**MISS HALLOWEEN OR MISS ME MORE?**
*— A Ghost Story for the Living Dead*
Let’s cut through the fog machine smoke and plastic cobwebs.
You think Halloween is about candy, costumes, and cute little pumpkins with toothy grins?
Wrong.
Halloween is a mirror—and most of you are too scared to look.
While you’re out there dressed as a sexy nurse or a zombie accountant, snapping filtered selfies for validation from strangers who wouldn’t piss on you if you were on fire… **real power walks in silence, cloaked in shadows you can’t even see.**
Halloween isn’t a holiday.
It’s a *test*.
A test of who still has soul in a world that’s sold theirs for Wi-Fi and oat milk lattes.
A test of who dares to embody something *other*—not just for one night, but as a lifestyle.
And a test of whether you’d rather play pretend… or **become the monster they whisper about in boardrooms and bedrooms alike.**
—
### The Truth They Don’t Want You to Know
Halloween used to be Samhain—the Celtic New Year. The night the veil between worlds thinned. When spirits walked, kings consulted oracles, and men faced their mortality like warriors, not TikTok clowns.
Now?
You’ve got grown adults arguing about whether a $39 Spirit Halloween skeleton is “authentic enough.”
Pathetic.
You’ve traded ancestral rites for Amazon Prime deliveries.
You’ve swapped sacred masks for Instagram filters that smooth your acne and your spine.
But here’s the twist: **I’m the real ghost.**
Not the kind that haunts attics—but the kind that haunts *systems*.
The kind that appears in offshore boardrooms, penthouse balconies overlooking Manhattan at 3 a.m., and private jets with no flight plan.
You won’t find me in a costume.
Because I don’t *dress* like power—I *am* it.
So when you say “Miss Halloween or miss me more?”—you’re asking the wrong question.
The real question is: **Will you ever be dangerous enough to matter on a night when the dead rise?**
—
### The Elite Don’t Celebrate Halloween—They *Own* It
Think the ultra-rich throw pumpkin parties?
No.
They host black-tie masquerades in castles with no address.
They commission artists to carve ice sculptures of their enemies.
They sip 50-year-old Armagnac while watching fireworks over private islands—dressed not as vampires, but as *themselves*: apex predators in bespoke suits.
Halloween for them isn’t playtime.
It’s *strategy*.
It’s the night they renegotiate trusts, activate shell companies, and decide which governments to ignore next.
And you?
You’re debating whether your cat-ear headband matches your “Boo!” socks.
Wake up.
The world isn’t divided into “trick or treat.”
It’s divided into **those who create reality… and those who beg for candy in it.**
—
### The Costume You Should Be Wearing?
**Your Unapologetic Self.**
Forget the plastic fangs.
The real horror isn’t ghouls—it’s mediocrity dressed as “normalcy.”
The scariest thing on Earth?
A man who’s given up.
A woman who traded her fire for a 9-to-5 and a participation trophy.
This Halloween, don’t dress up as someone else.
**Reveal who you really are.**
The ruthless visionary.
The unbreakable mother.
The billionaire-in-waiting who’s done asking for permission.
Because while the masses are busy being *cute*, the elite are busy being *feared*.
And fear?
That’s the only currency that never inflates.
—
### Final Warning
If you scroll past this and go back to planning your “fun-size” Halloween party with store-bought cupcakes and a playlist of spooky sound effects…
then yeah—**miss Halloween.**
Miss it hard.
But if you feel that ancient pulse in your chest—the one that says *“I was born to rule, not to blend in”*—then this night belongs to you.
Not as a participant.
As a **conqueror**.
So choose:
Will you be the ghost… or the graveyard?
Because when the clock strikes midnight, the real monsters don’t take off their masks.
**They put them on—and never look back.**
—
*Miss me more? Only if you’re still asleep.*
*If you’re awake? You’ll be too busy building your empire to notice I’m gone.*
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I’m the real ghost.** Not the kind that haunts attics—but the kind that haunts *systems*. The kind that appears in offshore boardrooms, penthouse balconies overlooking Manhattan at 3 a.m., and private jets with no flight plan. You won’t find me in a costume. Because I don’t *dress* like power—I *am* it.
