One Halloween in Orlando, a friend of Dr. Nasty, named Sabrina, showed the band the best trick or treat possible.

She rented a limo for the entire night, stocked with all the booze we could consume. She and her friend, Josette, both dressed like playboy bunnies, provided much entertainment throughout the evening, and well into the morning.

There were only two of them, however, and three of us. Somebody, unless they were very resourceful, would have to do without. When faced with situations such as this, being the lead singer was the bomb. Josette would be mine tonight. I knew it. I smiled.

Concerning the other guys, Phil was a good-looking guy who could have his way with most women. He had a girlfriend at this time (later to become his wife, then ex-wife), but it didn’t matter. If he so chose, he would call the shots with Sabrina.

Mick, on the other hand, was one of the coolest guys I’d ever met. He wasn’t pretty, he knew it, and he played on it. Even when he was being obnoxious and bloviating (which was quite often), chicks dug him. He had a reputation for being rude and mean. I can vouch that he was both of those. He was also quite fun to be around.

Alcohol distorted my judgment when a certain other female was allowed to join our party. I don’t believe she was quite sixteen. If memory serves me, her friends called her Constance. She had snuck out of her mother’s house to join our mischief. Her grandmother worked at the department store with the three of us. Constance was Mick’s companionship throughout the night.

Not that Mick did anything, but drink and laugh all night. After everyone was wasted (Constance included), Constance started to get sick. We stopped at the nearest 7/11 to let her do her thing.

At the 7/11, we took some pictures. Me with the bunnies. Phil with the bunnies. Then Mick started screaming, “She’s farting! God help me, she’s farting!” Constance never made it outside the limo. She was leaned over Mick, on her belly, puking in the parking lot.

Mick’s tone of voice and facial expression caused me to laugh until I fell to the ground. We took some pictures of Constance emptying her stomach, and of Mick’s reaction to her sometimes loud releases of intestinal gases, and invaded the 7/11 for some munchies.

Inside the 7/11, the clerk, an older black lady, told me I looked like Bon Jovi. I just smiled. Then she said, “You ARE Bon Jovi!” I didn’t deny it. She probably wouldn’t have believed me anyway. I gave her my autograph, and we took a picture with her. To this day, she probably believes she met Bon Jovi.

The days that followed threatened to bring a lot of trouble. Somehow, Constance’s mother was more angry at Mick than anybody. Maybe his was the only name she knew. Anyway, reason soon prevailed and things cooled. Nobody went to jail or got beat up. Best Halloween ever. Thanks, Sabrina.