The Well Dressed Vladimir Karlov

“Fear not Mother, if I find a razor in an apple I shall not only refrain from eating it, but I'll find the culprit who placed it in my sack and tear them limb from limb,” yells twelve-year-old Vladimir Karlov, lifting a drooping jester hat from his face. The bells that hang at the end of the red and gold and green points jangle near his cheeks and he blows them from his face like a woman at her hair. “And if these bells shall jingle and jangle all night, can I at least be spared the embarrassment of being slapped in the face with their gold-plated urethras?” Vladimir yells aloud to an unresponsive matriarch, stomping his feet and stabbing the hardwood floor with a dazzling cane of mercury red and Iceland purple. Tassels hang from the handle, shimmering the light of energy-saver lit jack-o-lanterns that dance shadows across the Dostoevsky shelves.

Vladimir takes his pail and nods to his mother dressed as Dorothy and his father dressed as Scarecrow. “And you two with your fairytale match of twisted desire, are you unaware that Dorothy did nothing more than kiss Scarecrow? That she did nothing more than kiss? Or is that all it takes at your age? Is that all it takes to fulfill? A kiss from a girl in red pumps, dazzling but prude, dazzling red heels, but prude!” Vladimir stamps his blue slipper-adorned foot on the floor and acts if to spit, disgusted with the topic he has brought up. “Speak not my seniors, my elders, my consenting adults, for I can't handle such disappointment with age. Please let me believe I'll need Dorothy's skirt lifted high when I'm older. Made of straw or not, I'll want that skirt lifted high!”

“You know where we'll be, so meet us there when you're finished.” Vladimir's mother has her hair back in tails and he struggles hard to refrain from calling her a horse, while his father dances a straw moving jig and spins in the air with a kick.

“You spin like a top made of wet oak, drooping and weighed down by the water, slow and moving like a yawn. And you Mother, what of this low-cut blouse? What of this blue dress that pulls at your breasts and shoulders that reveal like pears?” Vladimir brushes the tassels of the cane over her shoulders and down her shirt to her waist where she pushes it away with a scowl.

“I will dress how I please Young Man, now grab your flashlight and go.”

“Good luck Old Man, for this one will not be tamed, her breasts are moving already. And if the apples are spiked and the wine is free, you'll need a lock and key to keep them in.” Vladimir puts his chin high and puffs his chest out in deep breaths.

“I said grab your flashlight and go!”

“And go I shall. Out into the night to search. And not for candy of chocolate twist delight, but of pleasure cries and sweating thighs that swell and thrust and swell!” Vladimir turns without another word, his bells jingling high and tassels reflecting low and tights holding back the show.

Groups of white sheets run from the front porch and fangs drip with red and black syrup while Vladimir watches from the shadows. He's been walking from house to house and his bag is far from full. “Flavored tootsies and miniature cookies and nothing I dare to taste.” He takes a full drink from his flask, warming his body from the frozen branches around him. The grass breaks at his feet when he shuffles his slippers and his cane hits the soil of stone. He shutters at the cold and the bells of his hat ring in unison.

The next house he is to solicit has dim-colored lights of blue and orange that barely reveal a stuffed ghost sitting on the front porch. The lights inside are on and Vladimir can see bodies moving about. “Dare not feign absence when I ring like the house before or you shall receive such a vile cursing the haunted souls of this night will cringe with fear.”

As he is about to walk up to the house he sees a group of classmates dressed as ghouls and goblins rush behind a bush near the mailbox. Their faces are covered in masks and their hands are covered in gloves. Vladimir decides to wait them out knowing all too well the mischievous deeds boys do as ghouls and ghouls get away with as boys. And though cold and needing to move, he hangs back in the shadows drinking from his flask of Glenlevit from home. Though he must be Jewish with his swigs for his flask is near empty and the cold night is far from old.

Across the yard the sound of secret laughter chimes with the sound of an unzipping book bag and from the darkness comes the white of TP. “Of course, of course. Vandals, of course.” Vladimir takes a cheap swig as the white rolls are passed around. Whispers follow the laughter and laughter follows the whispers ‘til the white rolls shake in anticipation and Vladimir wants to yell for them to strike so he can be on his way. And as if by clairvoyance, they do. First and second and third charge forth and heave the rolls of toilet paper in the air. They weave like snowflakes and fall like rain, heavy but soft and bouncing on the tundra below.

Again and again the rolls are tossed and again and again they fall ‘til the barren trees are covered in Quilted Northern and the grass is no longer wet. The laughing continues and the lights of the house stay on, not a soul moving to react. “How can they not hear, how can they not act?” Vladimir speaks in smoking air as the laughing continues across the yard. Shadows move upon the blinds as if by projection, but the door is never unlocked while the laughing grows more and their bag unzips again.

