The Pizza Delivery
By
Andy Horvath
For the past five years Logan had his game face on every Halloween night. It was the restaurant's busiest night of the year, right there with the Super Bowl. On the final leg of his last back-to-back, he was satisfied with the money he made on the night, eclipsing well over a hundred dollars in tips. It was one thirty in the morning and the restaurant closed at two. The chance of him squeezing in another delivery before the night was over was nonexistent, so he took his time driving to the last house.
He turned off the main road onto a much darker one. The GPS on his phone glowed brightly inside the cabin of the car. Aphyllous trees hemmed in a narrow road with no sidewalks, only mailboxes and the beginnings of extensively long driveways that cut deeper into the woods. Those long driveways snaked towards freakishly large homes, for Logan had eminently made it to the rich part of town. Somebody must've been hosting a Halloween party, because his delivery consisted of five pizzas, three sides, two desserts, and three two-liter bottles of soda. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for Logan to be on the receiving end of a very generous tip.
The GPS took him further into the woods. There were no street lights. The mansions were tough to see from the road because they were coated in darkness and obstructed by all the sharp trees surrounding them.
After another half mile Logan finally made it to the house, which happened to be the last house at the end of the road, where a dead end with woods beyond it expanded as far as the eye could see.
He pulled into the residence, snailing up a cobblestone driveway that sliced through the trees. At the end of the drive was a two-story mansion with many luxurious cars parked in front. There was an Escalade, a Lamborghini, several models of Mercedes, a McLaren, a BMW, a pearly white Audi, and even a Rolls-Royce. Bricks spotted burgundy and brown, the facade of the mansion was symmetrical and shutterless. Identical bay windows folded on either side of the front door, which was painted blood-red with a golden knocker. One of the bay windows emitted a soft-yellow light, while through the other, judging by the bouncing blue glow, it looked as if a television might have been on. Arched windows stretched across the second story, all of them with their lights off. A steep roof had a chimney poking out of it.
Logan blocked in several vehicles as he parked behind their bumpers. When he got out of the car he smelled the pleasant aroma of burning leaves. He reached into the backseat and took out two insulated bags that the pizza and sides had been stored in. He decided it would be easiest to make two trips out of it, so he left the desserts and soda bottles behind.
All the lavish cars sparkled in the night. Stone ledges flanked a set of stone steps that carried him up the porch. A post-it note had been taped over the front door. He squinted as he read the squiggly handwriting: Please bring pizza to the backyard.
He went back down steps. On his way across the lawn he glanced into one of the bay windows. A lamp on a wooden desk illuminated the recess in a soft, yellow light. A bookshelf as tall as the ceiling hugged a wall, stretching down to a limestone fireplace that faced a purple couch. The painting of a colonial man wearing a dusty wig eyed Logan with a perpetual smirk.
Instead of rounding the house and going to the backyard, he doubled back across the front porch and crept towards the other bay window. There was no rhyme or reason for his sneaky behavior, he'd just never seen the inside of a mansion in person.
He was looking into a family room with two couches and a coffee table. A mantel was adorned with baseballs inside cubed cases and a wooden bat lying on its side. Mounted on the wall above it, a plasma screen television pulsed, showing a man and a woman sitting behind a large desk in a news broadcasting studio.
A naked man lay on the floor. He was tethered to one leg of the couch by a leash fastened around his neck, and he certainly wasn't dead. Nor did he seem to be in any sort of distress. On his stomach, forearms cushioning his chin, it looked as if he was sleeping peacefully. How one could sleep soundly in a position so unorthodox was beyond Logan, but there he was. And while he slept, he had a thin smile on his face.
Goosebumps peppered Logan's arms and legs. His desire to snoop around the house had ceased entirely. What was going on here must've been one of those weird sex parties where men got off role playing as dogs.
Quickly he diverted away from the window, not wanting to be spotted. His heart was hammering as he went around the house on brittle legs. The smell of burning leaves grew stronger as he rounded to the backyard. The first thing he saw was a bonfire shooting up flames, encircled by a congregation of lawn chairs.
Occupying the lawn chairs were various breeds of dogs.
They were all mid to large sized dogs. They sat in the chairs just like humans do, only the paws to their front and hind legs dangled in the air. Staying in the shadows beneath an overhanging deck, Logan spotted a golden retriever in a red dress and a German shepherd in a turtleneck sweater. A bloodhound in a tuxedo wearing spectacles. A rottweiler in a black dress with pearls around its thick neck and a great dane that wore khaki pants and a baggy collared shirt. A chocolate lab with a blanket wrapped around its shoulders and a poodle in a sleeveless blouse with its curly hair knotted at the top of its skull.
