You walk out onto an unfamiliar street, your legs doing the thinking for you. The chill steals the last remnants of warmth from your breath, turning it to a cool mist before your eyes. It's dark, as dark as it gets, but even so there are shadows, long and threatening, cast by nothing at all. As it strikes you how improbable that is, you hear the children, unseen but approaching, the clatter of their hurried footsteps nearly drowning out their endless, maddening chant: "Come on, Scooby, where you been? Trouble's on the loose again." It is Big-Ass Pumpkin Day, and no God or demon can deliver you from the jaws of celebration. So why don'tcha pop on the BOP Cr ...