Eggs are tossed and splattered. Yolks are broken on windows and walls. Tiny white shell is frozen in the yellow incubating goo as it slows with the cold and stops before it can drip off the windows and walls to beds of hard bark and hibernating plants below. The barrage continues until the cartons are empty and the ghouls are out of breath from laughing their sugar-induced hysteria into the night. The moon is at best a waning crescent, but by the way they are howling one could suspect it full.

“Now run along you novice creatures of the night. In an hour you'll all be huddled in sleeping bags holding each other for fear of boogey men charging forth from the TV, while I, Vladimir Karlov, shall be huddled in the sleeping bag of a woman's backside. Eating caramel off her thighs and drinking cider from her navel.” Vladimir awakes from his vision when the boys run past him mocking his costume.

“Nice tights, Sissy!” They scoff, but Vladimir stands tall in his defense.

“Jesters have the bravado of the Marquis while you ghouls have but jail time in common.” Vladimir's bells jingle the discourse along, but the boys have run off into the night not hearing a word he has said. “You miscreants, you bandits, you thugs!”

Vladimir finally calms and after the last swig of scotch is down he strides towards the blue and orange stuffed ghost. His tights creak as they stretch through the breeze, which sounds off to the cracking of branches and Vladimir must bob and weave through the maze of hanging tissues that dance in the hallow weather. When he reaches the door, Vladimir is slightly out of breath and though he looks to his bag for some refreshment he resolves that no amount of mini Twizzlers will relieve him. He looks at the stuffed ghost and notices a piece of notebook paper attached with a pin to its chest. Written in a dark colored marker is, “Help yourself, but please respect others and take just a few pieces each.”

“Preposterous. Absolutely preposterous. Take just a few. A delusional pacifist no doubt.” Vladimir knocks with ferocity more annoyed by the note than the empty bowl it is meant to represent.

There is no answer after the first series of knocks, but the bodies are still being projected in the main room. Two figures for sure, “Yes, two figures for sure.” Vladimir knocks again.

Still no answer and the knocking is beginning to crack Vladimir's knuckles. Frustrated he yells out, “You in there, come out! I've read your note adorning this wretched excuse for a ghost and I'll not allow such ineptitude to go on. The ghost and note alike. Now come to the door or I shall knock the whole night through.” And Vladimir continues to knock till his wrist hurts and the warmth of the scotch is nearly gone… when the sound of a lock is turned.

The door opens to reveal a man dressed as a pirate. Atop his shoulder is a real parrot and his left eye is covered in a patch. He is wearing a large gold hoop earring and his teeth are greened and goldened. A hat sits atop his head with equal parts gallantry and peasantry, but his boots and vest speak of the aristocracy alone, shining black leather like glass.

“Why, Vlad!”

”Why, Henry!”

“You're wearing purple tights.” Even in the low light they can be made out.

“And what of the toilet paper you've attached like a crown. Is this jester outfit political?” Shocked, Vladimir peels and pulls at his wetted white crown, but it sticks with spider web strength and equal translucent annoyance, impossible to remove. It's caught and wrapped at his neck and ears and heels.

“It sticks like the juice of a woman. Like the dripping sweat of her salt. But it smells of factory and gas and nothing like breast and ass!” He continues to struggle and Henry pulls at stray sheets that fall from Vladimir's back.

“You really got yourself caught up in something, eh Vlad?”

“And I shall catch those hoodlums who did this and return the favor one by one.”

Finally Vladimir has rid himself of all the toilet paper and breathes the cold blue/orange in relief. He reaches for his flask and as he turns it upside down he remembers he's drank it all. “The ghost's bucket is empty, Henry, but have you a secret stash around?”

The pirate reaches for a leather pouch that hangs like a satchel over his shoulder. He removes his hat, wig not moving a bit, and pulls the pouch over his head. Vladimir grabs for it and quickly fills his desperate throat with the warming fluid. After several swigs he hands the pouch back to Henry, his gold earrings beginning to blur in the light. Vladimir wipes his mouth with his arm, replacing the excess rum with toilet paper strays, then focuses his attention back to Henry.

“Now what of you, Henry, what of you on this, the All Hollow's Eve?”

“I'm staying at home and watching for hoodlums.”

“Well you're doing a terrible job, Henry, just take a look around. Ruffians have already attacked and you were nowhere to be found.”

Henry surveys the giant oak trees in the front yard with new white leaves hanging inorganic. “Saw ‘em Vlad, but I wasn't finished putting on my costume.”