Situated in the dry grass around the fire were more naked humans, men and women alike. Some of them were bound by leashes and some of them weren't, but they all had dog collars around their necks.
One woman lay on her stomach just as the man inside the home had, her arms providing a pillow for her chin as she sleepily stared into the fire. The old Bloodhound had a leash wrapped around its wrist. A man pushing sixty years old was on the ground at the foot of the lawn chair. Reared on his haunches, hands planted in the grass to keep him steady, he begged the hound with his eyes. Two women were asleep right next to each other, sprawled on their sides with their arms and legs splayed out and no cushioning for their heads. Another man flat on his back had his limbs shot straight out into the air. His head was tilted to the side. His lips twitched as his hands and feet pedalled the air dreamily.
The eeriest thing about it wasn't the strangeness of it all. It was the fact that everybody around the firepit was dead silent.
There were more naked adults prowling around in the yard, where the orange glow from the fire was more faint.
Two men rough-housed with each other. On all fours they dashed back and forth, running like clumsy bears. A woman lounging on her flank licked the back of her hand. Where the yard met the treeline, a man crouched on his heels was taking a stoic shit. A shadow on all fours crept up to him in the process. The man relieving himself started sniffing the shadow's head. Not bothering to wait for the man to finish, the curious shadow dipped its nose near the fresh pile, then it started eating it.
Several of the dogs sitting in the chairs had their heads cocked, their nostrils dilating profusely as they sniffed pizza in the air.
Trembling, Logan decided it was time to turn back. He'd seen enough. He had no idea who he'd even hand all the food to, so he would just leave it on the front porch. The order was already paid for online, anyway. Fuck the tip.
The bloodhound's head snapped sideways. Its rheumy eyes connected with his. Logan's heart hitched in his throat when the dog stood up from the chair. The man beseeched at the dog's feet looked around, confused. The bloodhound's bipedal gait was all bow-legged, but it covered ground quicker than Logan expected.
And it was coming right for him.
He dropped the pizzas. His heart raced as he whipped around and hauled ass for the car. Just as he was making it to the front yard, he chanced a glance in his wake.
A swarm of naked men and women spilled around the corner. They were sprinting on their two feet, had dropped the dog acts entirely. Their arms flailed wildly over their heads and their eyes were wide in a hungered craze. They grunted and snorted as they chased him. One woman in the pack let out a shrill war cry that nearly made Logan's knees buckle beneath him, but he kept going.
His car was in sight. That piece of shit jalopy had never looked so beautiful.
He was within several feet of it, then an impact from behind propelled him forward. Head first he crashed into the front bumper. His teeth split his lip and he could taste tangy blood.
Then they were on him. He tried swatting them away, but they were in too much of a frenzy. They whooped and giggled as strong hands pressed Logan's temple down on the cobblestone drive. The pressure exerted on his skull was ruthless. Somebody tucked a collar beneath his neck and buckled it, awfully tight on his airways. Then they began stomping on his feet, a stampede of blows that crunched and twisted his ankles. Black gnats invaded his vision and a shattering pain had both of his legs vibrating. He was out of breath and unable to fight back. There were too many of them, and he was on the verge of passing out.
Then the assault stopped. He never noticed the leash that had been clipped to the collar around his neck. His face turned blue and his eyes bulged when somebody pulled on it with all their weight. He readjusted his positioning on the ground to add some slack to the leash and looked around through blurred vision. The naked maniacs surrounded him. One man's lips and cheeks were caked with feces. Lots of hitched breathing and wheezing, lots of puffing chests and loony grins. They all looked at him as if he was going to be a delicious dinner.
The tugging on his neck was relentless. He wouldn't allow himself to be strangled to death or his neck to snap. He had no choice but to crawl along with the tide, for his legs were mangled and inoperable. Nobody spoke as the group shepherded him up the drive.
They dragged him into the house, through the front door.
Andy Horvath lives in an apartment right outside of Chicago with his girlfriend, along with their mischievous dog and cat. Born just ten days before Halloween, he considers October the best month of the year. He has worked in retail, sales, labor, and has spent much of his life operating a forklift. He is currently working on a novel.
