♫ Suggested Audio Jukebox ♫
 Wham! Club Tropicana
 Madonna Like a Virgin
 Coldcut featuring Junior Reid Stop This Crazy Thing
Tonight promises to be one hell of a party. I’m speaking of the kind of gathering folk will be still be talking about in years to come; one of absolutely legendary status. For months now I have been planning this shindig; frantically attempting to contact all my invitees in turn as many of them have been out of the loop for almost thirty years and no longer live in the fast lane. Back then we were all friends; each of us looking to carve out our niche in an industry undoubtedly on the ascension. Some of us were more successful than others but we all had our moment to shine. Slasher movies were in vogue and it appeared that any douche in a mask could earn a fair dollar by clocking up the kills.
My name is Ash and I have witnessed more than my fair share of carnage; battling deadites, spouting one-liners, and perfecting my wink for the ladies. I stood out from the crowd on account of my gloriously groovy chin which I like to refer to as ‘the chin’. One needs a strong jaw when tackling the leagues of undead released upon perusal of that wretched Necronomicon; you need to be able to take a punch and I proved, time and time again, that I could soak up the blows like a barman’s cloth. I did rather well from the boom and invested in real estate; in deepest suburbia funnily enough. This is my opportunity to pay it forward; share the wealth with a bunch of old has-beens and pariahs who were the last to learn of their fall from grace.
Not everyone was obtainable. Leprechaun is still apparently searching for that elusive pot o’ gold and, the last I heard, had taken to gang banging in South Central after Ice T led him astray during a routine sweep of Da Hood. Harry Warden had conflicting engagements as he has taken to campaigning for better rates of pay for miners and this has left precious little time to prepare his valentine gift for the object of his affection, let alone chew the gristle with a bunch of washed-up serial killers, none of which he found even remotely attractive. Speaking of faces only a mother could love, Cropsy cried off at the eleventh hour. After hearing that Freddy Krueger would be in attendance, he decided to give the celebration a wide berth as the pair have a long-running feud over which of them looks more like a paella. Madman Marz declined also although he kindly offered to attend should numbers be dwindling and informed me that he would be here in a jiffy if I called his name above a whisper.
I’m hoping the cenobites don’t crash the party. Glancing down the list of attendees it already appears that I will have a task on my hands without this particularly unruly posse showing up unannounced and threatening to raid the buffet. They’re actually alright if you catch them on their own and I once enjoyed a spirited debate with Pinhead over the advancement of horticulture in the mid west, but together they’re something of a handful even for a seasoned death dealer like myself. I’m keeping my shotgun on hand just in case as Butterball doesn’t fare well with finger foods and nobody wishes for the downpour of sausage meat as Chatter commences his bi-daily flossing. I did consider investing in a fuzzy felt donkey and old needle bonce would have been handy to have around when it came time to pinpoint its tail but it’s just not worth the aggravation.
Then there are the wannabees; those who expect that they have some divine right to consider themselves slasher sovereignty despite the fact that they never earned their stripes. Here comes one now.
“Hi. This is number 41 isn’t it? Have I come to the right place?”
“Depends. Who are you looking to find?”
“I’m here for the slasher homecoming”
“And what, may I ask, would your name be young lady?”
“Muffy St John”
“I thought so. You’re that chick from April Fools Day aren’t you?”
“The one and only”
“Sorry love. No can do I’m afraid. Tell you what, tell me how many teenagers you ventilated and I shall decide whether or not you’re fit to attend my soirée”
“Exactly. Goodbye Miss St John”
I despise nuisance calls; they make my dick itch and there is nothing in life more quietly and increasingly soul-destroying than an itchy dick. I’m not running some kind of soup kitchen for nomadic slags; this is an exclusive benefit fundraiser for those who have repeatedly paid their dues. The crème de la crème of slasher folklore; the forefathers of our fear and landlords of our consternation. I’m actually relieved that Leprechaun isn’t going to attend as he knocks around with some real low-lives and rumor has it that he was going to bring his Evil Bong. Having said that, nobody would have said no to a nibble on the Gingerdead Man. The word on the street would have it that the Puppetmaster brigade and their sworn enemies the Demonic Toys were planning to cause a disturbance on the grounds so I have asked Jason Voorhees to perform hourly sweeps and check the surrounding foliage for prowlers. If he decides to sweep the pool area on his rounds he may well find one.
Stragglers aside, I will freely admit that I’m somewhat pleased by the turn-out and the party appears to be in full swing after a slow start. Michael Myers was first on the scene and isn’t known as the greatest conversationalist so I introduced him to Norman Bates in an attempt at rousing him from his slump. Norm is a chatty fellow although he’s definitely not the sharpest tool in the shed either. Why he suspects that a solitary person gives a damn about his interest in ornithology is anyone’s guess and his reputation precedes him with regards to being tied to his mother’s apron strings.
“No Norman. I want you back by eleven thirty. No excuses”
“I don’t want to hear it Norman. Do you think it’s fun for me? Cooped up in this house while you go gallivanting about town with those filthy whores”
“There are no women going”
“Does it look like I was born yesterday Norman?”
“Are you being facetious?”
“No mother. I’m sorry. It’s just that it’s not a school night and I really wanted…”
“To leave your poor, chair-bound mother to her own devices while you sow your dirty little seeds”
“No mother no. It’s not like that”
“Then what it is like Norman? I’ll tell you what it’s like shall I?”
“You do everyday mother”
“It’s hell Norman. Is that what you want to hear? It’s sheer bloody hell. I’ve never failed you as a mother so why do you consistently do such so effortlessly as my son?”
“I bring you milk and cookies at suppertime”
“Apart from that what do you do for me?”
