“Your name sounds like throw-up!”
“Does not!”
“Ralph, Ralph, Ralph.”
Ralph socked his brother in the stomach.
His brother, well, ralphed.
Their mother came in and saw the mess all over her freshly mopped floor. “Rooms. Now.”
Ralph made a bee-line to his room. He knew better than to argue with his mom once she brought out the one word sentences.
His brother hobbled to the bathroom first. Ralph heard him, well, ralph again. Then his brother tottered into their room. Yeah, they shared a room. One of the great mysteries they often pondered in the dark of night was why their mom banished them into a room together whenever they got up to shenanigans. Since they spent an awful lot of time in their room, it didn’t strike them as an effective disciplinary tactic.
“Sorry, Dead,” said Ralph. His brother’s name conveniently rhymed with lots of words more fun than his given name — Fred. Last week it was Read, except Ralph called him Read as in, ‘Go read a book’. It was a complicated system.
Fred eased himself down on his bed and rolled onto his back. “It’s okay. I’ll probably live.”
“That’s good, otherwise you’d really be Dead.” Ralph considered himself a comedian despite all evidence to the contrary.
“We better cool it or Mom won’t let us go out tomorrow,” said Fred.
“She wouldn’t do that,” said Ralph.
Fred shrugged. He was eighteen months older and knew a thing to two about moms. Ralph looked anxiously at the closed door. Mom would never stop them from going out on Halloween, would she?
“I think that’s a violation of our Constitutional rights,” said Ralph.
“You go right ahead and tell her. I’m going to go down and apologize.” Fred grimaced. “As soon as my stomach stops rolling.”
“I really am sorry, Dead,” said Ralph. “And not just ‘cuz we might not get to go Trick or Treating.”
Fred pushed himself up. “Don’t worry, she’ll forget about it by suppertime.”
Sure enough, their mom called them down for supper and all was well. Ralph even managed to choke down three brussel sprouts before she told him to stop. He was turning a Halloween-ish shade of green and she didn’t want to mop the floor again.
“Do you have your costumes ready for tomorrow?” she said as they shoveled hot-fudge and ice cream covered brownies into their mouths.
“I’m going as a real-estate magnate,” said Ralph.
“I’m going as a political candidate,” said Fred.
Their mom shook her head. “Can’t you go as a bloody, ax-murderer, or a brain-eating zombie like normal kids?”
“Nope,” said Ralph.
“Boring,” said Fred.
“Give me strength,” said their mom.
The next night, Ralph and Fred donned the best real-estate magnate and political candidate costumes that $11.53 could buy.
“Good luck,” said their mom as they traipsed out of the house.
“Why’d she say that?” said Ralph.
“Beats me,” said Fred.
Eighteen minutes later they returned, empty-handed and out of breath — their eyes bulging, their faces frozen in fear.
“Want to talk about it?” said their mom.
Ralph shook his head. Fred opened his mouth, but nothing came out.
The doorbell rang.
“Trick or treat!” said a chorus of voices.
“Oh, my, don’t you look scary,” their mom kept saying as she dropped miniature candy bars into the Trick or Treaters jack-o-lantern buckets.
“Can we change into our bloody, ax-murderer and brain-eating zombie costumes from last year?” said the boys after she shut the door.
“I tried to warn you,” said their mom.
“I guess our real-estate magnate and political candidate costumes were just too. . .” Fred shivered.
Ralph gulped. “. . . scary.”