Suggested Audio Candy:
Jerry Goldsmith Soundtrack Suite
Time for another alternative ending. Already we’ve learned that the conclusions to The Shining and Aliens actually played out wholly different in Keeper’s mind. So whatever could be next? I’ve been looking for the ideal candidate and, after some deliberation, have come up with the tonic we crave. I really felt the kidney blow when Jennings decided to pick up that cursed bundle of knives in Richard Donner’s The Omen and was decapitated for his efforts. What if he’d decided it was too risky an endeavor to retrieve them from that pile of rubble? Maybe a stern talking to would convince the spawn of satan that Sesame Street provides all the learning he needs to make a positive difference in the world. In addition, there was still the nagging issue of Mrs Baylock to deal with. If Damien was the son of Lucifer, then she was surely the Prince of Darkness’ last loose bowel movement; an unflushable turd of a woman. Their work was well and truly cut out for them as they returned to finish what they started.
The Keeper Cut
Robert and Jennings pull up outside the Thorn residence and their pilgrimage back from Jerusalem has been one of few words. They’ve suffered the closest of shaves, had Jennings not been tying his shoe laces at the very moment that handbrake lifted, then he would have met a horrific slow motion demise. The reality is, he just lost a little hair off his barnet as the sheet of glass passed overhead. It’ll grow back but until then there is always the flat cap he bought back at the airport gift shop to conceal any bald patches. More than anything, he’s just grateful to have dodged that reflective bullet.
As they prepare for entry both men are wary that Baylock’s pet rooweillers will likely be chomping at their leashes inside. The hounds of satan have already made the pair’s lives a living hell back at the cemetery and they escaped that sneak attack by the very seat of their pants. However, this time Thorn and Jennings hold the aces. Armed with baseball bats, hatchets, and a handful of dog biscuits laced in arsenic, they make their way into the seemingly deserted Thorne residence, knowing only too well that the calm is about to be interrupted by vicious storm clouds.
Once inside the interior of the building, Jennings resists the overwhelming urge to go poking around and, instead, stands shoulder to shoulder with his compadre. As the scuttling of canine paws becomes more pronounced, he prepares his tasty treats for the incoming mutts. The hounds take the bait and, as they chow down on the tampered biscuits, the arsenic instantly takes effect, dosing them up with ample poison to capsize a calf. Once incapatitated, a swift tap upside their heads with the baseball bat is enough to put these gnarlers growlers down permanently. As Jennings surveys his fine work, he cannot resist a little one-liner to keep things jovial.
“I was always more of a cat person myself”
Not his finest hour.
Within moments, Mrs Baylock’s coordinates are revealed, as she lunges forth from the dark recesses of the basement, screaming like a banshee and with the intent to maim and kill and not necessarily in that order. This time, Jennings steps back from the fray, although he does keep his weapon raised aloft just in case he should be called upon. However, he knows his pal has a personal score to settle with the nightmarish nanny after she encouraged his beloved wife Kathy to leap to her death from the hospital’s tenth floor window earlier.
True to form, Baylock leaps like a demented salmon towards Thorne, where she commences biting and clawing ferociously. Recalling her callous actions momentarily, he summons every drop of his inner resolve and pushes her away onto the hard floor, where he proceeds to kick her repeatedly in her ovaries. Jennings cannot resist sticking the boot in and the pair form a quite formidable tag team as they pummel her into a bloody pulp. With one final swing of Robert’s hatchet; her skull shatters like a bag of marbles all over his favorite persian rug. Not wishing to be outdone, Jennings stamps her discarded teeth down into dental dust and prepares another one-liner.
“Gum disease is a bitch nanny”
Don’t give up your day job Jennings.
The two men proceed through the mansion and head for Damien’s sleeping quarters, where he is napping oblivious to the fate soon to befall him. As they surreptitiously navigate his chamber, there isn’t so much as a flinch from the boy, and he continues to slumber as his father commences clipping away his son’s hair folicles. And there it is. The Mark of the Beast. 666 is all the proof he needs to validate his darkest niggling fears and sever any remaining paternal threads but the three digits are nowhere to be found. Could it be that the boy was benign all along? Has he blamed this poor defenseless cherub without thorough enough investigation? Jennings diverts his attention to the long red pointy tail and cloven hooves under the bed sheets and this is all the convincing it takes. At the very least this one’s a wrong ‘un and there’s no place at the family table for such a mean-spirited brat.
Thorn and Jennings bundle the now stirring hell spawn into the trunk of the car and deliver him straight to the local parish. On arrival they drag Damien kicking and screaming to the altar where they plan to provide him his last rites. As they lay him down and prepare to banish him from the earth once and for all Jennings makes the infernal error of looking straight into those piercing eyes and instantly becomes seduced by his cunning spell. With a freshly stoked fire in his eyes he looks up nonchalantly while Robert attempts to restrain the child.
“Help me dammit”
Jennings responds by producing a sharpened crucifix from his tweed blazer which he proceeds to raise above his head.
“Now damn you, now!!!”
That is all the invitation Jennings requires to plunge the relic down into its fleshy target. The destination however is not the young lad but his father and it sinks into the back of his scalp, causing an instant hemorrhage. As Robert’s lifeless carcass slumps over the boy and his grip slackens ultimately, Damien wriggles free and places his small trembling hand into Jennings’. Third time lucky on that one-liner perhaps?
“Papa don’t preach biotch!”
Finally success. The jubilant photographer exits the holy grounds and calmly vacates the crime scene with the son of satan closely in tow, mere seconds before the tardy arrival of armed forces. Foolishly, the senator has left two free passes to Wally World in his glove compartment. Both Jennings and Damien let out a smug smile in unison and head off to enjoy a most deserved vacation.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2013 (Director’s Cut 2015)