshaven legs, complete with a name tag that says Nurse Bad Decision. His stethoscope is a jump rope.
Tex stops by a snack table before making his way to the group. He’s dressed in Dolly Parton drag, rhinestones and wigs and cleavage for days. He’s got a fake mic and is lip-syncing “9 to 5” like he’s auditioning for a Vegas residency.
Beside him, Mandy’s dressed in matching sparkle cowboy boots, a Shania Twain “Man! I Feel Like a Woman” outfit, complete with mini skirt, big hair, and an attitude. He looks absolutely miserable, but every time Tex eyes him, Mandy beams like the sun is shining from his mouth.
“This is a crime against God,” Mandy mutters, tugging at his neckline when Tex revisits the snack table.
Tex, overhearing him as he returns, throws an arm around him. “Shut up. We’re beautiful. You’re my backup singer, Big Guy.”
“I look like a rhinestoned lawn gnome.”
“You look incredible,” Brandt wheezes with laughter. “I’ve never been so confused in my life.”
At that moment, the locker room doors swing open again—and McCormick walks out in the bun costume, looking resigned. Stiles struts behind him proudly in the hot dog suit, tossing condiment packets like confetti.
Everyone turns. Brandt chokes on his root beer.
Jax starts slow-clapping. “Character development.”
“You switched?” Nash calls. “What happened in there?”
“We had a conversation,” Stiles says stiffly.
“A negotiation,” McCormick adds.
“An identity crisis,” Stiles finishes. “We’ve reached... an understanding.”
“Now he’s the bottom,” West mutters.
“I AM NOT—” Stiles starts, but Valor—Nash’s black cat in a tiny bat costume—leaps onto the scoreboard and yowls like the drama queen he is, and the music shifts to “Somebody’s Watching Me,” and the moment is lost.
“Why does the cat have a better costume than Brewer?” West asks.
Across the court, Rhett saunters in as Scarlett O’Hara, full hoop skirt, corset, and a parasol for no reason. Riggs is beside him as Rhett Butler, already regretting his entire life.
“I swear to God,” Riggs mutters, pulling up his suspenders. “I told him we’d go as a couple, not as the couple.”
“You look dashing, sugar,” Rhett drawls, adjusting his hoop skirt.
“You look like a sexy Civil War ghost,” Brewer says to Rhett. “Your mama would be proud.”
“I am a sexy Civil War ghost,” Rhett replies.
Someone spikes the punch. Someone else tries to dance with the skeleton in the bleachers. Jax poses in front of a fog machine and makes helicopter noises until West throws a basketball at him.
The gym smells like fog machine, popcorn, and humiliation. “Ghostbusters” starts playing again on the cursed playlist.
Pharo poses next to a mummy cutout like he’s on the red carpet. Jax salutes him with both hands, middle fingers out. The fog machine short circuits and someone screams for no reason.
“…Do you think we just accepted our roles?” Stiles asks.
McCormick shrugs. “Honestly? I’m okay being the meat.”
Stiles sighs. “Then I guess I’ll just… wrap around you.”
“I always knew you were clingy.”
Stiles throws a mustard packet at his face.
Margaret Anne, who’s dressed as Rosie The Riveter, a WWII pinup girl meant to inspire the women left at home alone while their men were sent off to war, holds a megaphone to her lips—it might be part of her costume?---and shouts, “Time for our dance-off!”
Riggs tries to beat feet but Rhett grabs his suspenders and snaps him back.
The room erupts. A chant starts in the bleachers: “DANCE! DANCE! DANCE!”
Margaret Anne’s gaze zero in on the Bitches like a heat-seeking missile. When no one steps forward willingly, she starts recruiting people in her sweetest smile. It’s impossible to resist her.
ROUND 1: Pharo vs. Jax
Pharo steps forward first, shoulders rolling like he’s possessed by the spirit of Beyoncé. His King Tut robe flares dramatically with every spin, and he ends with a flawless moonwalk into a pose that screams, bow before me.
The crowd loses it. Even Valor hisses approvingly from the sidelines.
Jax, undeterred, leaps into action. He flails his arms like helicopter blades, spinning wildly across the court. He attempts a cartwheel—fails spectacularly—and lands in a crouch, pointing finger guns at the crowd.
“I think he just crashed,” Nash mutters, sipping his punch.
Winner: Pharo, obviously.
ROUND 2: Tex vs. Mandy
Tex starts strong, shaking his padded Dolly cleavage to the beat of “Ghostbusters.” He throws in some hip thrusts and a spin so dramatic, his wig almost flies off.
Mandy, dressed as Shania Twain, sighs heavily and steps up. “I can’t believe I’m doing this.”
“You got this, Big Guy!” Tex shouts.
Mandy surprises everyone. His footwork is sharp, his spins precise, and his rhythm flawless. He even pulls off a risky split, sliding into it like a pro.
The gym goes wild.
Tex, laughing, holds up his hands. “I concede. The cowboy wins.”
Winner: Mandy.
