Summer Camp

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Suggested Audio Jukebox ♬

[1] Bananarama “Cruel Summer”

[2] Alice Cooper “(He’s Back) The Man Behind The Mask”

[3] Frank Sinatra “Luck Be A Lady”

 

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Welcome fellow summer campers to the one place on earth you are guaranteed not to come back alive from. My apologies if this wasn’t stated in the brochure but we ran out of column space and it seemed more important to pimp out the wonderful facilities that Camp Crystal Lake can offer at just a snip of the price of other seasonal hot spots. I won’t bore you with the details now as you’ve only just arrived and I can see you wish to place your bags down and stretch those long lustrous legs a little after such an uneventful journey. Fret not as we’ve got activities coming out of our ears here and your short stay promises to be anything but boring.

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For now I would encourage you to get a feel for your surroundings and, as your designated camp counsellor, I’ll make sure I’m on hand to answer any burgeoning questions. Don’t do anything I wouldn’t and may I suggest a moonlight skinny dip to freshen up some? No offence, but body odor on a co-ed ain’t sexy, and besides, I’ve found an ideal peeking spot over by the bushes where I can call out “Ch ch ch, ah ah ah” and have been waiting since last fall to test it out.

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Had I not mentioned that we’re in danger of imminent foreclosure? An idyllic bayside location like this, you’d expect folk to be licking our cuticles to book their long weekends here, but it’s simply not the case. It wasn’t always like that, at least not until “the incident”. I’m sorry, did I just accentuate that? It has been forbidden for me to mention “the incident” and I’m afraid my lips will need to remain firmly sealed about “the drowning”. Not a word will be uttered about “the murders” either as I’d be sacked on the spot for informing you of the seven high school kids that were slaughtered here back when you were lounging around in daddy’s testicular think tank without a care in the world. Neither will I disclose the legend of Jason Voorhees.

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Mom’s the word I’m afraid and I’d hate to aggravate Pamela as she’s already edgy after not having had sex since the turn of the seventies. Curiously this coincided with her picking up that lamb wool sweater for a steal at the local thrift store. Must itch like a bitch as she’s constantly griping about something. That said, Jason’s first swimming lesson proved a bit of a headache.

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Bless the plucky little trooper, he was absolutely lapping it up to begin with and seemed as happy as a peanut in soda. Indeed, I hadn’t seen him that gleeful since about five seconds before mommie dearest accidentally shut his head in the fridge. Naturally, folk just assumed that he was born with some kind of outrageous birth defect, where Pamela was forced to shoulder the guilt of being her own son’s scourge. Anyways, Jason had just begun to master the backstroke, when one of his arm bands slid off and this caused him to panic.

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Regrettably, the two counselors responsible for ensuring his wellbeing, Betsy and Clive, had taken their eye off him momentarily and were engaging in what they assured the authorities after “the incident” was official camp business. Consequently, poor Jason sank to the algae faster than Rebel Wilson in a cast iron wetsuit and his doting mother was left utterly devastated. Here’s one from the Voorhees family album to give you some idea how distressing the whole unfortunate episode was.

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Naturally, the authorities attempted to keep a tight lid on the events of that night and played the whole thing down as a tragic rafting accident. However, word travels fast in a small town, and certain locals had their own take on the Camp Blood massacre which they were only too happy to offer up to any subsequent groups of fun-loving ramblers. One such blabbermouth was resident kook Ralph and he got potentially his only kick out of starting panic, informing any newcomers of Crystal Lake’s infamous death curse.

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Did these disposable teens take heed of the old-timer’s caution? Do they ever? Before the night was through, history had repeated itself and, with Pamela no longer on hand to dish out any early term cards, it was left to Jason to pick up the reins. Curiously he appeared to have bypassed adolescence entirely and all those deep-sea stomach crunches had paid off in spectacular fashion as he now towered over the tallest oak in the thicket and even managed to procure himself some rather appropriate headgear. Sporting a set of facial coordinates that made Rocky Dennis look like Helen Hunt, a crumpled fedora was evidently out of the question. Besides, with his counterpart owning the monopoly on rare baseball trading cards, ice hockey seemed the only obvious choice.

