What Holiday?

I watched luxury sedans pull in and hand the valets their key fobs. Joey, the semi-retired ‘wise-guy’ actor, drove up in his two-tone red Mercedes Maybach. He checked his face in the mirror, then climbed out and dropped the fob into Valet Number 1’s hand. Number 1 was tall, blond, skinny, yet muscular, wearing Joe’s French Terry pants which fit like a glove. He waited until Joey had entered the building, then tested the Maybach’s turning radius before sliding it into a parking spot.

Arriving next was the bully-boy fund manager, Lawrence, sitting tall and proud in his Bugatti Chiron, racing stripes in his initials running along the rocker panel. He threw his cigarette onto the ground, grinding it out with the heel of his cowboy boot. Is he wearing dirty cowboy boots to this fancy New Year’s Eve regalia? What the fuck?

I sidled into the building and gasped as a downpour soaked me. I ran through puddles in the large hall, but never found where the gushing water came from. The ceiling was a rotunda shape, all rich mahogany and stained glass. A door opened, and Stefano motioned me forward, shutting the door behind me.

“You’re soaked, darling. What possessed you to come through that door rather than the front door?”

“I thought it was the front door. The cars were pulling up…”

“Silly girl. Cars pull up to the back for the workers to park them.” Oh, so ultra-rich now.

“Are you telling me that those rich dudes in the fancy cars pull up to the back of the building? I don’t believe you!”  He just smirked at me and motioned me to the gigantic women’s lounge, pushing me toward the hand dryer to blow-dry myself.

“They give their keys to the valet and enter their special guest door. Which you are not allowed through. Take these clothes off and get dry if you want to attend. You have five minutes.”

I quickly stripped off all my clothes, not caring who came in. I turned the dryer on full blast, dried my bra and panties quickly, and put them back on. Then I sneaked into a bedroom that kept extra clothes and rifled through the twelve-by-twelve-foot closet. Selecting a dark blue fitted dress trimmed in rhinestones, I turned back and forth in front of the mirror. High heels in every size made it easy to choose a fancy pair of Jimmie Choo heels. I left my clothes on the floor for the maid to get cleaned or throw away – I didn’t care. Then I returned and opened the drawers. Bras and lace panties in numerous sizes sat daintily in mirrored drawers. I stripped off the dress and tried on matching lingerie sets until I was pleased. Then I pulled the dress back on and whirled in front of the mirror. It needed diamonds, so I helped myself to the collection of diamond necklaces Arnie kept for his favored guests.

I headed to the glass rotunda room, lit with crystal chandeliers, and stood at the bar, using my sexy, lean stance. One heeled toe on the foot bar, hip cocked, a dirty martini in my bedazzled hand. I realized the host had deliberately set a rain shower on the door for the purpose of cleaning guests he assumed were dirty – the kind he wouldn’t let use the front or special entrance – he considered them filthy peasants. Fucker! Wait until I get my hands on him. He will pay me in jewels and squeal in pain as he hands them over.

A raucous commotion in the courtyard of rich people caught my attention, so I walked briskly outside, martini in hand. 2 black geldings galloped toward us, pulling a chariot. I saw a woman with long chestnut hair that flowed behind her in the wind. She was six feet tall, with eleven-inch biceps and twenty-nine-inch thighs. Her waist was tiny and her shoulders the same breadth as her hips. A perfectly formed female warrior. What? We were told to dress for the occasion and ring in the new year with the rich and famous. Is this a set-up?

She was tightly encased in a stunning greige gown covered in seed pearls, her breasts barely contained in the gown’s bodice. The front of the gown was split to reveal her muscled thighs and black girdle loincloth dotted with rubies, set in a V from her crotch to her hip bones.

The horses were snorting and shaking their heads as she pulled their necks into tight, downward hooks. She signaled them, and in unison, they reared straight up as she leaped from the chariot.  

“Where is the host?”

“Here I am, Marfala.”

“I dressed as you asked on your Instagram,” she replied. "Do you like it?" He eyed her up and down, a puzzled look on his face.

