This Day Anything Goes
Burning bodies hung from poles. The Candyman surveyed the carnage and nodded. “Not bad for a night’s work. They’ll remember this Halloween.”
The front window exploded with an angry metallic snarl as Leatherface and his chainsaw came roaring through. Leatherface bellowed and ran towards Candyman, who caught the saw on his rusty hook. Sparks and smoke sizzled through the room.
“That’s a hell of an entrance, big boy.” The Leprechaun leaned on the shattered balcony a floor above, grinning. Both killers stared up at him with a glare.
“A black man, a retard, and a midget walk into a bar. Stop me if you heard this one before.”
Leatherface howled and waved his saw.
“Chill out.” Ice broke out over Leatherface like a winter fountain, freezing him in place. The Leprechaun looked over at Candyman. “Your play, half clap.”
“I’m just deciding whether to take a chunk out of Chunky here, or should I go for the fun-size?”
“Ah, short jokes. You’ve cut me to the quick. I guess that’s as sharp as you get when they don’t give you the proper education on the plantation.”
Candyman chuckled. The Leprechaun sneered. Candyman opened his mouth to retort and a swarm of bees buzzed out. The Leprechaun laughed and waved his hand, turning them to marshmellow stars and hearts.
The Candyman was already halfway up the stairs before the Leprechaun disappeared in a puff of gold dust.
He reappeared in a downstairs corner, smoking a pipe. “Tut-tut. Your little bee-boy antics won’t work here. I’ve been to the hood, dawg.”
“But have you said farewell to the flesh?” The Candyman popped up in the shadows behind him and peeled off a strip of greenish white skin with his hook. The Leprechaun squealed and poofed several feet away.
“Fair fight now, tiny dancer. How you expect to get any hits in with you running scared?”
The Leprechaun waved, turning the floor sticky with golden goo. The Candyman collapsed, sticking immediately to the boards. The Leprechaun smirked. “Honey, I plan on cheating. Any more bright ideas?”
Candyman laughed. “Oh, I don’t fix on doing anything.”
“Nope. I just need to make it but three more steps, Rumpledforeskin.”
“Three steps? Well, this I must see.”
Candyman prized himself from the floorboard and thumped forwards, squelching back to the thick honey. “That’s one.”
Leprechaun snickered as the Candyman lurched forward again. “Two. The boy can do math. And what happens on three?”
Candyman’s face split with a grin. “Three’s about when your fuckheaded ass realized that Big Boy just done defrosted.”
The Leprechaun looked up as Leatherface’s chainsaw bore down through his top hat. Green goo splattered as Leatherface sawed the tiny man in half. As his body parted, the floor suddenly unstuck and all the remaining ice around Leatherface disappeared.
“Looks like you’ve been quartered there, seeing as how you were only but half a fella to begin with. Course, I’m not too sharp with math to begin with, eh boss?” Candyman cracked his neck and held his arms out to the sides. “Just you and me, freakshow.”
Leatherface yowled and lurched frantically, chainsaw swinging wildly over his head. Candyman prowled forward. Their bodies collided violently. The floor creaked and groaned, and then shattered, spilling the two killers into the basement.
The two men smashed into the basement floor. Faded light spilled from the upstairs, illuminating the room. A withered old man in a wheelchair and oxygen mask sat with a puppet on his lap next to a giggling paunchy dentist strapped to a dental exam chair, a strange steampunk torture device wired into his skull.
The old man spoke out of the side of his mouth in a resonant baritone. But it was the dummy who’s mouth chattered. “Let us play a game. Do you understand the purpose of universal health care? What you gouge your patients for a simple cleaning is akin to violence against your fellow man. So I will cleanse you with gouging. If you use the toothbrush to spill a cup full of blood from your own mouth, you will be free.”
Behind them, a mutilated freak in overalls was worrying the corpse of a slender youth in a homemade molded mask with a name badge reading VERNON on his shirt. Axe wounds bled freely as the savage bashed the corpse into a pulpy mess.
The dummy managed to grunt “Who” before Candyman kicked him in the chest hard enough to turn his frail bones to powder. “I got a game. It’s called Punt, Pass, Kick.”
