10-13-2019, 02:57 PM
[align=center][div style="width: 450px; text-align: justify; font-family: arial; font-size: 9pt;"]Marco had never actually been trick-or-treating before, nor had he really taken part in the festivities of Halloween itself. It was more of an American thing, and he assumed the tradition had long since died out after the power outage, because when he came here some four or five years ago, it wasn’t as big a deal as he had inferred from the stories his friends told.
In his old home, there had been one or two small parties revolving around it, but they weren’t anything to write home about. It was mostly kids his age trying to find a reason to have some fun in an otherwise bland, bleak situation.
The concept of trick-or-treating is strange to him. Why would anyone accept candy from a stranger? It could be tainted or poisoned … or just downright nasty. Maybe if it were something more nutritious, he wouldn’t be so creeped out by the idea, but candy couldn’t even be counted as a snack, let alone a meal. It’s just congealed sugar.
Which is why Marco has filled his basket with real food instead of candy. It’s mostly fruit, which he assumes is sweet enough, meat, etc. He doesn’t know what he was supposed to put in the basket, really, if the people of the Badlands preferred real food or shitty, empty-calorie sweets, but so far he’s gotten mixed reactions from all of the people he’s visited so far.
He’s made it about … oh, a quarter down the block. Marco’s tripped one too many times for his liking, and by now he can barely keep himself upright, even with the help of a branch serving as a makeshift cane. So now he sits on the front steps of some old decrepit house, absentmindedly fiddling with loose weaves on the basket. He supposes he’ll just wait for someone to walk by, at least until he can recollect himself and get walking again. He admits, this is rather boring. He’d rather be doing … well, not this.
In his old home, there had been one or two small parties revolving around it, but they weren’t anything to write home about. It was mostly kids his age trying to find a reason to have some fun in an otherwise bland, bleak situation.
The concept of trick-or-treating is strange to him. Why would anyone accept candy from a stranger? It could be tainted or poisoned … or just downright nasty. Maybe if it were something more nutritious, he wouldn’t be so creeped out by the idea, but candy couldn’t even be counted as a snack, let alone a meal. It’s just congealed sugar.
Which is why Marco has filled his basket with real food instead of candy. It’s mostly fruit, which he assumes is sweet enough, meat, etc. He doesn’t know what he was supposed to put in the basket, really, if the people of the Badlands preferred real food or shitty, empty-calorie sweets, but so far he’s gotten mixed reactions from all of the people he’s visited so far.
He’s made it about … oh, a quarter down the block. Marco’s tripped one too many times for his liking, and by now he can barely keep himself upright, even with the help of a branch serving as a makeshift cane. So now he sits on the front steps of some old decrepit house, absentmindedly fiddling with loose weaves on the basket. He supposes he’ll just wait for someone to walk by, at least until he can recollect himself and get walking again. He admits, this is rather boring. He’d rather be doing … well, not this.
[sub]the artist formerly known as hal[/sub]
Hoot gives Hal’s body a hug