There are lots of people who keep us up at night: Donald Trump, Ben Carson, Mike Huckabee, Ted Cruz … basically, any passenger in the clown car that is the ongoing, tortuously drawn-out GOP presidential primary. Pat McCrory, Art Pope, Dan Fucking Forest … OK, so most the N.C. Republican Party, too. Oh, and pretty much all of the good, self-important liberals running for office in Chapel Hill right now … actually, let’s just say politicians in general.

It’s not just politicians who frighten us, though: We don’t want to get on Ross Grady’s bad side (unless he’s wrong). We don’t want to work for Ashley Christensen (but we love her restaurants). We would like to watch Mickie Krzyzewski beat Mike’s ass (and you know she could).

These are all very scary people, but they are not The Triangle’s Scariest People. That honor belongs to the five individuals (four of whom actually exist and breathe oxygen) whose likenesses adorn the following pages. To aid in your Halloween festivities, we’ve created masks of each of them that you can cut out and wear on Saturday night.

Get a group of five friends together (one mask for each!) and take a ride on the Trolley Puba sight more terrifying than all 17 Saw movies put together.

You’re welcome.

Margaret Spellings

Margaret Spellings won’t begin her high-paying job as the president of the UNC system until March 1, 2016, which gives us five months to ponder one question that looms like a slow hurricane: What will she fuck up first? A champion of No Child Left Behind, gubernatorial adviser to Dubya just before he became president, the Secretary of Education during his second term, a board member of what’s essentially the University of Phoenix and the leader of Bush’s presidential library (which we presume to be populated only by annotated editions of My Pet Goat), Spellings seems tragicomically unprepared to lead a system of 17 campuses, nearly a quarter-million students and incalculable esteem.

To wit, while working for Dubya, she led a commission that seemed intent on turning America’s universities into a network of vocational-training centers. The real worry is that she’s going to do that here, too, turning students only into doers, not thinkers. She’s not super into the gay “lifestyles,” either, but apparently she’s very into our state motto.

“I’ve worked for him for a long time,” Spellings said of little Georgie during a press conference last week, her voice like the sound of curdling cheese. “I tell young people, ‘When you find a good boss, stick with them,’ and I certainly have done that.” Then why, President-elect, would you desert him now, just as his family’s political dynasty crumbles into the San Jacinto with Jeb’s seemingly imminent defeat? Save us and stick with him.

Cut out mask. Poke holes for eyes. Turn a prestigious college into an air-conditioning-repair school. Then win the lottery, because that’s a much more efficient and thrilling way to take money from the state’s education system.


Roy Williams

Depending on the setting and the score, Mike Krzyzewski is but a very few genetic mutations away from actually being a rat or one bad call and red face away from transmogrifying into the spawn of Satan. But when the visage of Coach K, the recent national champion who just traded smiling quips with the president and championed gay basketball coach Chris Burns, isn’t the scariest sight among area college basketball coaches, you should be very afraid.

In fact, it would appear that UNC-Chapel Hill administrators were so terrified of gee-golly-dropping, gosh-darn-uttering, totally-not-that-innocent whippersnapper Roy Williams that many believe they refused to renew the contract of women’s basketball coach Sylvia Hatchell in an effort to suggest the beloved Tar Heels were pre-emptively self-flagellating for a now-infamous history of NCAA violations. Remember, Hatchell’s got the most wins of any active women’s coach, trails Krzyzewski by about 50 victories overall and spent part of the last two years battling leukemia; they’re not sloughing off some slouch because it’s convenient. She’s a staple of the school’s sports programand has been so for twice as long as Williams.

But we presume that, while dressed in some dapper blue getup with his spectacles resting on the bridge of his nose, Ol’ Boy Roy glared at university administrators across a conference table. He coughed up a string of near profanities (“Flipity funkin’ stunts and stuff, y’all”?) and entered a paroxysm so violent that Bubba Cunningham, paler than normal, could only mutter, “Shit, Roy, I thought fainting was your thing, man. Sure, OK, we’ll can her, pal.”

Cut out mask. Poke holes for eyes. Announce to the world that boy sports matter more than girl sports. Walk around muttering, “I’m not Dean Smith, and neither are you. Ay-yuck.”