He cleans up nicely. I watched in silence as the uber-rich human I divorced sauntered toward the chariot woman. A dented and dirty chariot pulled by a single stallion ran him down, cutting him off before he reached her. The crowd gasped, but I smiled and kept watch from behind a tall plant. Marfala’s lips curled a tiny bit upward, but I saw it. She’s enjoying this, like me. Only the face of my cheating ex, Arnado, as well as his left arm were visible from beneath the heavy chariot. He was pinned, not hurt, and certainly not dead. Dammit – I would have been rich with that affidavit I have, giving me one half. His eyes were wide, his grayish hair flecked with dirt from the stallion’s hooves. The stallion was snorting and trying to prance but was held back by the strong hands of the newcomer.

“Enough of this nonsense!” Marfala was glaring at the other chariot’s driver. “Unpin him. It is New Year’s Eve, and we’re here to celebrate endings and beginnings.” The warrior grinned and spoke quietly to his steed, which began backing slowly, pulling the chariot over my ex. His whimpering was barely audible over the horse’s snorting. The rubies in her loincloth were glimmering as she strode toward the intruder’s chariot. “What do you want?” she demanded.

“If he can best me, he can kiss you at midnight. Otherwise, you and I have business to finish.”

“Let him up, and we shall see, you pig. You are ruining the last day of the year, you know.”

“I am aware.”

He made his horse rear, and it turned its forelegs in mid-air so that they now faced north, and Arnado was free. He was dressed in a shimmery black tuxedo, perfectly manicured, as he always is for his New Year’s Eve extravaganzas, although a bit dirty now. He gestured with his arms. Ten men ran toward the back; my ex stood, legs apart, hands on hips, waiting. The exquisite female guest waited, smiling, her arms crossed over her golden bosom. Marfala, I rolled the name over my tongue.

Her horses, still attached to the chariot, and the intruder’s stallion began neighing as the roar of engines got closer. The valets, in rented tuxedos of many hues, were bringing in his show cars. He would gift one to a lucky guest tonight.

“Petros, this is tiresome.” He shrugged at the woman and flexed one bicep. “Very funny, but not really. Why are you dressed as a gladiator?”

“It’s Halloween, Darling, so I came to give you a show. I saw his Instagram post.”

“Are you crazy? Halloween was months ago. It is the turning of the clock to a new year. New Year’s Eve, Petros, December 31st.”

He turned as the drivers began lining up Arnie’s extensive collection. There were so many cars in the collection that I wondered how they decided which to bring. A 1964 Mustang, a 12-cylinder Rolls, a 1973 Jaguar, a new Bugatti, and a 1970 SS Chevelle 454 were lined up, with more rolling in and revving the engines. I preferred the Bugatti, and I would go home in it tonight, no matter what Arnie said. He owed me.

Let the show begin. No sooner had I thought that than Arnie leaped across the Jaguar’s hood and climbed into the driver’s seat of the idling black beauty. He grinned at Marfala, and she threw him a ruby from her loincloth, which he caught in his fist. Petros had unhooked the stallion and was seated bareback. Without a second’s hesitation, Petros signaled to the horse, and it leaped over Arnie’s head, making him duck. Arnie revved the engine and took off, spinning in a circle toward Petros as he and his stallion danced out of the way. I knew Arnado was now furious, and he proved me right by jumping out of the moving Jaguar. A valet leaped into the seat and stopped the rolling auto. Arnie was now revving the Mustang, and I was certain that the stallion would be crushed by the bumper, yet it leaped the length of the ’64 hot rod and twirled to meet it head-on once again. Petros kneed the stallion, signaling him to sidestep just as the Mustang roared by, side-swiping the Rolls-Royce.

“Enough!” yelled Petros. “What is up with the tuxedo? Where is your costume, you funny clown? You can be Zorro to my Ulysses.”

“What are you talking about, you fool? My guests are arriving and you’re disrupting the party with your crazy nonsense. You weren’t invited, so why are you here?”

