This was the year Patrick's friends were finally going to teach him that lesson.

For years, every Halloween, Patrick's version of "costume" somehow always managed to afford him an opportunity to look his best, in one of his form-fitting, bespoke suits - tonight was no exception as he sported a charcoal, boldly pinstriped, double-breasted - with all of the bells and whistles, down to the cufflinks, braced-suspenders, pocket silk, gold ring, watch, tie-bar and lapel pin. Bond, Steele, Wayne - tonight he was Bruce Wayne - he'd always claim one or the other, but nobody bought it, ever. Everyone knew he was vain and that he'd jump at any excuse to suit up, especially as his office at recently transitioned to a business casual dress code. And everyone was sick and tired of his refusal to participate in any of the party fun.

"Won't be bobbing for apples in this suit," he'd said so many years upon arrival that it had become a catchphrase among his friends.

This year, they'd all dressed as variants of clowns. They knew Patrick hated clowns, wasn't afraid of them or anything, just looked down on them, "Where's the dignity?" he'd ask, "the self-respect?"

Upon his arrival, they immediately pounced, overpowering and dragging him out to the back patio, where he saw the tub normally used for the apple-bobbing game...only now there weren't any apples in it, nor water...but instead...

Ideas? Anyone? Beuler?