Mark Jacobson

Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota has a very white smile in a very tan face, framed all around by very white hair. Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota dresses in black on black, blazers on Polos, like an undertaker on Casual Friday (or maybe a bassist in an urbane post-punk band). Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota totes around a little dog he must have gotten at way below MSRP.

Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota’s hands speak the universal sign language of regional TV advertising. Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota’s mouth speaks like it will be ready for another quadruple espresso any minute. Oh, and did you know that Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota stars in his own commercials? You did?

In one, Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota washes dogs, shouting incredulously in his hoarse Yankee accent, “Today, I’m washing dogs!” (Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota has two very white Westies that he likes to put in his commercials. Their names are Dylan and Elvis.)

In another, Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota springs up in the backseat of a woman’s new car with a terrifying grin and very white eyes. “When you buy a Mark Jacobson Toyota, you get Mark Jacobson, always there for you,” a voice-over chirps, unaware it’s in a horror picture.

It goes on and on. Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota once shot a parody of A Few Good Men on the People’s Court set, testifying about his prices while wearing military regalia. Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota once made four children sing in praise of a Mark Jacobson bobblehead. Mark Jacobson of Mark Jacobson Toyota once Final Cut Pro’d his head onto the bodies of a dog, a baby and a sexy lady, a progressively traumatic sequence. Do not Google it.

Mark Jacobson actually seems like a decent guy who loves selling Mark Jacobson Toyotas, but you can see why he scares the hell out of us anyway. Mark Jacobson.

Cut out mask. Poke holes for eyes. Clutch the nearest fluffy white dog. Apply liberal amounts of spray-tan and tell the ladies you’ll ALWAYS BE THERE FOR THEM.


Drunktown Bro

He stumbles through the night, zombie-like, eyes glazed, cheeks flushed, drops of digestive detritus dripping down his chin. He finds a lamppost on which to lean, propping his body up in a futile effort to stave off the vertigo that comes with pounding too many Goldschlägers while wondering why college chicks don’t look at you like that anymore. He manages the digital dexterity to summon an Uber, then directs it to the sidewalk outside the Sir Walter, where he shouts obscenities for no other reason than to arouse the sleeping geriatrics inside.

He is your future, Raleigh … and he is terrifying.

Or, you know, not.

If there was a moment when the recent City Council election jumped the proverbial shark from comedy to farce, it was the last-minute barrage of ads depicting Drunktown Bro as a menace to downtown. Financed by Dean Debnam, the founder of Public Policy Polling, and shot nowhere near downtown, the ads themselves had little bearing on the actual results. But they did crystallize a contentious flashpoint over not just when bars should be allowed to serve beer on the sidewalk, but about the character of downtown itself.

And so we ask: Who’s scarier? The half-tanked frat boy pissing in an alley, or the condo-dwellers who moved into an increasingly vibrant downtown and decided it was just too loud and vibrant?

Cut out mask. Poke holes for eyes. Drink copious amounts of Jägermeister. Throw up jet-black vomit on the Confederate women’s statue on the Capitol grounds.


Cherie Berry

If you’ve ever been trapped in an elevator, you know that N.C. Department of Labor Commissioner Cherie Berry’s beaming, bespectacled mug can take on a mocking, malevolent tone. The walls are closing. It’s hot as hell. And there’s Cherie, smiling like she just scored some strawberry shortcake while you waste away in this human trash compactor.

You’d think our favorite Elevator Queen couldn’t be any more frightening. But when the elevator doors finally open, that’s when the real terror begins. As painstakingly detailed in an impressive series by News & Observer reporter Mandy Locke earlier this month, Berry’s labor department is a toothless tiger that sits on its thumbs as state-funded employers stiff their employees for millions of dollars.

“We’ve got more work to do,” Berry told the N&O. Yeah, no shit, Sherlock.

Of course, Berry has had 15 years to get her act together, so maybe the truth is that she doesn’t really care about doing her job. She’s instead content to pilot a regulatory agency without the guts to regulate and be a labor defender who’s nowhere to be found when labor needs defending. Scary indeed.

Oh, and Cherie, the elevator in our parking garage has been broken for months. Could you get someone on that?

(Disclosure: Next year, former Raleigh mayor Charles Meekerbrother of INDY co-owner Richard Meekeris running against Cherie Berry. He should change his name to Cheeker Meeker if he wants to win.)

Cut out mask. Poke holes for eyes. Look the other way while a rich dude kicks a homeless man in the nuts.