Potatoe Head.

He reached for the high crevasse inside his cave for the pot.1

Kris new only that without honoring this ancient way of providing his noble rite would he and Kit get to enjoy another week in the grace of Shango the dark son of the white cloth. He'd always headed the warnings of burying his brother beneath the oldest tree that Yoruba folk law provided. But the problem this year was who would slaughter the bull. His twin brother knew of the spell but Kris had not yet informed him of the logistics.2

Kit shouted " Are you awake yet, is it not a miracle that this day you choose to quake in fear at the fright of the future, the past and family can you so be afraid of secrets" then he began tapping his left leg around the outside fire the cold air whispering violets rhapsody's thus pinking the cinders of burning rose wood, that seemed to sparkle inside the flames of change like phosphorus it took to the air. Kit cut the air with the cutlass bone wrapped in the red and white ivory beads, patented and filled with plastic and the elasticized bridle chain sprung with re cycled rubber bands from the post office.3

Meanwhile the pot now placed upon the alter of the dining room cave began to become opened for the first time in twelve months, inside that rubber looking heart with a paper message pinned to the side sprinkled in Dust. Bruce Springsteen blasted in the back ground ...4

"I used to dream of you last night boy..." Kris admired the family pot etched in floral flowers that seemed appropriate as Halloween and this stone artifact imitation purchased in Hamley’s seemed to incase his soul well enough to charge Chris and Kit with the Chaotic faith they'd always requested, and Mr. potato head watched away with glee.5

His cowry shell eyes seemed to wince with glee and the stone face shine from the Olive oil splashed upon his smooth natural form seemed satisfied, what with a green lollipop, some green copper coins and a message etched in Yoruba that neither Kris nor Kit fully understood.6

Kit had seen the slaughter two years previous of a slug so big that even he knew not of such things.7

He also knew of the consequences of getting it wrong or exposing himself to the fear of all the rubbish accumulating over a month of sofa sinking, for Kris and Kit would sit and watch free view TV day in and day out, ever since their mother purchased a pack of playing cards from Madame Dupré over the internet.8

Learn how to predict the numbers of Nation Lottery's and look to the cards for the signs, then put your money where your mouth is. There mother used to put up her £38 weekly check on the pound a shot lottery, Kris knew not of fighting with Kit for they were to busy spending child hating mommy, until she won of course, this left the twins with an empty house enough money to party and plenty of trash accumulated from the internet supermarket jibe.9

Kit sat in his usual chair that had been thrown out the window months ago prior to a crazy party and all those body pierced tattooed party chicks they met around the bar next the local 7/11 grocery store. As he sank into the contoured leather he began to admire his handy work the cinders began to relax and the colorful wind synchrony of time seemed to melt in moulds of Octobers yield. Suddenly a scream came from the pebbled studio crypt “AAAAAAhhhhhhhhhh”, cried the screeching banging sound of a retro Sigue Sigue sputnik punk sound or so it could’ve been the same girls who crashed the party all those weeks before.10

Kit contemplated sharing his beers then in the nick of time like a banshee the yielding chicks waded into the brothers front garden, Kit almost possessed by the East end Yard stick of old, approached the girls with his hands in his pockets swaying from side to side, " Bruv, bruv... Pop Pop Pop " and " mind the magnolia's yeh know" so the girls took this as a sign to go but instead began laughing and chanting, "You Muppet” You fuckin Muppet A) there not magnolia's there crap chrysanthemums and we ain’t chicks, you get me".11

Meanwhile Kris had covered Mr. Potato head with petals prior to honoring his potted soul with prayer and swiftly placing the pot back up on the shelf. being appropriately kind to his expensive magic friend Mr. Potato head so as not too rock the magnesium head nor agitate the nutmeg shavings of a small crinkly cobbled gift from the Priest, Kris thought of his Catholic mother in Spain getting knobble’d by the South coast waiter, then dismissed the notion in the glimmer of getting it on with the rock chicks.12

"Kit leave that fuckin slug alone" Kris cried as he mossified into the vulva sidings of love, happy that this Halloween he was not going to wallow in poxy rituals and was hoping to party till the cows came home.
13