Leatherface faced down Hatchetface, a slow gentle circle. Then they pounced. But as soon as they touched, Kane Hodder realized he was playing both actors and they melded into a thick pinkish ooze splattering into the space-time continuum.
The dentist giggled as he struggled. “Thank god you’re here. I was running out of nitrous. If you could just—”
Candyman pulled a handle on the side of the exam chair, sending rusty gears on the Downward Spiral. Spring spronged, ticks tocked, then Dr. Giggles’ head split in five quarters like a blossoming snapdragon. Brains and viscera spurted up in the air before splashing all over the twitching physician.
Candyman rubbed his hand and hook together. “And that looks like that settles that.”
The floorboards of the basement splintered as rotting hands burst through the mulch. Creatures, freshly dead but still decaying in Scream outfits, rose from the floor. They were viciously pushed aside by three monstrous masked maniacs clutching yard tools.
Candyman backed away. “Bullshit! You’re dead. I fucking killed you!”
Razored chains wrapped around his arms pulling his hands apart in a spreadeagle. More razors ripped into his back, pulling his body taut.
The Cenobite leered over his shoulder. “Foolish boy. Did you honestly believe it would be that simple?”
Candyman gagged. “Well if none of us can die, how the fuck is this fatboy’s splatsturbation fantasy going to end?”
A shrill siren cut through the night. There was a deafening crash and then an old-time hearse with yellow flashing lights plummeted through the hole in the basement ceiling and smashed down on to the exam chair.
An aged smartass in a jumpsuit climbed out, rubbing the back of his neck. “Yeah, Ray. Go ahead and just park that anywhere.”
“Leave me along, Venkman. It’s this damn GPS. Egon must have installed it wrong.”
“The likelihood of my inadvert miscalculation is equivalent to that of Gozar the Gozarian triumphing in the Southern Living Magazine Gumbo cookoff.”
“Can it, boys. Looks like someone forgot to invite us to a swinging shindig. Good thing we brought the fireworks. Light em!”
The Tall Man dodged to the side as a proton stream tore past him, hooking around Freddy Krueger. A sharp wooden spike burst through his suit jacket, wielded by a plucky blonde teen and her assorted medley of misfit friends.
Ray pulled a foot off the toaster pedal as it sucked in The Djinn, and cocked an eyebrow. “Someone call the Girl Scouts?”
The blonde smirked. “Relax, Gramps. The Scoobies got this locked up. You guys can go back to the retirement home with Elvis and JFK and keeping making cameos in movies.”
“At least they still cast us. When’s the last time you had any screen time?”
Egon scowled. “Aren’t you supposed to be vampire slayers?”
“Well, that’s be tricky, considering two of us ARE vampires. But we branched out into all the paranormal. We ain’t afraid of no ghos—”
“That’s our line, dammit!”
The three parapsychologist exterminators faced down the swarm of hipsters. A twitchy werewolf grinned. “You’re outnumbered.”
“And you’re outgunned. Just like a stupid kid to bring stakes to a dematerializer fight.”
“So how do we handle this? Seniority? Rock paper scissors? Pudding wrestling?”
The red haired witch in the back cracked her knuckles. “Nah. We fight.”
“Fair enough.” The backpacks emited an electronic whine. “Let’s show these prepubescent bitches how we do things downtown. I’m about to cancel your asses like everything else Whedon’s done.”
“Bring it on!”
“Couldn’t even get cast in that, eh, SMG?”
“So what? You got killed by a virgin!”
“Only cause Ramis couldn’t get him to be in Year One. We had to go with his unfunny cousin, Michael Cera.”
And then the Marshmellow Man stepped on the house, killing them all.
Brian Prisco is a bitter little man stomping sour grapes into fine whine in the valleys of North Hollywood. He’s a screenwriter who’s never been professionally produced, an actor who’s never joined a guild, and a director who made one bad film. He’s one waiter apron away from a cliche, and he’s available for children’s parties. You can tell him how much you hate him at priscogospel at hotmail dot com.
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