A worn, greying male stepped up to a mirror, taking a good look at the deep, bluish bags under his eyes, the red veins around his irises, and the deep frown on his wrinkled face. He lifted a single hand to his forehead and slid it down, feeling every last one of his wrinkles pulling against it as it passed down to his pointy chin.

Ever heard the expression "You look like the living dead"?

Yeah-heh, that's how he looked every morning nowadays.

But it wasn't always like that.

His name was Jack Bushwhacker IV… and he had a tortured childhood.

"Hey, do any good Jack-in' lately?"

"You ever hear the story of Jack and Jill? Heh, more like Jack and Jizz! Am I right?"

"Why use hedge trimmers when you can whack 'em bushes just like good ol' Jackie here?"

From his earliest moments…

Jack Bushwhacker III holds up his son to the very heavens, proclaiming loudly out the hospital window, "Look at this gangly behemoth between his one-day-old legs, ye world! Worship his pure Aryan rod!"

To his fifth birthday party…

Little Susie, Mary Anne, and Lizzie were giggling in a corner. Poor little Jack had a rattler in his shorts and he didn't even notice it! They waited five whole minutes to see if he'd get bitten before moving on to the next life-changing gossip.

To his first high school dance…

Little Susie wasn't so little anymore, as her plump melons pressed hard against Jack's thin chest in a wanton display of seduction. The couple were slow dancing when she gasped in outrage and smacked his shoulder. "Get your hand off my hip! My mother is right over there!"

He looked at her with a bored face and sighed. "It's not my hand…"

She bit her lip harshly as she looked down with wide eyes and a deep blush.

From the spiked-punch bowl, Susie's mom and all the other female chauffeurs were staring blatantly at his bulging crotch, weighing the pros and cons of raping him right in front of a couple hundred teenagers and a county judge that happened to also be the principal…

Sadly, Little Susie got nothing that night. And neither did her mom. Her neighbor. Her best friend. Or even her grandma…

No matter what woman pursued Jack… no matter how seductive, how alluring, how unholy their sex appeal was… he couldn't get himself excited enough to, well, whack their bushes, for lack of a better term.

That was until his thirtieth birthday.

By this point, Jack was sad and alone. He had just recently bought a handgun from the local pawn shop, from some sleazy, bearded, bald guy with rotted out teeth. He could smell mary jane, thick and hazy in the air, and it made his eyes water, his stomach churn.

But it wasn't nowhere near as bad as being the only Bushwhacker to've never scored…

So, he got over himself quickly, stuffed the old man's greasy hands full of green, and left.

He hurried back to his three room apartment, where only his orange tabby awaited him to meet her food and scratching post needs. He swore he got more action from that cat in one night than all his conquests since birth. Considering the only time he'd ever been laid was when old man Vicino-alla-Morte played baseball with his, er, balls and knocked him out cold with a metal bat…

He never understood what that old Italian geezer's deal was. Sure, maybe Jack was leering at his seventy-some-odd-year-old wife… as she bathed in the safety of her stone-tiled bathroom… with his face smudging the window pane with his flattened nose…

Attempting to sterilize him was one thing. But did he really have to sick his three hulking Cane Corsos on him?

Geez, the old ma'am was nothing to write home about. He'd never imagined so many wrinkles could exist in such a tiny place in all his life. She was basically mangled, deformed beyond recognition.

He couldn't even contemplate suicide that night as nightmares of a Madam Vicino-alla-Morte in wrinkly black leather straddled his dream-legs and whipped him with a riding crop.

He woke up with dry heaves and determined right then and there: he was done with women for good.

Young women couldn't do it for him.

Married women couldn't do it.

Experienced women couldn't do it.

Dead women couldn't do it either (he dry heaved yet again as he vividly recalled attempting to hump on top a body in the county morgue… so pale, so pasty, so slick with death).

And now, apparently old women couldn't even do it for him.

He had reached the end of the line… which is why the gun was so important.

He lived for thirty years with the bluest testicles in recorded history. Gosh, they looked like pale robin eggs from dawn to dusk. And they never enjoyed any relief because… you guessed it!... his own hands couldn't do it either.

It was finally on October 31 that he was going to send him and his stupid, useless bushwhacker on to the other side… when, on the way home from work, he caught sight of not-so-little Susie in the park. He could make out two gallons bouncing in the air as she pushed a swing in the air, one hunk of meaty rump jiggling with each push.

The sight did nothing to stir his useless dick, but, eh, whatever. He was going to die anyway, so what could be the harm?

As he stepped into the bushes and made like a professional pedo, pulling out a pair of binoculars, he spied the buxom brunette…

And then his jaw dropped.

His heart exploded in a burst of lusty activity.

And for the first time in his life, his thing sprouted up like a vessel's mast, bearing his pre-cum like a war banner.

His two beady, brown eyes weren't focused on stupid Susie and her probably-plastic body…

But on her ten-year-old daughter.

She had short silky black hair that stopped right at her shoulders. A kind, toothy smile, though her two middle teeth were gone, that lit up the sky with its brightness. And two gorgeous green eyes that crinkled playfully each time she swung as high as she could go.

He dropped the binoculars, his throat bobbing.

His hand inched into his jacket's pocket, cocking the hammer back on his firearm.

He barely remembered anything else after that point…

Pulling the fun on Susie, a piercing scream, blood-soaked grassy leaves, and a little, scared girl with tears in her eyes. Her body was laid on the ground. Her panties were pushed to one side. A thick, heavy, leaking rod of steel was poised above her…

And that was it.

It infuriated him that he couldn't remember.

But you know what else made him mad?

It all had to do with that day.

October 31. Halloween.

It didn't matter how innocent the girl looked, how young she was, how virginized her virgin body's virginity was… if it wasn't on that day then she couldn't do it for him.

It was like some ludicrous, poorly constructed curse that some lazy writer made up for his life…

But, oh well. He had finally found a way to score! And that's all that mattered.

Or it was until his tenth Halloween…

That's when he finally discovered what made him so excited.

Their beating hearts!

He'd acted on impulse when he pulled out the butcher knife.

He was even still thrusting inside the redheaded girl's bleeding vagina for his third orgasm in a row when he suddenly brought the knife down on her chest.

And he put the carved-out organ in a jar and took it back home.

Now, Jack Bushwhacker IV was a fifty-some-odd-year-old male. With thin, pale limbs, a gangly body, and mangy hair. Absolutely nothing about this reeking hunk of deteriorating flesh screamed love god, except for the raging hard-on that sprouted up that very morning…

For it was finally October 31 in the calm, peaceful town of Royal Woods, where he'd just moved to a couple months prior.

And he'd grown very familiar with his neighbors just three doors down.

Particularly their ten girls.

Especially that buck-toothed one with the sinful skirt, yank-me ponytail, and make-me-suck-it mouth.

Oh, everyone has their favorites, he supposed. But Halloween only comes once a year…

And he planned to maximize his high score for as long as the day lasted.

Happy Halloween, Loud girls! Mwahaha!