"I don't wanna!" says Thing-In-The-Dark.
"Oh, that's typical," the butch banshee in the flannel shirt snorts contemptuously. "It's always you, isn't it? Fuck off, if it's too scary for you."
"I'm not scared," Thing-In-The-Dark snivels. "It's liminal."
"Fuck off it's liminal, you don't know what liminal even means—"
"Oh wow, this is so worth it, I'm so glad I came out with you guys," the ghostly hitchhiker says, rolling her eyes.
"The one night of the year that the veil thins enough for you to visit a Walmart, and what do you want to do? Hang out in the parking lot and try to score weed off some scumbag teenagers? That's just fucking sad—"
"Britney's not a scumbag, she's my regular weed guy," Thing-In-The-Dark says pathetically. "I wanna go home!"