“Costume or not, you can flip a switch, they're cowards and will run from a sixty-watt threat.”

“Hindsight's 20/20.”

“But you're seeing nothing at all.”

“Except this jester outfit, Vlad.”

“Yes, I made it myself.”

“Not from a storeroom shelf?”

“Nonsense, I would never ask for such help.”

Vladimir sees that his advice won't be heeded for Henry is drunk on pirate rum and his pirate eyes are watered from sex. He remembers the second shadow dancing on the great room's blinds.

“Have you a woman in your quarters, Henry? Have you a wench occupying your home?”

“Argh I do, young jester, she's lying with her ass in the air.”

“And what of this parrot does, he rest on your shoulder and stare?”

“Nay, Xavier flies and talks and lands and walks.”

“I see.” Ignoring Henry's unintelligible talking, Vladimir steps forward trying to peak around the whimsical pirate to see his wench with her ass in the air, but he can't see past the foyer. “Now what say you, Xavier, are her breasts bulging and firm and is her ass wide and true? Does it sound off when it's slapped and is there room for another on the crew?”

Xavier just squawks, waking Henry from his daze.

“Have then you nothing for me, Henry? Nothing but the tease of bare skin?”

“Take my rum and run along, you have a party to attend.”

“But you've been less than helpful, old friend.”

“Don't worry, Vlad, I'll see you tonight again.”

And Henry turns back to the foyer as Xavier squawks with the click of the door. Vladimir then waits a moment, hoping to hear the voice of a girl, but the movement of furniture is the only sound. He walks back through the yard without a reaching boner and the white rain of two-ply falling down.

“Halloween my queen, Halloween,” Vladimir says, standing before his sixth grade teacher, Ms. Quaranta, who's dressed as a thicker version of Jasmine. He's eye-level with her belly button and the barely visible black Italian hairs that lead to a place he's longed to kiss. Her breasts are fixed and full and her hips fill the purple genie pants as if they are jeans. Through a lavender vale are her lips, which Vladimir dreams about everyday in class. Though they speak of geography and math, Vladimir hears nothing at all. He's lost in their movement as they open and form and curve and close over his erect member that's trying to break through his denim and desk. They're outlined in light mascara and they glance off the mesh vale as she speaks to him.

“Why Vlad, you're standing as if in a trance? Have you no bag to hold your candy?”

“I've lost it on my journey to find you.” Vladimir's eyes are fixed on her stomach.

“You look exhausted. Come inside for a minute. I'll get you something warm to drink and how ‘bout another bag? I'll even fill it up with whatever we have left in the house.” She turns, leaving the door open behind her. Vladimir takes the last swig from the pouch of rum though he can hardly remember where he got it from let alone how he got to where he is now. But not one to question fate, he steps inside the house and closes the door behind him.

The foyer is cream tile and the chandelier bleeds fake candles of yellow light. Vladimir breathes the spiced apple potpourri in and calls out to wherever she's gone. “I need no bag, Ms. Quaranta, for I need no more sweets to carry. I need just your lips and breasts and legs right here, your hair and hands and whole. Forget the bag and come back to me, let me fill those pants even more.” He walks further into the house ‘til he gets into a family room just off the foyer. There's no furniture, just a carpet on the ground. “And we can do so here in this room, on this carpet, on this floor. No fear of another teacher, another student, another principle peaking through the door.”

Vladimir's tights are getting tighter with the anticipation of Ms. Quaranta's return. However, the puffy white shorts of his jester outfit covers most of the bulge so he lifts them higher for her to be able to see his arousal when she comes back. He stands in the center of the room, facing the darkness where Ms. Quaranta has disappeared. “Come now my Jasmine. Come let me come with you.”

But Jasmine returns with a pillowcase in hand and Aladdin just a step behind. “Vladimir fix yourself, Vladimir Karlov fix yourself right now.” And Aladdin laughs while Vladimir stands proud of his bulge.

“I shall do nothing of the sort lest you fix the bulge yourself.” Vladimir takes a step towards Ms. Quaranta.

“Vladimir Karlov I'll call your mother, I'll tell what you've done.”

“Call her you gypsy, you Arabian, you goddess of magic and myrrh. She's but a tramp and I fear her not. Turning the town like I, with my father rushing around in straw waiting for the scraps and lies.”

Ms. Quaranta throws the pillowcase at Vladimir, “now take your bag and go Vladimir, and give me that pouch you carry around your neck.”

