The Legend of Sleepy Mephisto
Knock, knock. “Trick or treat!” shouted Mephisto, from the path to the porch. The lawn was immaculate, the brown grass freshly shorn to match every other house on the street. A low wall of desiccated hedges ringed the house, ostensibly to keep out the riffraff.
There were surprisingly few ways to wind up condemned to Hell; the big ones being delighting in the toil of your fellow man, placing oneself above God, or chairing a homeowners association (which was also referred to as ‘the trifecta’). This deep in infernal suburbia only the most ruthless of subcommittees could rule, and the punishments meted out for an unkempt bush made even Hell’s chief nipple-twister blush.
On reaching the door he knocked again, firmer this time. The eye flap flipped up and down, barely letting an excited giggle escape. Candlelight flickered behind the debauched scene carved into pumpkin, depicting what could only be described as a one man orgy. A live spider dangled from a web overlooking the well manicured hedgerows, swinging perilously close to some fat plastic grubs that lined the rail of the porch.
Mephisto knocked for a third and final time.
The door creaked open and a couple stepped out from the gloom.
On the right was a woman so lovely to look upon that her mere reflection in a mirror might be considered idolatry by the great Judge in the sky - which made it convenient that she was a vampire. Her fangs glinted in the dim light of the raunchy pumpkin, hard and sharp and eager. Her nipples, beneath the diaphanous white silk of her filmy dress, mirrored his cock behind his trenchcoat; hard and sharp, and so very eager.
On the left was… well, in the absence of mirrors it had to be her twin sister, identical in every way except for a black gown of spidersilk. Mephisto was suddenly envious of her dressmaker, whose eight nimble hands must have explored her body like an octuplet of teenage spelunkers on a charity climb for hemiplegic speedcubers.
Oh, the things he could do to her with a measuring tape and pins in his mouth…
The sister in white looked him up and down as if trying to place his costume. In a trenchcoat and nothing else, he must have looked like the first act of a back alley mugging.
The sister in black asked, similarly confused, “An wha t’you mean to-be?” His heart twanged like a banjo in the moonshine at the delightful twill of her southern accent, a common trait of their vampire kind - after all, where better to hide a red neck or two?
Without further ado, Mephisto let his trenchcoat fall to the floor. Their eyes swept down his body, their smiles growing as they went. Finally they met with his cock, a pound of flesh that had more in common with a side of beef than the average man-dangle. Except this butcher had been loose with his cleaver, and the end terminated not in a bulbous head but in a flat void a mere fifteen inches from his grapefruit bag of a nutsack.
Before the sisters could lose their wits entirely, the meaty head of his cock floated up to his side - propelled by some force unseen and entirely separate from its girthy throne. He leaned an elbow against it and proclaimed, “But why, I am the headless whoresman!” Then, brandishing his most magnificent grin, he repeated, “Trick, or treat?”
As one the sisters glanced to each other. “Treat!”