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Why this particular sport you ask? Well it’s contact isn’t it? There is nothing whatsoever stated on the rule sheet aimed at preventing the venting of any pent-up frustration on your opposing pucksters, indeed, it is downright encouraged. Not that Voorhees needed any rallying to take these sorry saps straight to the sin bin and a hockey stick wasn’t all he was packing in his kit bag. We’re talking axe, archer’s bow complete with miraculously replenishing quiver, spear, ice pick, the whole nine although he did kindly agree to loan his garden shears to an old acquaintance from the nearby Camp Stonewater.

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By far the most clinical tool in his shed however was his trusty machete and this quickly became known as his signature weapon. One by one, the frisky co-eds began to show up dead, until which time as business started to drop off. Desperate not to face bankruptcy, the campsite committee then kindly organized an all expenses paid one way trip to The Big Apple in the hope that Jason would rediscover his inner city boy and the less said about that excursion the better.

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Long story short, there’s every reason to believe that he’s still out there mincing about in the undergrowth, waiting ever more impatiently for the ideal moment to launch his umpteenth comeback. It would appear that you can’t keep a good masked madman down and history has an uncanny knack of repeating itself where Camp Crystal Lake is concerned. Thus it only feels right to have offered a little heads-up about “the incident” and I do hope it doesn’t take the sheen off your time here as we’re kind of banking on some positive feedback right now to fend off the bailiffs.

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Now some of you may suspect that you’ve been lured here under false pretences and, for that, I apologize unreservedly. But your safety is imperative and that is why I have come up with a few ground rules to assist in making your stay as pleasurable and incident-free as possible. As already mentioned, taking a midnight swim is acceptable practise, and I will be personally responsible for overseeing any late night dips to ensure that nothing untoward plays out. But there are some strict no-nos and you will be expected to tow the line, or else be sent home packing instantly.

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Now if I may ask for a show of hands from the ladies please to ascertain any virgins amongst us. Uh-huh, just the one I see. And what may your name be young lady? Jessica? Excellent, the rest of you girls will be expected to take a leaf out of Jessica’s book and dye your hair mousey brown. Enough of the groans, this is in your best interests believe me. In addition, we’ve laid out some suitably dowdy clothes on your bunks and sports bras to conceal those ample bosoms.

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You’ll thank me come sunrise as Voorhees has a tendency to plump for the most promiscuous first and following protocol may just prevent you being hacked up into iddy biddy pieces. Yes Bambi that does mean you. And I don’t want to spot you performing your stretches in plain view of the rest of your camp mates or sneaking off into the shrubbery with Randy for a quick round of hide the Pooh stick either. Doing so is a surefire way of being promptly excluded from any further activities.

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Next up is Chet and I realize that you have a reputation to uphold, being the captain of the football team and all, but that doesn’t mean you should go investigating ay strange noises you hear. This ain’t high school son and, jock or no jock, your boyish good looks and ripped abs aren’t buying you immunity here. Thus I have selected a pair of unflattering but practical orthopedic sandals which I want you to wear with brown socks and a pair of beige corduroys.

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Back on campus you may be the big I am but, for the next 24 hours, you will answer to the name Norris and keep Little Chet under lock and key at all times. For the record, I’d lay off the steroids if I were you, as they’re evidently doing you absolutely no favors and that pair of gym socks stuffed strategically down your pants aren’t fooling anyone. Capiche? Good now I expect you to know the periodic table inside out by breakfast.

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Back to you Randy and I don’t want you playing the race card when I request that you paint your face magnolia just for tonight. Statistics have proven that your chances of making it through the night without coming a thorough cropper are slimmer than an emu’s calves and, while Jason is all about equal opportunities for young people, shouting “Dang! This shit just got real!” at the top of your voice is just asking for ventilation. Is there any chance that you can act a little more white, perhaps “Fiddlesticks! This doo-doo just solidified!” would assist you in remaining under the radar.

