Super Trick or Treat System

...The bearded man threw the money on the counter, stood up, and slid the fatty bottom off the stained plastic stool. "It might be a **** policeman," he said during the parting scene. "Trying to be a **** hero, replaced by a **** monster." He smiled strangely. "Give you anything," he continued, staying blankly. Li Badi slowly exhaled from his nose, feeling the tension in his body weakened.

He hates this kind of confrontation: it makes him feel tight and powerless. Thinking of this, he hates the kind of person: the self-righteous, self-righteous stout dog in New York.

It was almost six when Mahogany woke up. The morning rain has turned into light rain. The air is as clear as in Manhattan. He stretched out on the bed, threw away the dirty blanket, and went to work.

In the bathroom, rain dripped on the air-conditioning box, making the apartment full of rhythmic beating. Mahogany turns on the TV to cover up the noise, not interested in anything it offers. He went to the window. The six-story street below was crowded with people.

After a hard day's work, New York began to go home: play, make love. People came out of the office and flowed into the car. In a poorly ventilated office, some people will testify after a day of sweating. Other benign, like sheep, will linger on the street and be brought in by constant corpses. There are even other people crowded on the subway now, unable to see the graffiti on every wall, hear their own voices, or see the cold wind in the tunnel.

Mahogany was happy about it. After all, he is not one of ordinary people. He can stand at the window, look down at a thousand heads below him, knowing that he is the chosen one.

Of course he has deadlines like those on the street. But his work is not their useless work, it is more like a sacred duty.

He also needs to live, sleep and defecate like them. However, what drives him is not financial needs, but historical requirements.

His tradition is long and can be traced back to the United States. He is a nightcrawler: like Jack the Ripper, like Giles de Reyes, the embodiment of living death, a ghost with a human face. He was addicted to sleep, and was terrified.

The people below him didn't know his face. Wouldn't mind seeing him twice. But his gaze caught them and weighed them, choosing only the most mature ones from the parade that passed, and only the healthy and young ones under his holy sword.

Sometimes Mahogany is eager to declare his identity to the world, but he has a responsibility and a heavy responsibility. He can't expect to be famous. His life is secret, and all he longs for recognition is pride. He thought, after all, would beef pay tribute to the butcher when it was on the butcher's knee?

All in all, he is satisfied. To be a part of that great tradition is enough, then it must be preserved forever. However, it was discovered recently. Of course, this is not his fault. No one can blame him. But this is a bad time. Life is not as easy as it was ten years ago. Of course, he is getting older, which makes the work more tiring. The obligation is more and more on his shoulders. He is a man of choice, which is a privilege that is difficult to live with him.

He wondered from time to time whether he should not consider training a young man to perform his duties. Need to consult with his father, but sooner or later he will find a replacement. He believes that not hiring an apprentice will waste his experience.

He can deliver so many delicacies. His extraordinary trading skills. The best way to track, cut, peel, and bleed. The best meat. The easiest way to deal with the remains. So many details, so much expertise.

Mahogany walked into the bathroom and turned on the shower. When he walked in, he looked down at his body. A small belly, a drooping chest, gray hair, scars and pimples made his skin pale. He is getting old. Still, tonight, like overnight, he has work to do.

Li Badi hurried back to the hall with a sandwich, lowered his collar and swept away the rain from his hair. The clock above the elevator read seventy-six minutes. He will work until ten o'clock until now.

The elevator took him to the twelfth floor and Pappas' office. He unfortunately walked through the maze of empty desks and hooded machines to the small place that was still illuminated. The women cleaning the office chatted in the hallway: otherwise the place would be lifeless.

He took off his jacket, tried his best to shake off the rain, and then hung it up.

Then he sat down in front of the pile of orders he was fighting with for most of the three days and started work. He was sure that it would only take an extra night to interrupt work, and he found it easier to concentrate instead of typing and typing frequently.

He wrapped the ham in whole wheat with extra mayonnaise and settled down at night.

It is nine o'clock.

Mahogany dressed up for the night shift. He was wearing his usual sober suit and tie. The tie was neatly knotted. Silver cufflinks (a gift from his first wife) were placed on a neat shirt. His thin hair was shiny, and his nails were polished. Polished, face filled with cologne.

His bag has been packed. Towels, musical instruments and his chain apron.

He checked his appearance in the mirror. He believed that he could still be taken outside by a forty-five and fifty-year-old man.

When he investigated his face, he reminded himself of his duty. First, he must be careful. He will watch him every step of the way, watch his performance tonight and judge him. He must go out like an innocent person without arousing any suspicion.

If they only knew, he thought. People walking, running, and jumping over him in the street: collided with him without apologizing: looked at him: smiling awkwardly, wearing a suit that didn't fit. If they knew what he did, what he was and what he was carrying.

He talked to himself and turned off the light. The apartment is dark. He walked to the door and opened it, accustomed to walking in the dark. Be happy.

The rain clouds have been completely cleared. Mahogany traveled along the Amsterdam subway towards 145th Street. Tonight, he will take the American Avenue again, which is his favorite route and usually the most efficient route.

Walk along the path steps, holding the token in your hand. Pass through automatic doors. The smell of the tunnel was now in his nostrils. Of course there is no smell of deep tunnels. They have their own smell. But even in the old electric air of this shallow line there is a guarantee. In this Warren, the reflux breathing of a million passengers circulated, mixed with the breathing of ancient creatures; the sound was as soft as mud, and the appetite was annoying. How he loves it. Smell, darkness, thunder.

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