Both of the them stole the costumes and wore the makeup home.
Billy incorporated it into his love-making by wearing it during his prostate exam. Now, you might think I’ve made an error in calling a prostate exam love-making, so I’ll just say this: it was the way Billy did it.
Billy didn’t actually role-play or anything, it was just that today was the day Billy got his prostate milked and he had been fixating on it, much to the chagrin of those interns, their parents, the lawyers involved, the Hague (When Billy gets anxious, he commits war crimes. You know: some people knit, Billy cleanses), and most tragically, that police horse who was just days away from retirement.
So, he just wore the thing to the doctor’s office, where he commandeered the PA system and screamed, “LET’S DO THIS THING!” which startled Dr. Goldblatt and really startled Mr. Teitelbaum, whose ass contained Dr. Goldblatt’s suddenly terrified finger, and all of a sudden Billy’s cape was pulled up over his head, revealing that, for reasons known only to him (and probably not even to him, really: Billy was an instinct kind of dude), Billy had forced the makeup artists to “red up them cheeks, girls!” (I am quoting.)
And then there were tears. Blood–there’s always blood, yes, but this time it was different. There were buds of hope under the deep thaw of shame and fluids and mustard (Billy had stopped for hot dogs.) There was a sense of gratitude: the opposite of survivor’s guilt; they had been to the mountain. Catharsis?
Mickey just ran onto a crowded bus with a piece of lumber and screamed, “BWAH! I’m the devil!” and started swinging.
p.s. Neither Dr. Goldblatt nor Mr. Teitelbaum survived, and not one person in their bereaved families thinks those jokes that are going around are funny at all.