Suggested Audio Candy
Bill Conti “Going The Distance & The Final Bell”
We are getting to the business end of our battle royale with cheese. Smoke us a kipper as we’ll be back by dawn. Right now it is the turn of two combatants with which y’all will be more than familiar. Neither are likely to pursue a career in underwear modeling so they have spent their hours perpetuating their cycle through countless inane sequels. Both are worthy of a sound ventilation but neither have any intention of simply making up numbers. This proposes to be a particularly savage soirée Grueheads; look out for our mobile hot dog vendor as her wieners are to die for.
Round Eight: Marcus Miller vs. Freddy Krueger
Our next hopeless hopeful was always going to have a few cunning tricks up his filthy sweater sleeve. Freddy Krueger didn’t get his name from playing fair. He uses dreamscapes as his stomping ground and has therefore operated under this own unique set of house rules. The reason for this is elementary; he is a yellow-bellied coward, the worst type, a philandering one. His creations do most of the hard work for him and he just pops up at the close to dig in those five-fingered blades of his and claim each scalp. Never once is he in the thick of it; always lurking from a safe vantage and never with enough courage in his conviction to actually augment his terror mano-a-mano.
His playground has far more scope than any of his compatriots and the dream weaver actually begins the skirmish the evening before the proposed big fight. The dastardly dreamscape he concocts is rigged; Fred has memorized his one-liners and painstakingly fashioned a hellhole of considerable consternation. Chuckling to himself maniacally, he performs any last-minute checks to the savage sandbox he has devised. Krueger is feeling brazen and is exhibiting more than a whiff of arrogance. Let’s study the facts; he has been solely responsible for the deflowering of infants, pilfered their innocence and drawn the curtains on their short lives for his own sick amusement. He dallies not over the prospect of of defiling one more bastard child for the road and has pockets bulging with dream confectionery. What a douche.
Already he senses the presence of The Orphan Killer within his tightly-woven dream fortress, marshmallow moat around its perimeter. Genuinely excitable, he removes his five-fingered death glove from the grinding wheel and slides it over each of his fried fingers. The perfect fit, this quintet of terrorization could carve through steel and a handshake is never going to be on the cards. “Freddy’s coming to get you” is his typically inane retort as he moves briskly across the grounds in hot pursuit of the next planned notch in his belt.
A cursory glance to his left reveals to him a young girl skipping rope amidst his limbo oasis. A cunning smile leaves his fast flaking desperate-for-balm lips accompanied by a nod of confirmation that all traps are seemingly in place and defense of his tower can inaugurate. However, that mischievous grin of his is wiped from his thin crust like freshly laid bird shit on a windscreen as it becomes audible that the nursery rhyme being hypnotically recounted is not the ditty expected. One, two, Miller’s coming for you. Three, four, he’s been here before. Five, six, He is wise to your tricks. Seven, eight, he’s decided your fate. Nine, ten…”I’m asleep again?” Fred delivers the final line of verse in an ominously muted pitch as he discovers that the bairn rhythmically hurdling rope before him is none other than Audrey Miller. This dream being woven is not of his design.
His peepers bulge in their encrusted sockets and two fumbling strides backward see him hurtling down the river bank and directly into the soft gooey moat of his construction. Wrong again fuck beans; his back, already victim of acute sun burn, feels a myriad of harsh pinches and it fast becomes evident that this quarry is laced with a far more rigid filling, barbed wire to be exact. As he flinches in angst Krueger is released from Miller’s phantasm and awakens spread-eagled on the canvas.
Totally neutered, Freddy rubs his eyes to confirm that his one true strength has been snuffed away. Marcus musters a growl for the first time in sheer disgust of Krueger’s underhand antics. He isn’t best pleased about Freddy’s steady and predictable decline of purpose through way of endless increasingly banal sequels; such heinous wasteful crimes are not looked upon favorably here and Marcus has absolutely no intention of making this swift and pain-free, not by a long chalk.
The morose molesting marauder rises to his feet but not of own his instruction.There is no more pain, all nerve-endings are long-since shot, but the visceral sting of watching his own forearm tendons levering him upright sucks any diminutive supplies of carbon monoxide straight from his lung hamper and identikit threads along his thighs tug harshly forth soon afterwards bringing him vertical, rendering him impotent and wholly exposed. This is no time to be flashing your junk Fred. Snared like a shrew, he can only watch on hopelessly as Marcus lunges forth and thrusts a fistful of sharpened talons into this puppet’s strings with a solitary side swipe.
