TREAT

                            by

                        C. Lakewood

                  _________________________
                 |                         |
		 |	HOSMER BLOTE       |
		 | Assistant Floor Manager |
                 |_________________________|


    He looked at the badge with disgust...as usual.  He was 41 
years old and had hated his name since he was old enough to 
realize just how grotesque it was.  Back when he was younger, 
he'd been determined to change it and, four times, had painfully 
scrimped until he'd saved almost enough to hire a lawyer and pay 
the court costs.  But, each time, some catastrophe had intervened, 
draining his savings and his hopes.

    After the fourth time, he'd decided he was basically doomed and 
had quit trying.

    He glanced again at the badge.  "Assistant Floor Manager"!  One 
promotion in 18 years at Frink & Son -- and a paltry one at that.  
He'd been assistant floor manager nine years ago when William  
Axford had been hired as a salesman.  And now Axford was sales 
manager....

    Dropping the badge on the table, beside the big, candy-filled 
glass bowl, he sighed at the insignificant noise it made -- 
"insignificant," how appropriate.  He pulled off the cheap, clip-on 
tie and began unbuttoning the white shirt that was beginning to 
fray at collar and cuffs.  The discount store black shoes and the 
grey polyester trousers followed, and he turned to the scarecrow 
costume laid out on the couch.

		******************************

    "I've got this party to go to," Axford had said.  "And a really 
hot-to-trot date, too -- just what I need after all the divorce 
shit.  Geez!  I'll be SO fucking glad when it's finally settled.  
(That damned bitch, Grace!  Fortunately, my lawyer's better than 
hers, and we'll nail her to the wall.)  But I got a Halloween 
tradition to maintain.  Picture this: on the porch a big bowl 
filled with miniature candy bars of all sorts, next to a dummy, 
dressed like a scarecrow with a jack-o-lantern head, slumped in a 
chair.  When a kid is concentrating on the candy, the "dummy" -- 
me -- jumps up and shrieks...scares the bejesus out of the little 
bastards....  Sometimes they even crap themselves."  He chuckled.  
You'll have to sit in for me; we're pretty much the same size, so 
you should have no trouble wearing the costume."

    "But won't that trick work only one year?" Hosmer had asked.

    "Nah.  Of course the kids who've been there before know what's 
gonna happen, but they hang back and let the little kids screw 
themselves.  It's hilarious.  Anyway, I'm taking the afternoon off. 
Here's a key to my front door.  I've laid everything out in the 
front room, but you should get there by about 6:30, so you'll have 
time to change and set the scene...."

		******************************

    It wasn't a request -- or even an order -- it was merely an 
assumption.  There had once been a time when that wouldn't have 
been tolerated.


    Hosmer could occasionally remember the days when he still had 
ambition and energy and self-esteem, but those memories were 
becoming rarer and rarer, gathering mainly at night as he lay tired 
but sleepless in his stuffy little efficiency apartment.  He was 
afraid, however, that, one day, they'd stop entirely.  For, as 
down as they made him feel, he knew that he'd be truly a hollow 
man without them.

		******************************

    He put on the long-sleeved plaid shirt, the bib overalls, the 
clodhopper shoes, and the white gardening gloves.  The plastic 
jack-o-lantern slid down neatly over his own head.  Axford had 
been right; everything was a good fit.

    He carried the bowl of candy out to the front porch, turned the 
house lights off and the porch light on, and sank down into the 
rump-sprung old chair, where he sprawled motionless.  So far, 
everything was according to plan.  But what he was NOT going to do, 
however, was scare the crap out of a bunch of little kids.  He'd 
remain silent and motionless -- like a good dummy -- as they came 
and went.  

    He yawned.  The chair, though dilapidated, was comfortable.  He 
wondered how long it would be...before they...the kids...started 
arriving.... 

		******************************

    The porch light going out roused him from his doze.  Squinting 
through the pumpkin mask, he made out a female form outlined 
against the feeble glow of the distant street lamp.  She crouched down in front of him, unfastened his overalls, and fished out his 
hardening prick.  

    "It's Grace, Billy-boy.  I'm here to make this a memorable 
Halloween for you...the last one before the divorce is final."  
Before Hosmer could say a word, she sucked up his erection, and, 
once she'd begun working on it with lips and tongue, he was 
utterly speechless.  It must have gone on for half an hour; every 
time he got close to an orgasm, she'd squeeze him, even bite him 
lightly, to slow things down.  And, all the while, she was moaning 
and mewling....

    At last, she relented, and he filled her mouth to capacity.  
She scrambled to her feet and spit over the porch railing.  "There, 
you bastard!  That's the best blow job you've ever had...and 
the last you'll ever get from me.  Something to remember me 
by...something to long for the rest of your miserable life."

    She stalked off, and Hosmer, still speechless, watched her go.

		******************************

    Some minutes later, as he was changing clothes, and re-playing 
it all in his mind, and feeling more alive than he had in years, 
an axiom from some long-ago political science course suddenly 
blossomed in his brain: "The enemy of my enemy is my friend."

    "Food for thought," he smiled.  He even allowed himself to 
contemplate the future.