“Take it, for the rum is gone, it's already passed my tongue.” Vladimir removes the pouch and tosses it towards Aladdin. “Take it old man, I need it not. Fill it with liquid erections so that Jasmine might be pleased at least one night.” Aladdin laughs out loud again as Jasmine furrows her brow. “And I'm off, but fear not for I'll dream of you tonight with these tights no longer on and my hands working away the sin, your belly button all around and your lips moistening my skin!”

Vladimir then dashes for the door, screaming as he goes, “May all the tigers and all the caves and all the desperate genies knock on your door tonight, to steal away this carpet, to steal away Aladdin's flight!”

Vladimir wanders from house to house, receiving chocolate and caramel and gummies he's too lazy to chew. He needs no bag because each piece he receive he eats on his way to the next house or throws to the cracked dirt at his feet.

“Trick-or-treat,” he'll say, golden urethras in his face. And they'll tell him how nice he looks and give him an extra piece since it's nearing the end of the night and they haven't had any visitors in over an hour, some two. The moon has moved yet Vladimir wanders, closer and closer to his parents' party.

On his way he passes a house with the projection of a witch on an outside wall and Vladimir screams out to it. “Your broom is made of stricken wood and your gown of black widows' webs; but you fear me not for you're no more fearful than any women in white. Any woman in blue or pink or purple. With curly brown hair, with straight blonde or black. Tall. Short. Skinny. Fat. You're here for one night and then you disappear, while they stalk and walk every day I'm here. Asses holding heavy and breasts molding mass, in the streets, in the stores, in the lounges, and in class.” Vladimir is now standing next to the stenciled spotlight and speaks even louder than before. “But I'll conquer them green witch, I'll not sleep alone forever.” And Vladimir crosses the light to cast his shadow and wanders down the street once again.

“It's snowing down the block, yet your yard is untouched.” Vladimir slams the door behind him, shaking alive a hanging ornamental vampire with red eyes. They flash with the slamming of the door and it speaks Transylvanian from the motion.

“Come closer, come closer, I want to suck your blood.” Vladimir turns to face the fanged menace.

“You there. In your black cape and hair, with fangs that drip red nutrition. I'm looking for a bouncing scarecrow. His jaw is weak and his spine weaker and he'll be spinning around like a top.” The vampire says nothing back and Vladimir steps in frozen feet to it. “If you know what's wise my pale friend, you'll answer and answer quick.” The motion sets the vampire off again.

“Come closer, come closer, I want to suck your blood.” Again the eyes flash red, smirking white K-9's at Vladimir's threat so he moves forward one more frozen step.

“I implore you to say that again!” But it says nothing.

Vladimir leans closer and looks into the thin painted light bulbs, daring the hanging toy to react, but it stays silent. Triumphant, Vladimir addresses it calmly. “I thought not. You're perhaps wiser than I took you for. Now I bid you farewell and good hunting my cold-blooded rapist of the night, though I must ask you to spare my dear father this evening from those quill pen teeth of yours. Also, and I'm embarrassed to bring this up at all, a woman dressed as Dorothy is running about, and though she's less than virtuous and the easiest of tasks for you, I solicit the competitor in your spirit, trapped and dark and cold, and ask you to spare her as well. She is too easy a prey and the blood she pumps is no tastier than that of the simplest of women. Though her breasts may perk, that is but your bloodlust imagination and a push-up bra made to make the likes of you and your counterparts, the mummy and werewolf alike, howl and growl and groan again.” Vladimir then walks to the bustling of the evening that exists just beyond the foyer.

The regular light bulbs in the kitchen and adjacent rooms have been replaced by orange forty watts causing everyone to dream as they walk. Men are dressed up as superheroes and movie villains and the women are flight attendants and schoolgirls and fairies with wands of crystal sugar, which they suck on to entice and stab through the hearts of those they dislike.

On the counters are bottles empty and full, with flickering jack-o-lanterns in-between that cast shadows of snarling teeth on the faces of men and wide eyes on asses and tits. The lights of the candles inside their pumpkin shells will burn out and then the madness will begin. “I must find my father before then.”

While walking and nudging past a couple flirting with their open toga hips, Vladimir grabs a bottle that's green. It's unmarked, but a jester is nothing if not fearless and he throws back the contents without a second thought. It's warm and tastes of leaf piles and anise; but it's strong from the way it burns his lungs and he puts another full swig down before tossing it aside. The bottle crashes to the ground, but no one seems to notice. The music is so loud even glass cutting cupboard is too silent to hear, as “Monster Mash” plays loud enough to wake all the dead pirates of the sea. And just then such a pirate approaches.

“Henry, you're here,” Vladimir exclaims, “but Henry, you're no longer a pirate.”

