I Am Doll Parts
Jack Skellington’s plastic nightlight visage dimly reflected off the silky blonde hair of the little girl asleep in the bed. Pink fluff engulfed her on all sides. An assortment of china dolls and stuffed animals adorned shelves surrounding the room. It was like living in Barbie’s vagina.
Four sharp razors tickled around the doorjamb, followed by a horrible scarred face peering into the room. The mass of twisted and burned flesh creased into a wicked yellow grin.
The besweatered maniac eased through the half-cracked door, adjusting his fedora with a non-razored hand. He skipped mockingly over to the side of the bed, whispering a singsong lullaby. “One, two, I’m-a coming for you. Three, four, shoulda locked that door. Five, six, was just too many seasons for ‘Sex and the City.’”
The razors eased towards the nape of the sleeping girl’s neck, just above the flowered nightgown. The little girl turned in her sleep, lashing out with the butcher’s knife she had tucked beneath the pillow, her mauled face traintracked with stitches, angry red locks of hair poking out from beneath the wig. “Surprise, asshol— huh?”
Freddy sprung back, his razors ripping the wig from the little doll’s head. “The fuck? Chucky?”
The doll slams both against the pillow. “Aw, fer Chrissake! Krueger? That supposed to be you? It’s not even the cool Robert Englund you. It’s the fucking tranny Bad News Bear.”
“Me tranny? What the hell you going all Carol Ann on me for?”
“It’s bait, you dipshit. Hello? A fucking full little girl’s bedroom in a haunted house? Guess they didn’t burn the retard out when they S’mored your pederast ass.”
“That’s bullshit. Nancy’s dad’s a fucking li—”
“Yeah, I know. I did prison time. Everybody’s innocent. It wasn’t me! It was the guy with the hook for a hand! Save it for TMZ, Krispy Kreme.”
“Eat shit, Tickle-Me-Dildo. I thought you retired. Settled down, squirted out a few Cabbage Patches, tried to kill Katherine Heigl.”
“What? You wanna see pictures?”
A loud Irish brogue lilted from up in the far corner of the room. “I can’t wait until you two poofters get down with the deep dicking.”
“Who invited you, Lucky Charms?” Freddy spat.
“Shouldn’t you be on Endor, fucking the gopher from Caddyshack?”
“I guess Bad News Bears gonna be pitching this inning, eh, Chuckles?”
“I already made that joke, In Da Hood.”
“Well, don’t let me interrupt. Fredward Penishands looks like he was gonna get his groove oooooAAAAAHHHH!”
The Leprechaun shrieked and tumbled from the shelf, landing with a thud. He rolled frantically, scrabbling his stubby arms for the lump swarming his back. “Pog ma hone! Get it off me! GET IT OFF ME!”
The wee munchkin rolled around on the floor as a black-clad marionette jabbed him in the shouldermeat with a tiny knife.
The Leprechaun scraped against the ground with his shoulder blades like a dog asscleaning with a carpet and managed to slide the marionette close enough to grab. He yanked the puppet free and hurled it away from him.
Chucky squirmed as the puppet landed on his chest. He ripped it from the nightgown, flinging it at Freddy.
Freddy squealed like a bad horror remake idea as the puppet spider-scrambled up his sweater. The murderer tried to brush him off with the razor glove, but ended up rending the red and green stripes. His grandmother — up in heaven — continued to be very disappointed.
Blade climbed over Freddy’s shoulder down his spine. Freddy threw himself against the wall, slamming his back into the drywall. Blade held on for three solid smashes before dropping to a heap on the floor. Freddy punted the doll towards The Leprechaun.
“I’m really more of a football man, meself, but…” He wound up with his shillelagh and gave him the ol’ Ryan Howard. Blade exploded into about twenty million painstakingly handcrafted shards, one for each of the Puppet Master sequels they shouldn’t have made.
“Boy, I hope that little drillhead Nazi isn’t fucking about.”
Chucky snarled and leapt from the bed at Freddy, knife ready for the attack. Freddy caught him with both hands and held him by the armpits like an adorable toddler. “Awww. Aren’t we precious? Yes, you are. Yes you are!” Freddy tossed him up in the air. “Wheee! WHEEE! Upsy daisy! UPSY DAISY!”
“You fucking prick, Krueger, let me down! I’ll fucking carve you like a Basement Jaxx-o-lantern, you puke-puddle sawdusting fuck!”
Freddy winked at The Leprechaun. “Baby’s getting heavy. Hey, Madmartigan. You’ve got to save the baby!” He hurled Chucky at the diminutive Irishman.
Chucky bowled into him, his butcher’s knife jabbing The Leprechaun in the eye. The magical creature caterwauled in agony, latching on to the protruding handle. He disappeared in a puff of gold sparkles.
Chucky quickly scurried under the bed to hide. Freddy chuckled and bent to one knee. “Bad move, Garbage Pail Kid. Guess you don’t know about me and beds.”
The mattress caved inwards, divoting like a sinkhole. The stuffed animals from the walls were sucked into the gaping hole, swallowing everything in the room. Chucky growled furiously as he was drawn up from under the bed. He pitched Freddy a stubby bird before getting slurped into the suckhole.
Everything went eerily silent. Then a multicolored geyser of Legos spurted from the mattress hole, rippling out across the ceiling in a spreading pool. There might have been one or two stray Duplos.
Freddy nodded admiringly. “Funny. My bet would have been styrofoam peanuts.”
The Legos showered to the floor in a cacophonous clatter, followed by the marble rattle of Chucky’s fierce blue eyes rolling into a corner. Freddy punched his fist in frustration. “Dammit. I didn’t even get to make a Teddy Ruxpin crack. And I had a fucking good one.”
Gold sparkles poofed in the center of the room as The Leprechaun reappeared, one hand clutched over the green oozing hole where his eye had been. “Fuck me, that’s a stinger.”
“Bout time, Shamrock Shake. I was afraid we were going to get to dance a jig.”
“We won’t.” The Leprechaun pointed his shillelagh at the melted janitor and incanted.
A green burst of light struck Krueger in the center of his chest. Freddy muttered “No fucking way” before collapsing to the boards.
“Weasley sends his regards. He didn’t appreciate the Hermione wet dreams.” The Leprechaun staggered on the plastic debris, before righting himself. He sloshed a handful of ichor on the floor before recovering his eye. “Fucking hell. This was a shitload easier when I was just taking the piss out of Jennifer Aniston.”
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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