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Survivor Burning Heart
I have a little poser for you Grueheads? Who would come out top in the ultimate skirmish involving all our beloved slasher Gods from the annals of horror? The Keeper of the Crimson Quill is prepared to hedge his bet on Marcus Miller but in the interests of fairness I am prepared to put my money where my mouth is and see this melee through. Twelve rounds, twelve deadly treasures. Miller shall take on each in turn with the prize being slasher sovereignty.
Now I must warn you in advance, heads will most definitely roll, spleens will invariably be wrenched free from their casing and inevitably used to garrotte and gouge out the eyes of any failed combatants. Ultimately it will be last man or puppet standing, and whomever that shall be will have been required to display God-like fortitude and a hefty pair of testicles. We’re talking hulking, oval, pulsating, clean-shaven death spuds to make it through this brutastic roster. Seconds out…
Round One Marcus Miller vs. Ghost Face
Don’t make me fucking laugh! You call this a warm-up? Something tells Keeper that this will be both swift and pitiless; the most one-sided brawl this side of Wendy vs. Jack. Marcus Miller crosses the barbed wire threshold a full five minutes before his prank-calling challenger. Too busy making heavy-breathing crank calls to powerless adolescent airheads, Ghost Face takes an eternity materializing from his backstage sanctuary.
Of course being such a moronic klutz, he trips over his own poncho on numerous occasions while his antagonist looks on bemused from inside the ring. I have always speculated as to why this douche goes down like such a pussy wimp. Is it the sheer awkwardness of Billy and Stuart fumbling around inside that suit, skirmishing over the top bunk? If so then surely only Matthew Lillard has the cranial cylinder elongated enough to fill out that gormless visor.
By the time these bumbling buffoons eventually make it ringside and attempt to clamber in through the ragged ropes; Marcus, seemingly weary of the procrastination, rains down five machete blows to the back of Stu’s neck, almost severing it clean from his twitching torso. A couple of further saws of the blade through any enduring cartilage and it’s all over for hapless Stu, who at this point must be regretting his decision to take top bunk. Meanwhile, witnessing his associate’s grim reprisal from beneath the remainder of his convulsing cadaver, Billy turns to make a hasty exit from whence he came.
Of course, he immediately slips on the cruor of his obliterated compadre; hitting the hard floor like a sack of sopping shit and knocking himself clean out in the process. This is all the invitation Marcus requires as he slithers through the bloody barricade, strolls nonchalantly up to the sniveling goon and places the heel of his boot on Billy’s temple. Three vicious stamps and it’s seconds out; comprehensive dominance shown with one of his many glorious signature moves, leaving fragments of shattered skull and squishy membrane strewn across the floor before the rapturous fans. On this early indication Marcus Miller is going to prove an inimitable rival.
Round Two Marcus Miller vs. Leprechaun
For fuck sake!!! You won’t find your pot’o’gold here you charlatan. Marcus takes particular exception to this miniature assassin and the psychological ordeal commences backstage. As Leprechaun opens his locker to prepare for combat, he is greeted by a minute coffer perched in the cubbyhole. “Me gold!!!” the impish imbecile proclaims elatedly and hurriedly he grasps the item with both hands. There is no bullion here however, just a cluster of Stu and Billy’s giblets as a stern warning not to even bother turning up for his inevitable evisceration.
To the feisty little guy’s credit, he shows none of his fallen predecessor’s tardiness. If nothing else five turgid sequels show some perseverance, no matter how misguided that may be and, unperturbed, the pint-sized plum shuffles down the crimson carpet on time and barely detected by the baying crowd.
With the aid of a nearby foot-stall; he rolls fluently under the bottom rung and into an absolute shitstorm, poor fella. Saying that, Marcus is empathetic in his six second dispatch. Maybe it’s because he witnessed the Oompa Loompas kicking the living fuck out of him in the car park prior to the bout. Whatever his reasoning, Miller swiftly slides a screwdriver straight in through one temple, exiting the other and embedding itself deep into the Grue-sodden canvas before he even gets time for a single limerick. Ding ding!!!
Round Three Marcus Miller vs. Charles Lee Ray
Come on now, this is starting to become far too straightforward for our, as yet, untested mask-headed madman who I’m confident is beginning to expect the Muppets to come bounding out. In truth, I’d envisage Animal to pose a sterner challenge than our ‘Good Guy.’ I’m assured that, had Charles transferred his blackened soul to a more fearsome vessel then he would have given an upright account of himself, but alas the infamous Lakeshore Strangler ended his reign of terror inside a potty-mouthed piece of plastic with no penis.
Tough brakes indeed. Something tells me that his profane insults won’t carry much weight when faced with such a formidable opponent. Chucky is delivered to the scene via FedEx; with Marcus’ manager, the almighty Matt Farnsworth, signing for the parcel ringside. The souvenir is gratefully received and impatiently unwrapped by Marcus. Years of being beat up on and having his head dunked below the surface by those appalling holy whores at the reformatory, and never once did he receive even the smallest gesture of affection so he’s inside the paper in no time at all.
Resting within his clear casing with a gormless grin on his stupid synthetic face, the Good Guy doll’s smug smile is soon replaced by a deeply concerned grimace as the realization sets in that this really will be Child’s Play. Chucky doesn’t even have adequate time to register Marcus’ dismay over already receiving one of these shitty dolls last year, before he is compacted by the orphan’s seething fist. If Fred Krueger had been the adversary here then I would imagine him coming out with some inane punchline, “This ain’t Toy Story, bitch!” or suchlike. Miller however remains strangely muted.
He has had ample opportunity to vocalize his repulsion but, up until this point, hasn’t received the opposition to warrant wasting the words. So, three rounds in and The Orphan Killer hasn’t even had cause to break a sweat. Admittedly, he has been pitted against the real bottom-feeders of the slasher mantle and the next two adversaries should provide a sturdier test of both brawn and wits.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014