By
Andy Horvath
For the past five years Logan had his game face on every Halloween night. It was the restaurant's busiest night of the year, right there with the Super Bowl. On the final leg of his last back-to-back, he was satisfied with the money he made on the night, eclipsing well over a hundred dollars in tips. It was one thirty in the morning and the restaurant closed at two. The chance of him squeezing in another delivery before the night was over was nonexistent, so he took his time driving to the last house.
He turned off the main road onto a much darker one. The GPS on his phone glowed brightly inside the cabin of the car. Aphyllous trees hemmed in a narrow road with no sidewalks, only mailboxes and the beginnings of extensively long driveways that cut deeper into the woods. Those long driveways snaked towards freakishly large homes, for Logan had eminently made it to the rich part of town. Somebody must've been hosting a Halloween party, because his delivery consisted of five pizzas, three sides, two desserts, and three two-liter bottles of soda. It seemed like the perfect opportunity for Logan to be on the receiving end of a very generous tip.
The GPS took him further into the woods. There were no street lights. The mansions were tough to see from the road because they were coated in darkness and obstructed by all the sharp trees surrounding them.
After another half mile Logan finally made it to the house, which happened to be the last house at the end of the road, where a dead end with woods beyond it expanded as far as the eye could see.
He pulled into the residence, snailing up a cobblestone driveway that sliced through the trees. At the end of the drive was a two-story mansion with many luxurious cars parked in front. There was an Escalade, a Lamborghini, several models of Mercedes, a McLaren, a BMW, a pearly white Audi, and even a Rolls-Royce. Bricks spotted burgundy and brown, the facade of the mansion was symmetrical and shutterless. Identical bay windows folded on either side of the front door, which was painted blood-red with a golden knocker. One of the bay windows emitted a soft-yellow light, while through the other, judging by the bouncing blue glow, it looked as if a television might have been on. Arched windows stretched across the second story, all of them with their lights off. A steep roof had a chimney poking out of it.
Logan blocked in several vehicles as he parked behind their bumpers. When he got out of the car he smelled the pleasant aroma of burning leaves. He reached into the backseat and took out two insulated bags that the pizza and sides had been stored in. He decided it would be easiest to make two trips out of it, so he left the desserts and soda bottles behind.
All the lavish cars sparkled in the night. Stone ledges flanked a set of stone steps that carried him up the porch. A post-it note had been taped over the front door. He squinted as he read the squiggly handwriting: Please bring pizza to the backyard.
He went back down steps. On his way across the lawn he glanced into one of the bay windows. A lamp on a wooden desk illuminated the recess in a soft, yellow light. A bookshelf as tall as the ceiling hugged a wall, stretching down to a limestone fireplace that faced a purple couch. The painting of a colonial man wearing a dusty wig eyed Logan with a perpetual smirk.
Instead of rounding the house and going to the backyard, he doubled back across the front porch and crept towards the other bay window. There was no rhyme or reason for his sneaky behavior, he'd just never seen the inside of a mansion in person.
He was looking into a family room with two couches and a coffee table. A mantel was adorned with baseballs inside cubed cases and a wooden bat lying on its side. Mounted on the wall above it, a plasma screen television pulsed, showing a man and a woman sitting behind a large desk in a news broadcasting studio.
A naked man lay on the floor. He was tethered to one leg of the couch by a leash fastened around his neck, and he certainly wasn't dead. Nor did he seem to be in any sort of distress. On his stomach, forearms cushioning his chin, it looked as if he was sleeping peacefully. How one could sleep soundly in a position so unorthodox was beyond Logan, but there he was. And while he slept, he had a thin smile on his face.
Goosebumps peppered Logan's arms and legs. His desire to snoop around the house had ceased entirely. What was going on here must've been one of those weird sex parties where men got off role playing as dogs.
Quickly he diverted away from the window, not wanting to be spotted. His heart was hammering as he went around the house on brittle legs. The smell of burning leaves grew stronger as he rounded to the backyard. The first thing he saw was a bonfire shooting up flames, encircled by a congregation of lawn chairs.
Occupying the lawn chairs were various breeds of dogs.
They were all mid to large sized dogs. They sat in the chairs just like humans do, only the paws to their front and hind legs dangled in the air. Staying in the shadows beneath an overhanging deck, Logan spotted a golden retriever in a red dress and a German shepherd in a turtleneck sweater. A bloodhound in a tuxedo wearing spectacles. A rottweiler in a black dress with pearls around its thick neck and a great dane that wore khaki pants and a baggy collared shirt. A chocolate lab with a blanket wrapped around its shoulders and a poodle in a sleeveless blouse with its curly hair knotted at the top of its skull.