With all four threads being removed he plummets earth-bound once again and the five razors puncture a second time, straight into his underarms and exiting through his back fat. Now this time it smarted some. “This cannot be. What about the souls of the children?” As a last throw of the dice he hoists up his filthy sweater to reveal a melange of contorted souls, each screaming in agony over being yanked prematurely from existence. This guilt trip doesn’t wash for a second and there is no tugging of Miller’s blackened heartstrings.
Marcus gets straight to work on pinching every last petulant pimple with Krueger’s own scissor-handed mitten. As each pustule pops, another trapped soul is relinquished until his chest plate resembles a shat on paella. But there is more folly about to befall Fred. The deciding blow is to his groin with his over-cooked sheesh taking the full force of Miller’s middle digit and side pinkies pushing through each of his flaming meatballs. One final erection is attained but, once again, this is not of Freddy’s own free will. Marcus flicks the bird, a big final ‘fuck you Fred’ and with that all his fingers are erected, tearing his sack to ribbons.
Marcus brings each blade vertically up his torso, popping numerous vital organs en route to the summit. As they reach his heart receptacle there is nothing. Zip, zilch, nada, no occupancy whatsoever. With that, Krueger sinks through the canvas floor like a brick in a cow pat. Of course, this being Freddy, he has to have one pathetic last word and his glove bursts back through the sheet to reclaim his fedora. Denied, even Indy wouldn’t have gotten away with such a cheap shot and Marcus brings down the ax on his hand, sending this genie back into his bottle for eternity. What a fucking nightmare!
Round Nine: Marcus Miller vs. Jason Voorhees
There is a common misconception with our next combatant that he’s a little hard done by which he has coasted on for too long now. Granted the beginning of his life posed some particularly gnarly challenges; the worst of which being that the poor bugger drowned in that lake. He was meant to be wearing a rubber ring that day but staff at Camp Crystal couldn’t force it over his misshapen head. Consequently he endured a watery demise, not the most pleasant turn of events for one of such tender years. Even then, it was his mother who was culpable, not on-site staff as suggested. Most of them were no more than seventeen and only guilty of a little promiscuous sex and some harmless pot smoking. His ma should have been more responsible and this all could’ve been avoided had she been on her game and not fixated with their shenanigans.
Poor Jason, doomed to forever wander those woods in search of retribution, Wrong again, the counselors all pitched in to send him on an all expenses paid round trip to the Big Apple. Not satisfied with their show of kindness, he bitched and moaned until they repeated the gesture, only this time he was gifted with a spot of space travel. A lot is said about his ill-fortune when, in actuality, not many folk are afforded the chance to share a pot of herbal tea with E.T. Sure he has suffered a few indignities during his transience but it’s all in the past now and he is both big enough and ugly enough to have put that shit behind him and moved on. Norman knows all about the stress caused by having an overbearing parent and Ma Bates has long been his cross to bear. All we ask is for a little perspective; Norm still has to flannel bathe his mother daily whereas Jason has been allowed to stand on his own two feet so really has nothing to bitch about.
Predictably his dear mother has accompanied him to the bout this night and is first up to the ring while her son paces impatiently backstage. She makes her way ringside but, rather than taking a pew in the family enclosure, she cannot resist taking a swipe at Marcus and climbs in through the barbed-wire ropes to challenge him. She is culpable of not taking sufficient care of herself and it appears she shops for clothing at Good Will just like Freddy Krueger as her dirty woolen sweater hasn’t seen a rinse cycle for many a year. Dental hygiene is far higher on her list of priorities however and she has a face full of grand piano keys to show for her regular brushing. Her well-maintained gnashers are first in the ring, a grill of pearly whites which would make Gary Busey proud. Shame they’ll soon be in a basket.
Marcus cannot be held responsible for the atrocities which befell her son that day, he wasn’t even born when it occurred. Any empathy felt is tempered by his annoyance over Jason’s wasteful antics since. He could have used it as a stepping stone, spent a few years with his head in the books and become a rocket scientist or a marine biologist but instead he allowed his bitterness to overwhelm him and set upon ventilating co-eds for a living. A loving parent’s influence could have made all the difference but Pamela, in her infinite wisdom, decided it would be preferable for him to go on a grand killing spree instead. She is due a little punishment and Miller is more than contented with the notion of being the one to lay the smackdown. Years spent in an orphanage being set upon by unscrupulous nuns and you don’t see him bitching about it.
