No Tricks for Good Boys [+18]

Tricks

Pete had spent three whole weeks telling anyone with ears about his Halloween party plans. It was going to be "the Halloween event of the century," the big show, he was sure about it.

A haunted house setup, a fog machine, and a gallon of fake blood. Basically, the ultimate experience—one that would put Disneyland's Haunted Mansion to shame. Pete never liked Disneyland's Haunted Mansion.

But here was the problem: his big plans got canceled. His friend Porsche—the one who was supposed to lend Pete his 300-square-meter mansion he shared with his ridiculously rich boyfriend—came down with mono. Yeah, the kissing disease. Pete didn't even have to ask how that happened.

That's why Pete found himself slouched over the sad little table in the break room, stirring his coffee lazily and sulking about how unfair life was, about how his friend Porsche was such a walking cliché, and how he was now going to spend his favorite night of the year sprawled on his couch watching Hocus Pocus for the twentieth time. Alone. Eating the candy he was supposed to give out to trick-or-treaters.

No treats for the naughty kids this year, he thought, taking another pathetic gulp of his now room temperature coffee.

Pete is officially the brand coordinator at a marketing agency, which, in plain English, means he's in charge of coming up with "big, bold ideas" for clients who wouldn't know bold if it hit them straight in the face. His job is to make dull and boring brands look cool usually by creating campaigns and enough hashtags to make anyone dizzy. According to his boss, he's the "creative spark" of the team.

According to Pete, he's just the guy who has to keep reinventing new ways to make tomato soup sound trendy and Pinterestable. And Pete always hated tomato soup.

He spends half his time brainstorming, finding very avant-garde ideas and talk about it to his manager. And the other half presenting to clients who nod along but, actually, don't understand anything at all.

His favorite part of the job? When he comes home. Which means basically never, he even has his own little folding bed by the coffee machine. The rest of the team jokes that he's basically the company's resident "mad scientist" minus the lab coat and test tubes—though honestly, he wouldn't mind a lab coat. Pete kind of have a thing for lab coats. And people who wears them.

Sure, on paper, his job sounded glamorous and at least he didn't have to worry about money. But this Halloween party had been his one and only chance to blow off some steam after months of non-stop work and sacrifices. He'd been planning it for weeks, building it up in his mind like a kid waiting for Christmas, which just made the disappointment that much worse.

"Don't tell me you're still depressed over this Halloween nonsense," a voice coming from the doorway slightly snapped Pete out his thoughts.

Pete looked up to see Arm walking in with that half-smirk, half-facial-paralysis expression that tend to drive him crazy. Arm made his way to the coffee machine, looking completely unaffected by the tragic loss of Pete's Halloween plans.

"You just don't get it," Pete muttered, slumping his head back onto his crossed arms.

"What's there to get?" Arm said, not bothering to look at Pete, focused instead on filling his stupid mug with the dumbbell-shaped handle and "Do you even lift, bro?" inscription on the front, the one that made Pete's teeth itch. His own mug, a gift from his grandma, was pink and cute with a cat face and said "I meow you." Much more reasonable.

"It's just another way for the government to push us into consumerism, you know that, right?" Arm added, like he was delivering his own coffee break TED talk.

Pete blinked.

"We literally work in a marketing agency," he deadpanned.

Arm paused, lifting his head like the revelation just hit him in the face, then shrugged it off.