Waggle

Midnight on Halloween, drunk off tequila and bourbon, they laughed and shushed themselves to the iron gate of the old cemetery. Skip opened it and glanced back.

“You gonna chicken out?”

“Fuck you,” Pete shoved him. “How do you know there’s an open grave?”

“Old man Fielding died. He’ll be buried tomorrow. Grave was dug today.”

“It’s pitch black,” Pete whispered, “how can you see?”

“Shhh,” Skip replied, stopping short. “Here it is.”

Pete peered into the hole. “How will I get out?”

“You won’t,” Skip growled, knocking him in the head with a shovel. “Now who’s the starting QB?"