Mr. Skeltal's Halloween Spooptacular

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You Are Mr. SKeltal, a skeltal in the skeltal suburbs of Skeltalia. Today is the wonderful Halloween, where all the little skeltals and other monsters dress up and spoop people! Hooray! But in the horizon, [[a fate most horriballs waits->2]]

For this is the seasons, where beings from the other realm come....skeltals trapped inside something soft and squishy called....'skin'. The word alone gives you shivers in your spoopybone. You pray for Satan that your doorstep shall not be haunted by these creatures, locust-like in their hunger for sweets and loot. For this, you must [[prepare...->3]]

Their neverending hunger demand for sweet things. Things like canes and bears of the gummi tribe. Chocolate logs form the eternal chocolate tree. With appropriate offerings their hunger shall be satisfied for another moon cycle. Or..whatever we skeltals call 'a year'. Damn President Skeletor and his unreasonable phraseology for [[dates and times->4]]

Wolfman and Son's Market should sell the offerings for the fleshy terrors from above. You decides to go there as soon as [[possible->5]]

Gasp! Shock! Horror! The lines of Wolfman and Son's market is 666 miles long! How appropriate for this spoopy scenario we're going through! Yet it doesn't change the fact that it will lead into ridiculous lenghts for getting those sweet sweet offerings for the fleshy terrors from above! I guess more...DRASTIC MEASURES....are [[needed->6]]

It's all going towards something. They come, we feed them, they leave, we're safe again. Safe, for how long? We do not know. [[it remains a mystery->7]]

The children are coming. Their sounds fill the dark night. In the distance, the swarm, the locust like swarm is approaching faster still, using hollowed out skulls of our comrades, our neighbours as buckets to hold their loot. Showing the skulls, reminding of the power the have right [[onto your face->8]]

You run back home. The horde getting ever so close. You know what happens to those poor unfortunate undead that aren't home. Or worse, forget to leave spoils on their yard. The memories of the mummy, ripped apart, his bandagest lifelessly bloing in the wind, desecrating your house. Your lawn. [[You vowed never to go through that again->9]]

You're home. The swarm gets closer. Ever so closer. They're at Murray's. Murray remembered. Now...They're outside you'r door... You take a deep breath, steel your nerves and do the transaction. You're safe. For another year.