Brigid just stood, rigid, blinking. Greg had on an almost cartoon-yellow safari outfit, including pith helmet, a huge false handlebar moustache, and had a monocle in one eye. He was also inexplicably carrying a length of lead pipe.
“What the…?” she managed to get out.
“I say, what!” Greg chirped brazenly. “I suggest that it was you, Miss Scarlet, in the Conservatory, with the Avacado Dip, what, what!”
“I think my brain just exploded,” was all she could say.
“Hey,” he asked in his slightly-less-chirpy normal voice. “Where’s your costume?”
“I don’t do costumes,” said Brigid, frowning.
“What? What do you mean? It’s Halloween, everybody does costumes!”
“Fine, I’m dressed as a stressed-out yuppie.”
“Gah,” said Greg. “That is so lame. Don’t cop out! You need a proper costume! Who goes to a Halloween Party with no costume?”
“I don’t like costumes!” she said, her voice rising in irritation. “I hate drawing attention to myself like that. Forget it, no way!”
“But if everybody has a costume but you, won’t that draw attention to you, as being the only one with no costume?”
She closed her eyes and shook her head, as if trying to ward off a bad dream. “Stop it, you’re going to fry what few synapses I have left.”
“Fine,” he said, disappointment weighing down his voice. “Tell you what, we’ll get you some brown bags to wear, and you can go dressed as a poop.”
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