She makes her way to the center of the ring with a glare of hatred in those wild eyes of hers. Still woefully deluded into believing life owes her something, she is beyond redemption and deserving of whichever horrid comeuppance Marcus has planned this day. He has packed his own machete, it seems only fair that he use this to make his point given as Voorhees has used his many times to interrupt coitus and annihilate said teens. “My boy, my only child. My Jason, he didn’t deserve the treatment he received” is her opening rant and, for the first time since this royal rumble commenced, Marcus breaks his vow of silence. “Cry me a river bitch” he snarls and, with that, he slices the truffle from her neck root and watches as it pings off into the front row of the crowd and into the lap of one lucky spectator. Quite the prize one feels, if nothing else, it will make an ideal paper weight.
Jason is up on his feet instantaneously, mortified at the atrocity he has been subjected to. Game on, the playing field has been leveled and both men are now orphans. Voorhees signals his intent by ruthlessly spearing a couple of teens making out a couple of rows back before making his way down to center stage. Marcus, meanwhile, hasn’t moved a muscle and still grips the bloody machete used to decapitate dear old mommy. Jason has come suitably tooled up for this battle-to-the-death and is dragging an old burlap sack filled with instruments of torture by his side. Ax, machete of his own, hedge trimmer, archery set, fisherman’s spear; all present and correct. He is fully aware of the threat posed by Miller and has watched him dismantle every combatant sent his way with precision and no discernible conscience.
In a somewhat cowardly opening move Jason loads up his bow with a couple of pointed pinchers from his quill and fires them into Marcus from a safe vantage. They both make contact, years of knocking about an old camp site have given him ample time to perfect his archery. Yet, Miller has taken these body blows entirely in his stride. He breaks them off from his chest and right thigh respectively and discards them, ushering Jason forth in the process. The bow is loaded up once again but this time the incoming arrows are caught mid-flight before they can make their impact. Voorhees panics and reaches back into his quill but the cupboard is bare. He tosses his bow to one side and produces his hatchet, climbing in through the ropes and making his way over to square up to his antagonist.
He procrastinates not in making his presence felt, lunging forward with his ax and attempting to sink it into a fleshy spot or two. Marcus is having none of it and he foxtrots both incoming blows with the grace of Fred Astaire on the top of his game. Jason throws his hatchet to the canvas in frustration and dips once again into his bag of tricks, this time presenting the strimmer. His keen gardening skills are wasted on Miller and a couple of swipes are effortlessly evaded. Soundly befuddled, Voorhees delves back into his inventory and this time it’s the turn of his trusty spear. Freshly plucked from the human sheesh back in row four, this weapon has already tasted blood and is thirsty for more. He prods at Marcus but to no avail, his advances are welcomed and the spear wrenched free from his grasp.
Now soundly discombobulated, the juggernaut reaches for his final weapon, the machete. This serrated blade has seen its fair share of gaping wounds and up-ended appendages. Now we’re talking, this is exactly what Miller was hanging out for. Machete vs. Machete, it’s almost poetic; this battle shall continue on an even keel and one of these hulking monstrosities will remain standing come the end whereas the other shall be dispatched in a manner far less than hospitable. Jason plunders first and his attack is prosperous, the blade settling into Miller’s bicep and commencing to carve away at the cartilage. His opponent’s response is more telling and makes contact with the big man’s abdomen, then hoisted horizontally opening his gut like a fish. Speaking of which, a couple of carp heads come glugging out of the fissure; accompanied by a clutch of algae, a dozen maggots and an old boot. If you are what you eat then this guy really needs to find himself a good dietitian.
Visibly in some pain, Voorhees reaches out with his bare hands and starts to advance but Marcus reciprocates with the tossed-aside hatchet, plunging it straight into his forehead. This was sufficient to end Cropsy’s claim for the throne but Jason is nothing if not persistent and keeps on coming. His mask splits down the middle revealing his deformed fungal face and this is no time for a snapshot. It’s a hideous sight to behold, nothing is where it is supposed to be, his left eye is on his cheek and he could’ve done with wearing a brace a long time back as his teeth resemble chipped-away mossy tombstones. Anybody else would have felt more than a dash of pity when being made privy to the fateful hand this doomed adolescent has been dealt but not The Orphan Killer. There are no excuses within this ring, no holds barred.
The spear tip is next and it exits Jason’s spleen as it is forced through his inner undergrowth. This is enough to send him careering into the canvas, face-down thankfully. He knows he is beaten, he has seen his Final Friday and there will be no New Beginning, not this time. He begins a macabre metamorphosis before Miller’s very eyes and turns back into a bandy-legged child, whimpering as he awaits his denouement. His wait isn’t protracted for long as Marcus has no interest in making a child suffer after his first-hand experience with neglect and abuse. He kneels down, slides the faithful screwdriver from his boot and rams it into Jason’s temple. Game over, his fast-hemorrhaging brain activates sleep mode and with that the bell chimes once more.
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014