The mask goes over the snout. The smock goes over the fur. Everybody on Chestnut Street tells him what a wonderful getup it is and hands over the good candy, and nobody runs and nobody telephones anybody, which is the entire point of the exercise.
The trouble is the moon comes up at 7:40 and the good houses do not start until eight.
So there he stands on the corner in a plastic mask of his own face, holding a pillowcase, waiting on the change to finish so the evening can get going like a normal person's.
The smock is flame retardant. The elastic has gone twice.
And the mask fogs. Nobody ever warns you that the mask fogs. Now image what it's like for a wolfman!