FINAL ROUND: Stiles vs. McCormick
McCormick, still in the bun costume, waddles forward, arms out like he’s trying to balance on a tightrope. He attempts a robot—terribly—and then ends with an awkward dab. The crowd boos. Someone throws a Twizzler.
“Buns can’t move,” Nash calls. “You’re just bread. Accept it.”
Stiles, in the hot dog suit, smirks. “Watch and learn.”
He starts with a body roll—yes, in the foam suit—and it somehow works. He transitions into a twerk so aggressive, one end of the mustard stripe falls off. Then he finishes with a full-on breakdance spin, the hot dog spinning in a blur of meat and glory.
The gym erupts.
Winner: Stiles.
The Championship: Rhett vs. Brandt
The lights dim. The fog thickens. The playlist shifts to "I Put a Spell on You." The gym falls silent as Rhett, in his Scarlett O’Hara gown, takes the floor. He glides gracefully, hoop skirt swishing, then snaps into a flawless Charleston that makes even Tex gasp.
Brandt steps up in his Maverick costume, clearly feeling the pressure. He whips off his aviators, does a surprisingly decent moonwalk, and then attempts a high kick.
His shoe flies off and hits the vending machine.
The gym explodes in laughter. Even Rhett can’t keep a straight face.
Winner: Rhett, by a landslide.
The fog machine gives out just as “Somebody’s Watching Me” starts playing for the fourth time. People are lying on the bleachers in fits of laughter. Nash’s cat is licking punch from the bowll. Stiles and McCormick are arguing about who the real winner is.
Brewer, still in his Sexy Nurse outfit, staggers into the middle of the court and yells, “I declare this gym a haunted noodle zone!”
Nobody knows what that means, but everyone cheers anyway.
McCormick leans into his meat man. “Let’s go home and play barbeque.”
Stiles knows exactly what that means, but after hearing the way Mac said it, wishes he didn’t.
Party Aftermath:
The Candy Corn Caper
Time: The morning after the BALLS Halloween party
Location: The gym—now silent, fog machine finally dead, glitter scattered like regret.
Music: Blessedly off.
Riggs is the first to notice. He’s showered, shaved, and no longer sporting a costume as he approaches the gym for his morning workout. As he passes the vending machine, he stops dead in his tracks and does a double take.
Empty slot.
Label reads: “C6 – Candy Corn. 75￠”
Gone.
He squints. “No. Nooope. This was full last night. I know because I yelled at it for being seasonal trash.”
He whips out his phone and starts texting the group chat:
“Someone jacked the candy corn. I’m starting an investigation.”
THE SUSPECTS
1. Stiles
– Found asleep in the BALLS locker room. Still in the hot dog costume. Woke up mid-scream.
– “Why would I steal candy corn? I was the meat last night. I had responsibilities.”
– Suspicious because he’s very defensive for someone allegedly asleep through the after party.
2. McCormick
– Passed out on a weight bench, still in the bun costume, with three mustard packets stuck to his face.
– “I passed out after the dance battle. The last thing I remember is Valor licking my mustard.”
– Suspicious because he has literal candy corn stuck to his sock.
3. Nash
– Drinking Gatorade. Looks suspiciously hydrated.
– “I wouldn’t eat candy corn if the world was ending and it was my last carbohydrate. That stuff tastes like candle vomit.”
– Suspicious because his cat, Valor, is found with a tiny plastic baggie of exactly thirteen pieces of candy corn hidden under the bleachers.
4. Jax
– Still in his pilot helmet. Claims he “slept in the pharaoh’s chariot” (it was just Pharo’s truck).
– “I was doing flight drills. I can’t snack and pilot.”
– Suspicious because he used the vending machine six times last night and kept muttering “for the mission.”
5. Rhett
– In sweats, sipping iced coffee like nothing happened.
– “I despise candy corn. But I do love a good heist.”
– Suspicious because... honestly? Always.
THE FOOTAGE
Jax—who somehow managed to connect the security camera system to his phone (don’t ask)—sends the group a grainy clip at 9:13 AM.
The footage shows:
1:42 AM. The gym is dark. Fog still clinging to the floor.
Suddenly, a tiny silhouette darts across the court. Low to the ground. Stealthy.
It climbs up the vending machine…
Taps a claw on the keypad…
And disappears into the candy chute.
Valor. Nash’s cat.
A moment later, Jax stumbles in, pulls a candy bar from another slot, and says, “Nice job, copilot.”
The Final Report
Perpetrator: Valor the Cat
Accomplice: Jax, unaware but enabling
Motivation: Unknown. Possibly ritualistic. Possibly just hates the concept of “inventory.”
Justice: None. Valor cannot be tried in a court of law and refuses to show remorse.
Mandy’s response in the group chat is succinct:
“Your cat’s a felon, Nash.”
To which Nash replies:
“He’s a free-thinker with refined taste. Also, he’s never stolen garbage candy. That’s performance art.”
Brewer sighs.
Tex posts a meme.
And McCormick, still in the bun suit, just texts:
“Long live the corn king.”
Then adds,
“Going home. I need a shower.”