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John Cafferty Hearts on Fire
Welcome back Grueheads to fight night and this fascinating skirmish between slasher behemoths past and present…and Leprechaun. We’ve lost nearly half our number and, to be fair, most of them were merely coasting on the last minute injury sustained by The Gingerdead Man as he ate himself in anticipation. Leprechaun’s buckled shoes are facing the heavens, Stu and Billy are back to watching Scooby Doo re-runs and saving up to pay for their phone bill, Chucky is now a ‘dead guy’, The Creeper has embroidered his last peeper and even the resilient Harry Warden is back digging trenches for his community service. Now things are about to get messy folks as next up is a man who will need absolutely no introduction. I can smell his rotting mother from the commentary box and it is time for this keen ornithologist to spread his wings in the ring.
Round Six: Marcus Miller vs. Norman Bates
Momma’s boy Norm has moral support in the audience tonight; rocking anxiously as her vacant sunken sockets catch any strobe-like illuminations amidst the baying crowd. We are now at full-tilt; no more unwarranted swagger or gamesmanship, Harry Warden has, if nothing else, showcased the quality in the tail end of this roster whom will be bidding to pilfer Marcus’ barbed crown.
Norman Bates may herald from an entirely different epoch to Miller but, through the formidable legacy left by the gangly pampered Peeping Tom, he has earned himself a shot at the belt. He’s already running tardy and the men’s shower room has proved to be the ideal pre-match splash zone. Presumably There’s Something About Mary has been showing on NetFlix as the Farrelly Brothers’ advice over not leaving your quarters with a loaded weapon is ringing in his ears, along with the incessant screeching of his haggard mommie dearest.
Norm chooses to undertake surveillance from the safety of his cubicle; ready to gather mind bullets as he leers over Marcus’ baby sister Audrey, who is lathering her nectarinal orbs in the adjacent booth. Little is he aware that he is being spied upon also; Audrey is very much mindful of his presence as she soaps her nooks and crannies teasingly. Norman can only discern her side profile, any reciprocation too his gaze is from a solitary eye which she uses to keep tabs on her prowler. He remains hunched over and clutches his member from beneath his favorite pinafore stolen from mother’s closet.
“Norman. Get that brazen slut out of my sight” is not the ideal dialogue to run through his protracted cranium as the blouse he is wearing accepts a full stash of Bates and there’s a shudder to his sigh of satisfaction upon release. This turns immediately to consternation as she turns to reveal a long slender poker, fractionally smaller than the peep hole he has fashioned, and slides it forcefully through the cavity and straight into his fleshy point. “Blood mother. Blood!” is his delirious cry as he recoils back, fragments of marrow and dislodged gristle protruding from the newly-carved wound. This sends him reeling back into a crumpled heap on the shower floor.
As he lays choking on the crude amalgamation of blood and bile rising in the back of his elongated pallete he hears the patter of bare feet behind his position. Norman is not afforded the opportunity of turning to face his inbound assailant as the apron strings of which he has been perpetually held captive for his entire adult life are wrapped securely around his larynx and steadily drawn together until the last puffs of oxygen have all but relinquished. Cruel cruel irony. The last visual to flash through his rapidly deadening eyes is that of his dear mother’s favorite hairpiece as it circumnavigates the blood spattered plug hole. Meanwhile, back in the ring, Marcus appears perturbed by his sibling’s selfish disposal of his intended quarry but the fact remains that the outcome would have been no different had the cross-dressing creep made it to the ring.
Round Seven: Marcus Miller vs. Cropsey
Ample crimson is already splashed across the canvas to make even Da Vinci blush and this fresh lick of claret paint has left the area resembling a slaughterhouse floor. We have reached the halfway house; six hopefuls of admittedly varying credentials have been sent crashing to their knees, had their wings clipped or batteries removed but our next proposed unfortunate is one of Keeper’s own personal darlings, Cropsey. One thing is for damned sure and that is that this crispy critter isn’t choosy with those trademark shears. There’s not a stick man in the world who deserves a bout of polio and, by the same token, not a soul who should see this frazzled mugshot staring back at them on a dark night.
Miller holds his masked head in his hands, still needled by his Baby Sister’s evisceration of a vital scalp and readying himself to come out swinging. A wooden canoe is delivered to center stage and placed in the opposing corner, once the blue corner but now painted crimson. Our undefeated champion rises to his feet and slowly begins his short journey across the ring. It’s a protracted jaunt and it seemingly takes forever to reach the destination but Marcus arrives at the business end of the giblet trail and stands before the vessel prepared for the pre-ordained rise of his next combatant.
There is an air of predictability about Cropsey’s eventual salmon-like leap from the timber and Marcus has the measure of his challenger, having meticulously researched his opponent prior to the bout. Leprechaun seems a distant fading memory now and this dude poses a far more tangible threat. Regardless, Miller couldn’t resist a sly dig at Cropsey as he stashed three rashers of charred bacon in his locker pre-fight. The burned one bounds forth from his rickety vessel and Marcus strides backward to accommodate his arrival. This show of respect despite the hackneyed manner of his unveiling is more than simply that. It is a statement of harsh intent; Miller is primed to feel that sweet sinful sorrow for the first time since his ‘rumble in the jungle’ with Audrey back in New Jersey.
Not a soul has tested his chin as yet and, to offer proof of his all-round capability, he will be required to access all sides of his cerebral dodecahedron this time out. Marcus invites his opposite number forward, offering his chin as a token gesture and Cropsey takes full advantage by swinging those razor-sharp death talons, catching his mask as he moves further onto the back foot. However, what hasn’t been entertained is that this is intentional on Miller’s part; nobody has so much as landed a blow to call their own but Marcus considers that Cropsey has earned his stripes and thus donates him a free strike on the house.
Of course kids, for every action there is invariably a reaction. From behind his back Marcus produces his woodsman’s axe, already tainted in cruor, only now it remains squarely within his grasp. The primary swing reaches its destination; never intended to maim, it is meant as a mere glance, like for like if you wish. Cropsey however isn’t nearly as agile, possibly due to the 98% scalding which he suffered at the hands of those petulant campers, and the axe catches his charred throat-box which proceeds to jettison darkened crimson.
He retaliates instantaneously but his snippers are greeted by metal as the axe blade penetrates their gaping arrival. Both men retreat; Cropsey through consternation but Miller purely to line up a subsequent flurry. When it comes, and it is remarkably rapid, it makes a far more emphatic impact; this time crashing a full three-inches into the shoulder blade of the inhuman torch. Cropsey grunts in agony but is, in no way, finished yet. He reaches back into the canoe and presents a more ranged tool of disposal; his trusty flamethrower. Orange dancing flames burst through its slender funnel, our defending champion neatly side-stepping its widened reach and making his way along the caretaker’s flank. He holds aloft his axe once more, already having tasted well-done flesh and ready for the prime rib.
This time he plunders a more critical strike straight into Cropsey’s cranium, causing him to drop his hot rod to the canvas and its flame is extinguished in the same moment as the marauding madman exhales final breath from his chapped lips. Again, the bell chime cometh and again, Marcus returns to his stool. Seventh heaven, now time for numeros eight and nine, and these planks of driftwood have done much to infuriate The Orphan Killer.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
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Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014
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