Situated in the dry grass around the fire were more naked humans, men and women alike. Some of them were bound by leashes and some of them weren't, but they all had dog collars around their necks.
One woman lay on her stomach just as the man inside the home had, her arms providing a pillow for her chin as she sleepily stared into the fire. The old Bloodhound had a leash wrapped around its wrist. A man pushing sixty years old was on the ground at the foot of the lawn chair. Reared on his haunches, hands planted in the grass to keep him steady, he begged the hound with his eyes. Two women were asleep right next to each other, sprawled on their sides with their arms and legs splayed out and no cushioning for their heads. Another man flat on his back had his limbs shot straight out into the air. His head was tilted to the side. His lips twitched as his hands and feet pedalled the air dreamily.
The eeriest thing about it wasn't the strangeness of it all. It was the fact that everybody around the firepit was dead silent.
There were more naked adults prowling around in the yard, where the orange glow from the fire was more faint.
Two men rough-housed with each other. On all fours they dashed back and forth, running like clumsy bears. A woman lounging on her flank licked the back of her hand. Where the yard met the treeline, a man crouched on his heels was taking a stoic shit. A shadow on all fours crept up to him in the process. The man relieving himself started sniffing the shadow's head. Not bothering to wait for the man to finish, the curious shadow dipped its nose near the fresh pile, then it started eating it.
Several of the dogs sitting in the chairs had their heads cocked, their nostrils dilating profusely as they sniffed pizza in the air.
Trembling, Logan decided it was time to turn back. He'd seen enough. He had no idea who he'd even hand all the food to, so he would just leave it on the front porch. The order was already paid for online, anyway. Fuck the tip.
The bloodhound's head snapped sideways. Its rheumy eyes connected with his. Logan's heart hitched in his throat when the dog stood up from the chair. The man beseeched at the dog's feet looked around, confused. The bloodhound's bipedal gait was all bow-legged, but it covered ground quicker than Logan expected.
And it was coming right for him.
He dropped the pizzas. His heart raced as he whipped around and hauled ass for the car. Just as he was making it to the front yard, he chanced a glance in his wake.
A swarm of naked men and women spilled around the corner. They were sprinting on their two feet, had dropped the dog acts entirely. Their arms flailed wildly over their heads and their eyes were wide in a hungered craze. They grunted and snorted as they chased him. One woman in the pack let out a shrill war cry that nearly made Logan's knees buckle beneath him, but he kept going.
His car was in sight. That piece of shit jalopy had never looked so beautiful.
He was within several feet of it, then an impact from behind propelled him forward. Head first he crashed into the front bumper. His teeth split his lip and he could taste tangy blood.
Then they were on him. He tried swatting them away, but they were in too much of a frenzy. They whooped and giggled as strong hands pressed Logan's temple down on the cobblestone drive. The pressure exerted on his skull was ruthless. Somebody tucked a collar beneath his neck and buckled it, awfully tight on his airways. Then they began stomping on his feet, a stampede of blows that crunched and twisted his ankles. Black gnats invaded his vision and a shattering pain had both of his legs vibrating. He was out of breath and unable to fight back. There were too many of them, and he was on the verge of passing out.
Then the assault stopped. He never noticed the leash that had been clipped to the collar around his neck. His face turned blue and his eyes bulged when somebody pulled on it with all their weight. He readjusted his positioning on the ground to add some slack to the leash and looked around through blurred vision. The naked maniacs surrounded him. One man's lips and cheeks were caked with feces. Lots of hitched breathing and wheezing, lots of puffing chests and loony grins. They all looked at him as if he was going to be a delicious dinner.
The tugging on his neck was relentless. He wouldn't allow himself to be strangled to death or his neck to snap. He had no choice but to crawl along with the tide, for his legs were mangled and inoperable. Nobody spoke as the group shepherded him up the drive.
They dragged him into the house, through the front door.
Andy Horvath lives in an apartment right outside of Chicago with his girlfriend, along with their mischievous dog and cat. Born just ten days before Halloween, he considers October the best month of the year. He has worked in retail, sales, labor, and has spent much of his life operating a forklift. He is currently working on a novel.
