Recalling Halloween

As I recall Halloween this year, I cannot help but laugh quietly to myself. The party that I went to required a fancy dress appropriate for the occasion. Since lately I have been gradually more and more convinced that Life imitates Art rather than vice versa, I decided to opt out for this new chic conviction of mine by eschewing any sort of particularly fancy dress for the sake of natural charm. I simply jumped into an accommodating, dark suit with an ink-blue shirt, and used some black face paint to highlight the area around my eyes, giving me a 'darker' look. All that I was left with was the hope that if not scary, I would at least be...eye-catching in a way...

Well the party hall was too dark anyway - I should have anticipated that prior to my sudden, sharp, stinging disappointment. Either way, what I want to briefly point to here is a rather humorous (in relative terms) exchange between me and this girl. When she first saw me in this suit, dark and smart, she was unsurprisingly puzzled and thus inquired as to why I had chosen this particular form of dress. Well, actually it was a straightforward, crass 'what's this got to do with Halloween?', to which I most sharply replied that I am actually meant to be Satan.
A look of incredulity swam across her face.
'I am Al Pacino from The Devil's Advocate,' I duly added, before fate had the oportunity to situate my being in-between hopelesness and boredom.
'Oh, right', was her casual reply, accompanied by a laugh of recognition. 'But how is that meant to be scary, I mean you just look too...sophisticated for the Devil', she inquired further.
'Too sophisticated?', I retorted.
'Yeah', she said, 'you shouldn't be that sophisticated'.
'But then I would be God...merely,' I added, sharpening my eyebrows and smiling a sinister smile. In the end I laughed considerably more than her, but whose fault was that, I would leave in the hands of the reader to master the gist of - I cannot myself decide in favour of anything concrete. Ultimately, perhaps my adulterous wit swiftly supplied me with a pair of horns which I was hitherto short of. Come to think about it - who cuckolded the Devil himself and gave him a pair horns to wear for an eternity? It wasn't his Wit, for he is the Red-Bull, the Lucozade of wit itself in fact.
I'll tell you who it was: his legion of imitators who write at night, and of night, and reinvent him constantly.

P.S. That includes Myself et Al.