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Hearing the doorbell ring, Adam Eyre hustled down the stairs, two at a time; a practice his mother swore would be the death of him. Glancing at the clock in the hallway as he rushed past, he noticed his friends were a half an hour early.
Excellent, he thought, placing his hand on the doorknob.
"Hey, hey. You ready to go?" asked a poor excuse for a rotting corpse as Adam opened the door. The portly zombie had only bothered to apply make-up to his face, leaving his hands to look "normal."
"Just about," Adam said, "come in." He stepped to the side.
"Dude, hurry up. We don't want to miss out," said a sheet with three cutouts--two for eyes, one for a mouth.
"Yeah!" the mob of friends said as they stepped into the foyer of Adam's home.
Recognizing the voice as being his best friend Tom underneath the sheet, Adam said, "You are one cheap bastard, you know that?"
"That's not the kinda language I want to hear, Adam."