“I'm a pirate still, just dressed as a king.” And it was true for under Henry's crown is the same matted wig and a giant red and gold cape is but a cover for his pirate attire below.

“And what of Xavier? Is he off eating crackers in the tower?”

“Why no, he's off taking a virgin parrot's flower.”

“I see you're still drunk, my friend, a king and a pirate and a drunk.”

“And you're dancing in place to the sound of Monster Mash, so what does that make of you?”

“A jester, Henry, a clown.”

“Drinking even the green absinthe down.”

Vladimir can say nothing back to this so he moves along to the patio out back where tiki torches burn and a pit fire keeps feet warmer than even the strongest swill can do. Vladimir stands next to the fire and surveys the crowd with his king close by.

“And where did your woman go your majesty? Is she here dressed as your queen?”

“She's dressed as a steer wranglin' cowgirl, lassoing her hips obscene.” This entices Vladimir instantly. He pictures the cowgirl with large blonde waves falling around her neck and wearing red-checkered flannel, which opens to her dairy breasts below. Her jeans are torn just above her ass so you can see where to lose your hand. His purple tights get tighter again for the first time since leaving Ms. Quaranta's. He flexes his muscle of migration and moves to the breeding grounds he's always sought.

“If you find my cowgirl, let her know I'm now a king.”

“If I find your cowgirl, I'll mount her and she'll stop searching.” And Vladimir walks off with his member fully erect, breathing the cold air of October and feeding on the warmth of costumed loins.

He carries himself steadfast through the whole of the backyard witnessing couples on the verge of bursting through their rentals, but no amount of green bottled brine makes the cowgirl appear. Fed up, he bullies past a fighter pilot drinking clear syrup from the neck of a nurse, towards a giant caldron of wine. “Are those apples in this vessel, am I to bob for them in grapes?”

“I've already bobbed for three, my boy, and the fourth is on its way.”

“Father! What have you been doing with yourself? I've been all around and all I've found were the empty eyes of obsession, but no woman in stockings for me!” Vladimir's father takes a cup next to the caldron and using the floating ladle, pours himself a serving. His casual demeanor puts Vladimir on edge. “And happy as I am with your apple bobbing success, I fear the outcome of your exploits.”

“How so my boy?” His father's make-up has run and the black from his nose has smeared into the gold of his face, making him a mascot of mid-west football rather than a dreamer from OZ.

“Has Dorothy bobbed as well, has she even bobbed at all?”

“Your mother bobbed one apple and has disappeared ever since.”

“I fear the worst father, your childhood desire for harvest games has you side-tracked and mother could be off with a doctor.”

“A fake doctor threatens me none at all, Vlad.”

“But think of the rented stethoscope, Dad.” Vladimir's father laughs and finishes the wine in his cup. “Then I'll find her myself if you're too caught up in apples.” And Vladimir stomps off staring at a cheerleader's ankles.

Vladimir takes the stairs to the bedrooms on the second floor, but finds nothing. Just empty bedrooms and bathrooms with the smell of matches. The bells from his hat jingle as he descends the steps and as he passes the front door the vampire sounds off again. Vladimir stops in his tracks and is about to tear the vampire from the wall. “I'll toss you in the graveyard out back you fink, fake headstones or not, I'll toss you to be stepped on by wolves.” But he doesn't tear the vampire down. Instead, Vladimir just stares at it as if by camera, fifteen frames a second, then ten, then five, until he can barely make out the vampire at all and he's stumbling from wall to wall. “Is Dorothy with the Tin Man or Lion, is Dorothy here at all?”

“Vladimir, my boy.”

“Your majesty, you're back.”

“In fact, I never left your side.”

“Have you seen my mother wandering in blue?”

“I believe she's dancing outside.”

Vladimir looks through the back windows to see her twirling in white and blue so he moves past Henry and steps back onto the patio. Dorothy's red slippers are reflecting even the softest of light as she dances with the party of monsters over the cracking speakers. The whole backyard is alive and singing along, crushing the graveyard to pieces. And sitting at the table is his father, watching his wife sparkle red sequins of light. Vladimir sees him five times, but manages to sit by his side.

“I thought she was upstairs, I thought she was pressing against another.”

“I know you did, Vlad, and perhaps you were right, but with so much wine I can't help but love her.”

“Me too father, me too.” And Vladimir closes his eyes with a hundred red slippers spinning, as his head falls to the straw shoulder of his dad. And though the straw scratches his face, he dreams it to be twigs from the branches all around him. As he walks through the dark yards again, dreaming about trees ornamented by toilet paper, flurrying down on his crown like snow.