NOBODY KNOWS THIS ISN’T A COSTUME

[tempo: 112 BPM; driving Gothic carnival pulse with brief half-time dread] [tone: creepy, theatrical, mischievous, celebratory, uncanny, sincere underneath] [vocal style: solo Prophet; natural warm baritone, dry spoken asides, dark cabaret phrasing, melodic post-punk lifts, occasional forceful declarations] [instrumentation: crooked piano, upright bass, post-punk bass, tom-heavy drums, chorus guitar, baritone guitar, pipe organ, strings, saxophone, bells, carnival percussion, sparse Glitch-tar] [effects: tape flutter, distant screams, creaking wood, camera flash, warped applause, dimensional tears, brief wrong-room echoes] [OPENING — COSTUME WEATHER] [crooked piano] [low bass enters] [distant laughter, wind, one bell] [Prophet — pleased] There it is. October. The one month the neighborhood finally develops some taste. Plastic skeletons. Gravestones. Fog crawling across somebody’s lawn. A six-foot spider attached badly to a garage. [beat] Beautiful. [drums enter] People pass me on the sidewalk. Look at the coat. Look at the cracks around my eye. Look at the hand that glows when I forget to hide it. One of them smiles. “Nice costume.” [Prophet] Thank you. [VERSE I — THE EFFECTS ARE EXCELLENT] [post-punk groove locks in] I don’t wear a mask tonight. Don’t need one. Don’t change the scars. Don’t dim the strange. Someone asks how I made the fissures move. I tell them: “Practice.” [small Glitch-tar twitch] My shadow turns before I do. A teenager points. “Projection mapping!” [Prophet] Sure. Why not. I reach into my coat and pull out something far larger than the pocket. Someone applauds. “Great prop!” [Prophet — amused] You people are wonderfully committed to this explanation. [CHORUS I — NOBODY KNOWS] [organ + strings rise] Nobody knows this isn’t a costume. Nobody knows I came like this. Tonight the streets are full of monsters— and nobody asks which ones exist. All year long the strange thing needs a reason. Tonight it gets a little room. Everybody’s pretending to be somebody else— and somehow I don’t have to. [band hit] Nobody knows this isn’t a costume. [Prophet] Yet. [VERSE II — WRONG POCKET] [groove continues] A child asks if I have candy. Of course. I reach for the wrong pocket. [small dimensional rip] A little Tare opens beside me. Purple light. Cold wind. Stars where there should not be stars. The crowd goes: “Ooooooh.” [Prophet] Thank you. Something moves on the other side. Too many joints. Too many eyes. It notices us. [hard stop] ... [Prophet] Wrong pocket. [Tear snaps shut] [brief silence] Somebody claps. Then everybody claps. [drums slam back] I love Halloween. [VERSE III — THE HAUNTED HOUSE HAS QUESTIONS] [baritone guitar darkens] I buy a ticket for the haunted house. Because obviously. The actors scream. Chains rattle. Something drops from the ceiling. Excellent workmanship. Then halfway through— one of the monsters stops. Looks past me. Looks back. [employee — implied] “Is that with you?” [Prophet turns] [wrong-room echo] [long pause] [Prophet] No. [beat] Keep moving. [full band returns] The next room is apparently less haunted. [CABARET BREAK — AUTHORIZED WEIRDNESS] [piano gets theatrical] [Prophet] Eleven months— Please appear normal. Please reduce your visible anomalies. Please explain why your coat contains weather. Please stop making the hallway longer. October? [organ stab] Put a corpse on the porch. Hang ghosts from the ceiling. Dress the dog like Dracula. Turn the garage into a crypt. Become an undead Victorian beekeeper. [beat] Finally. Standards. [CHORUS II — EVERYBODY GETS TO BE STRANGE] [larger dark-rock chorus] Nobody knows this isn’t a costume. Nobody knows I’m dressed as me. Tonight the dead walk next to witches, aliens, devils, things with teeth. And nobody stops to ask the strange thing what it’s supposed to mean. For one good night the impossible gets mistaken for festive. [Prophet] I can live with that. [BRIDGE — SOMETIMES THE MASK TELLS THE TRUTH] [drums soften; piano + bass] [Prophet — sincere] There’s something I love about costumes. Not hiding. Trying. Be beautiful. Be terrible. Be ridiculous. Be impossible. Put on a face you’d never wear on Tuesday— and sometimes something underneath finally breathes. Maybe pretending isn’t always lying. Sometimes pretending gives the truth somewhere safe to rehearse. [soft strings] Maybe I don’t dress for Halloween. Maybe Halloween dresses the world a little closer to me. A little stranger. A little louder. A little less ashamed of imagination. [beat] Everybody else puts something on. For once— I get to leave everything exactly where it is. [THE PHOTO] [camera flash] [groove creeps back] A group asks for a picture. I stand between a vampire, a plague doctor, and someone who appears to be a haunted traffic cone. [camera flash] They check the screen. [brief distortion] Three versions of me in the same photo. Different positions. Same smile. Everyone goes quiet. [Prophet looks] Huh. [beat] Usually it’s five. [long silence] Then the vampire shrugs. “Dude. It’s Halloween.” [drums return] [Prophet — genuinely touched] ... Yeah. It is. [FINAL CHORUS — LET THE NIGHT STAY STRANGE] [full cinematic dark-rock lift] Nobody knows this isn’t a costume. Some of them are starting to see. But the music’s loud. The streetlights flicker. And nobody really seems to mind. Tonight the monsters don’t need explanations. Tonight the weird doesn’t need a cure. For one little night the world looks impossible— and somehow feels more honest. Nobody knows this isn’t a costume. [Prophet — smiling] And the ones who figured it out? [beat] They kept dancing. [huge band hit] [MIDNIGHT] [bell tolls twelve] [all music stops] [automatic retail door opens] [NOVEMBER 1 — THE HORROR] [one low piano note] [Prophet — hushed] Oh. No. [ominous strings] The dead have risen. [slow footsteps] And they’re— [orchestral horror swell] fifty percent off. [colossal horror hit] [EPILOGUE — CLEARANCE AISLE] [driving groove returns briefly] [shopping basket rattles] [Prophet] Chocolate. Caramel. Tiny peanut butter cups. Yesterday: seasonal confectionery. Today: inventory liability. [beat] Tragic. [bag rustles] I’ll help. [distant squeak] “SQUEAK!” Hey. No. That one’s mine. [tape cut] [End.]