“I’m here to celebrate All Hallows’ Eve with everyone. It took me a long time to prepare my costume. Look there - Marfala is also dressed for the costume party with her chariot.”

“No, I am not! You have spoiled my perfect entrance and upset my horses.”

“Marfala, you are wearing a low-cut gown with a loincloth bedazzled with rubies. That is a costume, no?”

“NO! It is my very expensive, one-of-a-kind Dior gown, made especially for me and this night.” She strode up to him, standing eye-to-eye, and slapped him across the cheek. “Now he won’t propose to me, you idiot,” she hissed so only he could hear. Petros’ eyes glowed with laughter.

“You want to marry this imbecile?” he whispered back, playing her game.

“He is the richest man alive, so of course I do. I planned all of it. Every New Year’s Eve he gifts one of his collector autos to a guest. I’m making this the perfect night for him to propose to me as part of his extravagant night of gifts. I’ve courted him for eighteen months. Now go away, Petros, before you ruin the gala and my night.”

I gasped as that coward ex-husband of mine gunned the Mustang, aiming for Petros. He hasn’t changed a bit. He stopped just short of Marfala, who stepped in front of Petros.

“Darling, be careful, you might have run me over.” She caressed his cheek and then climbed onto the hood of the car. “Give me a short ride before cocktails, Arnie.” He drove very slowly around to the front of the house. She got off the car and kissed him deeply, but he pulled away when he saw her eyes open and focused behind him.

Walking toward the mansion were Frankenstein and his Bride, two Mummies wrapped in purple and white cloths, and a well-known actress with her husband dressed in Valentino and Tom Ford, who kept looking back at the ghouls.

“Hello, I’m so glad you could come,” Arnie said to the actress and her husband. He glared at the others in costumes. “Please go right on in and get a drink. I’ll be there shortly.” He turned to the costumed ones and hissed, “Who are you and why are you in costumes?”

“We’re here for the costume party you announced on Instagram.” They stopped and waited for his response as he thumbed through his Instagram.

“What are you talking about? There is no costume party and I certainly did post such on my Instagram. This is NEW YEAR’S EVE!” He jumped as Marfala grabbed his arm. She wasn’t in a greige dress at all. She was in a dress of rags, and her face was painted as a ghoul’s. What he thought were rubies were droplets of blood, part of her costume.

But that was me, pretending to be Marfala. The real Marfala was with Petros, in one of the guest bedrooms, paying his price to keep his mouth shut and not cause trouble. No blackmail if she played with him one more time. This New Year’s Eve would be her engagement night, and she planned to marry Arnado quickly afterward.

“Arnie, you planned this costume party. Remember the invitations we sent? Come on, Dear, let’s join the guests. I’ll pretend that as a ghoul, I am marrying the richest man in the world and your tux is your costume. Okay?” I led him toward the mansion.

He just stared at me, totally puzzled. His watch said it was December 31st. Marfala’s voice was a bit lower than he remembered, and her eyes were…

“Geneva! Is that you? Are you pretending to be Marfala?” I laughed, for what else could I do? I hooked my arm in his and led him into his home, guiding him to where the tryst was taking place.

I threw open the door and, at the sight of his beloved sitting naked on Petros's lap, I yelled, “Trick or Treat; Happy New Year and April Fool’s!”

“It is New Year’s Eve! Not Halloween or April Fools’ Day,” Arnie shouted as he stood in the door, staring.

I dodged quickly into the hall and ran up to his 4th-floor bedroom. A king-sized pillowcase was perfect to collect my payback for that shower stunt when I arrived. Remember: for dirty visitors, and he included me, his ex-wife. He was never the smartest, and his safe combination was easy to guess. Arnado, my cheating and bigamous ex, is now worth 10 million dollars less. Actually, more than that, because I’m driving away in his $30 million Bugatti, and it's much nicer than the one his jerk friend attending this shindig owns.

                Copyright © 9/11/2026 by Andrea O. Corwin