“I soak your bunions twice daily”
“You do nothing Norman. Other than whine on about having your heart broken when no other woman could ever love you like your dear mother. What thanks do I get for that? When do I get invited to parties? I’ll tell you when Norman. Never. Nobody cares and the thing that mortifies me most is that you don’t give a hell either”
“I do mother. Really I do”
“So you’ll be home by 11.15 then?”
“But you said 11.30…”
“Yes mother, I shall be home by 11.15”
“Good boy. Now be a dear and give your mother one of your all-over massages would you? I feel tense. You’ve made me tense Norman. Wretched child”
“Is this okay mother?”
I wonder if Bates has any idea that he thinks out loud. Myers certainly isn’t amused and has begun sliding away along the wall anxiously. I think I shall point Norman in the direction of Freddy as he never seems to shut the hell up either. You see, I’m something of a matchmaker at heart; my surreptitious but well-intended plan was to bring these guys together and discuss the notion of one final hurrah for old time’s sake. I’m alright; the money I see from merchandising alone keeps me in the lifestyle I’m accustomed but what of the less fortunate? Hopefully it will convince them that procrastination isn’t the key and that, while their eulogies are not yet written, there is still a place for them in modern-day horror. Please excuse me for a minute as I have an incoming phone call and I’m expecting it to be Leatherface. He said he would be late as he was waiting for somebody to come round and fix his rickety door. I’m hoping he can shake Norman from his funk as he too has a penchant for our feathered friends.
“Do you like scary movies?”
“I’ve told you to stop calling here”
“But I want to play a game”
“Fine Billy. Or is this Stu?”
“It’s Stu. Erm…I mean…answer this question and I may let you live. Answer wrong and I’ll gut you like the fucking pig that you are”
“In Jason Goes To Hell…”
“You’ve got to be shitting me. I’m hanging up now”
“Okay okay. During A Nightmare on Elm Street 5: The Dream Child…Hello? Are you still there?”
Silly rabbits. What makes them think that they have the divine right to join the congregation anyhoots? I clearly stated on the flyer “nineties dispatch artists need not attend” and even turned down Candyman on that basis so why would I invite a couple of cum-guzzling dick licks like Billy and Stu? If I let them in then it would be a free-for-all for all manner of drop-outs and disgruntled fishermen with elongated memories and not a damn thing to make them stand out. I’m the master of ceremonies here; that sawn-off shotgun resting against the mantle indeed belongs to me and I shall brandish it the way of any deadbeats or infidels. It worked on almost three hundred deadites so a couple of hormone-raging adolescents in a ghost mask can simply get back to class and come back when they have some hair on their nuts.
I’m starting to develop a migraine with all this uncertainty and additional stress. To rub extra salt in my already deepening wounds, Krueger has had one too many fireballs and decided to fill up my staircase with mallow fluff. He’s walking a decidedly thin line as his crimes are more heinous than most. Madman Marz, there I said his name above a whisper, would have killed for a franchise but nobody took him seriously despite a fruitful harvest. Freddy had it handed to him on a silver platter and frittered it like Redford at a casino. He would have been guaranteed a job for life had he not kept flapping those crispy lips. If he spent as much time shredding teenagers to ribbons as he did attempting to fashion a future on the stand-up comedy circuit then maybe he wouldn’t be where he is now. Standing at the doorway like a wallflower handing out Klonopin.
It’s been one long catalogue of cataclysm from the start. I won’t be entertaining this notion next year, I tell you that now. Some of them grew up too fast, others not at all. Each of them comes with their own laundry list of problems and not once has anybody commented on the lovingly prepared spread I laid on in their honor. No appreciation; just a bunch of freeloading nondescripts with precious little in the way of etiquette or social graces. Honestly, I have no inkling whatsoever as to why I even bothered. Anyways, while there are party poppers waiting to be popped, I’m still host. The doorbell just chimed and I guess I should answer it in case it’s the 5-0 reacting to noise complaints. I did inform the neighbors that festivities would be going on until at least two but it looks like Norman may make his curfew after all. I’ve had it; for me all that remains is to return to constructing my army of darkness someplace else. This lot can suck my 12 gage.
Shit, I almost forgot. The door. I’m not leaving anything to chance; the dead bolt is on and I shall be using the peep-hole on this occasion. That’s funny. I can’t see anyone there. Voorhees is there raking the leaves from the front patio but whoever rang the doorbell doesn’t appear to be present. I think I had better open up and double-check as I’ve had it up to here with having my chain yanked. Dagnabbit, I’ve been had. The oldest trick in the book and I fell for it like an intern. As I readjust eye-level and my ankles prepare to be soundly bitten, Chucky states his plea for his bowl of jelly and ice cream.
“Wassup my honky?”
I have no problem with being labeled the Bad Guy on this occasion. Did he not read the terms and conditions? No minors, clear as day, I know as much as Harry Warden questioned the spelling before sending back his RSVP. Do I look like daddy fucking day care? Hold that thought, it’s 11.07 and I had better give Norman his party bag before I get that old hag on the phone again. Manky old gastropod. You know who I feel bad for? Leatherface. He’s still waiting to get his door looked at. They proposed a PM house call but we all know that could mean anytime up until sunrise. Thanks to that cranky old crustacean in the cellar; I’ve been informed numerous times this evening that I will be dead by dawn and I have no intention of mincing about waiting for him to show up and tenderize the mutton, no matter how much time he spent sewing together his mask. This ain’t needlework for bitches bitch!
“Okay you rowdy rabble. Listen up and listen up good. This, my dear fellows, is my boomstick”
Truly, Really, Clearly, Sincerely,
Keeper of the Crimson Quill
#BrutalWordWrangler #CrimsonHoneyDripper #CruelWordSculptor
Copyright: Crimson Quill: Savage Vault Enterprises 2014