"Fuckin' piece of shit–" Ghost mutters. The Pumpkin he chose to carve seems to be fighting against the carving tools, it's skin thick and, as of yet, unharmed.

You sit across the table, still sketching the face onto your pumpkin with a permanent marker. Every so often, Ghost mutters something again, and you look up to see he's got one of his knives–a long sharp thing the he violently stabs into the pumpkin.

Ghost sneers at the gourd, sawing open the pumpkin.