Sample Platter - AIM Example - Ryan Dunn/Bam Margera (celeb)
ME: If Ryan had learned anything about Halloween in his last few years in West Chester, it was not to bother with costumes. No matter what he thought of, everyone else already had him beat; dressing up just wasn't his forte. This year? No exception. Instead of wasting time and effort, though, he only bothered to wrap a sheet around his neck and call it a cape. In fact, it seemed he had the right idea. Brandon was realy the only one who went full out, anymore, and that was...well, Brandon. The rest of the crew seemed to recognize that they were too old to fool anyone and that the more effective course of action would be to not conceal their identities when bothering neighbors. No one bothered to argue them out of taking candy, once they knew who they were dealing with.

Neighborhood-regulated festivities were over by eight-thirty. No one really began to disperse until around eleven, and even then, they were slow to trickle off. But the autumn breeze was almost as stubborn as they were. With activity winding down, the chill began to set in. Ryan didn't care too much for the cold, but he wasn't ready to go home yet. Only twenty minutes shy of midnight, he and Bam were the last of the team, patrolling the streets near the Margera household. And then, there were two, he thought to himself, with a tiny grin.

Ryan lifted his dragging paper sack (the handles had broken hours ago and spilled a good deal of his bounty onto the street, therefore making it fair game for whoever could grab it the quickest. Needless to say, it was not him.) to swing against Bam's leg. What little candy he managed to keep rattled on impact. "Let's chill for a sec," he said, wheezing a little. The walk wasn't strenuous, but the cold was sucking the air right out of his lungs. His chest hurt. And the remedy? "I need a cigarette. That cool?"

sailed: Halloween was almost better, now, than it was when Bam was a kid. "Trick or treat" was an idle threat, during one's childhood. It took until about thirteen or fourteen, to realize you could make a killing, to speak, if you made good on the tricking. Few Halloweens had passed, since Jess and his friends were old enough to have figured this out, in which at least one house didn't get its entire bowl of candy stolen.

There had to be at least two houses worth, crushing down on a couple of inadvertently deployed packets of blood, in the pillowcase slung over Bam's shoulder. In the centre of his back, on the pale gray of his hoodie, there was a red splotch, deepening every time the saturated corner of the pillowcase bumped against him as he walked. Though plain, the clothing in question was new. When his mother finally raided his room for his laundry, he was going to get another useless talking to, about the importance of keeping things nice for longer than two days.

Understandable collateral damage, he thought. Less understandable? Why everyone he knew insisted on smoking, engaging in physical activity, and then interrupting his momentum, because their lungs couldn't handle the cold, or the speed, or the distance, or whatever it was, at the moment. Bam had picked up a cigarette once or twice in his life, as he expected everyone did at some point, but the lack of freedom that came with a nicotine addiction didn't appeal to him.

Fortunately for his friends, it gave Bam a decent sense of satisfaction, to be able to watch them smoke, and spend money on smokes, while he declined. He wouldn't complain about it, any more than he would dedicate himself to it. At the moment, he was even less likely to complain. They had been walking for a really long time, and his elbow was getting stiff from holding onto his candy collection. "Sure," he said, and sat down heavily on the edge of the nearest neighbour's driveway. Their porch lights were off, but a succession of electric Jack-o-lanterns were still lighting the sides of the driveway and the path up to the front porch. "You think they want us back at the house?"

ME: Ryan buckled onto the concrete equally as hard. His paper bag plopped into a leftover puddle from an earlier spurt of rain. Goddamn. "See?" he said, gesturing to the mess about to soak into what was left of his good candy. Before continuing, he threw his makeshift cape open and fished around in his jacket's breast pocket. "There's no shame in havin' a bucket," he insisted, sticking an unlit cigarette into his mouth. "Next time, no bag." Of course, he recalled, producing a lighter, last year at this time, he was saying the same about his bucket. Flame on. He let it linger at the tip of his cigarette, for a moment, while he warmed his hands. A moment later, he coughed and had to put it down. Exhale. Ah, better.

"Prob'ly." He shrugged, reclining back to elbows. "Guess it's kinda late." Not very late for them, but the kind of late and cold out that April (and really, his own mother, too) often insisted would land them a cold, if they weren't in by midnight. Ryan thought he felt one coming, anyway, and time had nothing to do with it. "We goin' back?"

sailed:"Nah, not yet." If they waited until most of their friends passed out (which couldn't take too long, after the all-day rowdiness, and what was no doubt a very large amount of alcohol that had been snuck in under April's nose, courtesy of those who could buy it), they could do whatever they wanted. Take control of the TV, sleep on the roof, doodle on sleeping faces, go unnoticed into Bam's room. Whatever they wanted.

He splayed his pillowcase open in front of him, heedless of the water on the ground. The bag was already wet, and unlike Ryan's, it wouldn't split open because of it, so it didn't really matter. He pivoted around to face Ryan, so his back wouldn't block the dim yellow light from the jack-o-lanterns, and dug through the bag's contents, picking out a handful of non-sticky tootsie rolls. While he hunted for the rest of them, he put one of the smaller ones into his mouth, paper and all, to try and untwist the wrapping with his tongue. "How long you staying, tomorrow?" he asked, around the mouthful.

ME: Taking another drag, Ryan kicked, frustrated, at his torn bag. An unharmed package of bubblegum cigarettes came tumbling out. He kicked those, too, several feet away. Maybe the kids, whoever lived here, would have a nice little candy surprise in their grass tomorrow. More than he was gonna get, anyhow. (Not that he needed any, he reminded himself.) "I'unno," he answered, smoke in his mouth, while he rubbed his hands together. As if the cold wasn't bad enough, they were dry. Every little cut and hangnail was catching on his stupid sheet. "Pro'lly until Ape kicks me out. I don't really got anything to do." He reached over to tug on a little piece of wrapper hanging out of Bam's mouth. "'Cept watch you eat paper."