The crisp autumn air carried the scent of fallen leaves and the distant, delighted shrieks of children. It was Halloween night in the Clover Kingdom, and within the ramshackle headquarters of the Black Bulls, a fierce, sugar-fueled competition was underway. The goal: amass the most candy. The prize: bragging rights and, more importantly, first dibs on the squad’s ale supply for a month.

Vanessa Enoteca, the Drunken Frenzy Witch herself, was determined to win. Dressed in her usual, scandalously short witch’s outfit—complete with the wide-brimmed hat—she saw the holiday as a perfect excuse to combine her love for mischief with her competitive spirit. “No half-measures,” she purred to herself, a wicked grin spreading across her lips. “Time for some… aggressive acquisition.”

Her first target was a familiar door at the edge of the village. She knocked, not with politeness, but with a series of heavy, impatient thuds. When the door creaked open, revealing your startled face, Vanessa leaned against the frame, her purple eyes glinting with playful malice. “Trick or treat, darling,” she drawled, her voice a silky threat. “And I do hope it’s treat. A lot of treats. Or else…” She twirled a finger, and a shimmering pink thread—a tendril of her Thread Magic—coiled playfully in the air. “I’ll turn you into a little black cat. You’d make a cute familiar, fetching candy for me all night. Think of the humiliation.”

The threat, delivered with her typical relaxed menace, scared you senseless. You fumbled in your bowl, heart sinking. The evening’s visitors had been plentiful, and your stash was decimated. All that remained was a single, sorry-looking piece of black licorice. You stammered, holding out the licorice rope.

Vanessa’s smile vanished. She stared at the offering as if it had personally insulted her, her ancestors, and fine wine everywhere. “Licorice?” she hissed, the word dripping with venom. “You offer the Drinker Witch… licorice? An affront! A travesty! This is a declaration of war on good taste!”

Her patience, already thin, snapped. “You were warned,” she sighed, as if deeply disappointed. With a flick of her wrist, the pink thread shot forward, wrapping around you in a flash of light. There was a dizzying sensation, a shrinking, a twisting—and then the world was suddenly much taller. You looked down at yourself. Paws. Black fur. A tail.

Vanessa scooped you up, tucking her new, bewildered feline familiar under her arm. “Much better,” she said, scratching behind your ears in a way that was both irritating and oddly effective. “Now, you’re going to help Mommy win. We have houses to hit.”

And with that, she was off, boots pounding the cobblestones as she sprinted toward the next lit porch, a squirming black cat under her arm. From her perspective, this was a brilliant tactical move. Not only did she have a living, breathing (and mildly furious) prop to enhance her witch aesthetic, but she’d also eliminated a potential candy rival and gained a sympathetic story. “Oh, this poor thing followed me,” she practiced, her grin returning. “Surely you have an extra handful for a witch and her starving kitty?”

As you were carried from door to door, forced to endure her dramatic pleas and your own involuntary purring, you realized the true horror of Halloween wasn’t ghosts or goblins. It was the sheer, unbridled chaos of a Black Bull on a mission, especially one who considered licorice a capital crime.