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I’m only going by the facts and figures and, besides, it didn’t stop White Chicks from taking over $100 million at the worldwide box-office. May I remind you that I don’t make the rules, I simply follow procedure and don’t relish the embittered outcry from the African-American community when another promising young brother is snuffed out before his time.

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Moving lethargically on, do we have any stoners present? Judging by the gormless grins on your faces, Ike and Mike, I’d guess that would be you two likely lads right? And I’m also willing to hedge a bet that the bong to your left is fully loaded and primed for the kindling? Not on my shift it isn’t. There shall be no blazing up tonight, no cross joints constructed, zero magic mushroom picking quests undertaken, and I’m confiscating the homemade brownies too just so we’re crystal.

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Meanwhile, alcohol is also prohibited and, should you find yourself clucking for a buzz, then you’ll have to jack up on something I like to refer to as the “natural high”. Besides, there’s a ukulele in the tool shed, new testament bible in the study, and a party-sized pouch of Skittles in the pantry in case you really feel like pushing the boat out. Please round-up any contraband, deliver it to my personal quarters by no later than 23:00 hours and I’ll see to it that it’s mostly returned on you departure. That’s the best I can do I’m afraid, and remember, drugs are bad m’ckay?

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Anyways, I think that’s everything on the agenda sewn up good. Other than these few paltry stipulations, knock yourselves out and have a doozy of a weekend. I don’t wish to be Barry the buzz kill, really I don’t, but my responsibility is to keep you rambunctious lot out of harm’s way and I can only do that if you follow procedure. Alternatively you can choose to ignore my advice, run riot like randy cattle, drink copious amounts of kidney poisoning alcohol, smoke yourselves even more stupid with pot, flaunt those D-cup assets, engage in unprotected sex in old barns, split up from one another when you should be remaining adhesive, and investigate any strange squirting sounds coming from behind the bushes near the fresh blood trail.

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You’re all past the legal age of consent and, for all my threats of cutting this outing short, I’m quite aware that you’ll likely do whatever the hell you wish so don’t let me stop you. I’ve done my bit and nobody can say you haven’t been comprehensively forewarned. As for Jason Voorhees, well he’s not particularly tropical when it comes to adhering protocol and I get the feeling our one-sided chat went in one ear and straight out the adjacent one. Whatcha gonna do that hasn’t already been attempted? 

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I mean, he’s been talked down, knocked out, buried, stabbed, riddled with bullets, hung, set alight, electrocuted, chained to a hefty boulder at the bottom of the very lake he sank in, doused in Manhattan’s most flourescent toxic waste, cryogenically frozen and shipped to Neptune, and we even attempted subcontracting his sworn enemy, Freddy Krueger, to halt his murderous march at one point. Fat lot of good that did. The bottom line is that you can lead a horse to water but you can’t remove the chip from the shoulder of a crazed 6″3 juggernaut and not expect to wind up sautéed into segments. Sorry kids, but it’s a darned sight more than my job’s worth.

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Besides, I hear the good people of Haddonfield, Illinois are struggling to recruit babysitters at present and that sounds like a far more cushy gig to me. I do hope the old Myers house has Netflix. One last thing before I shake a tailfeather or thirteen and catch the very next Greyhound outta this hell hole, and I’ll leave it to tonight’s guest speaker to wrap things up once he’s taken his bicycle clips off. Take it away Ralph.

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Click here to read Final Girl

 

 

 

GREY KEEPER FRAME

11 Comments

    1. Yikes, I’m not sure if I wish to be left alone with myself either you know. I swear I caught myself tying my own laces together yesterday. Reckon I’ve bagged myself one of those death curses… 😀

  1. I can’t help but read this in Crazy Ralph’s voice. I imagined that this was his speech in the beginning but after years of no one listening to him, he went batty and shortened it to “YOU’RE DOOMED! IT’S GOT A DEATH CURSE!”

    This honestly cracked me up. The emu legs nearly killed me with laughter!

    1. I tickled myself with the peanut in soda but the emu calves weren’t far behind. You know me, never happier than when amusing myself. I love that you read this in Crazy Ralph’s voice, seems like the perfect tone to me. Oh and by the way… YOU’RE DOOOMED!!!

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