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Where The Wild Things Aren’t

By Brian Prisco | Miscellaneous | October 2, 2009 |

By Brian Prisco | Miscellaneous | October 2, 2009 |

I am accustomed to disappointment. On a daily basis, I’m pretty much duped into culling hope for something, only to have it dashed against the rocks like so much Chinese girl baby. A few years back, when I was but fresh from college, there went about rumor of the release of Boogeymen: The Killer Compilation. It was supposedly a film that included seventeen great ghouls from horror films, brought together at last.

Immediately my brain pitted these incredible icons against one another in some fiendish royal rumble to the death. Odds were weighed, powers compared, weapons ranked. Would it makes sense to be a kill-off — how many teenage souls could be claimed or maimed in a given time — or rather an eternal Highlander-ish final fight? Is it fair to put a routine serial killer out for revenge against immortals with demonish powers? So much thought and time was spend ranking and rating, that by the time the actual DVD was released, I got that “The Easter Bunny is a drunk in a cotton suit” gutpunch that causes tears of rage. The Boogeymen Compilation turned out to be a clip show of lameass proportions. Like digitalized baseball cards, it just went through with half-assed best-ofs for each of the murders. Obviously with licensing and film rights, there was no way that any film company could pit all of those maniacs against one another. It was like pulling teeth to get Freddy to fight Jason. Will we ever see the rumored Leatherface vs. Michael Myers? Somehow Bruce Campbell was slated to don the chainsaw arm once more and take on some horror baddies, but Ash vs. ? never came to fruition. I was fraught with misery. It was something that was never to be.

Until now.

I used to comment on a wonderful site called WWWF Grudge Match — a clever site where duels were constantly proposed by two fellas named Steve and Brian. After a book deal long before the days of blog = book = movie = action figure and too-small t-shirt from American Apparel, the fellas retired the site some years ago. In honor of the grudge match, and because my bloodlust can never be satiated, I propose my four part Boogeymen Brouhaha.

On All Hallows Eve, some of horrors greatest butchers are being summoned, dug up, and immortalized in a round robin slaughterhouse of epic proportions. I have selected 13 of the slipperiest fucks I could think of to hack it up in the hopes of claiming the Bea Arthur Justice — a pink machete trophy symbolizing the acme of murderosity. The showdown occurs in Collingsblood Asylum: an abandoned sanitarium built on an ancient Indian burial ground where teenagers come to commit Satanic rituals and makeout nakedly. Our vaunted slayers will be sent in four or five at a time for three individual rounds with the victors staged in a three-way finale for supreme evil and a lovely pink machete.

Round 1: Unholy Powers

The Tall Man (Phantasm), Pinhead (Hellraiser), Nathaniel Demarest/The Djinn (Wishmaster), and Candyman (Candyman).

Round 2: Ax-Wielding Maniacs

Jason Voorhees (Friday the 13th), Leatherface (The Texas Chainsaw Massacre), Michael Myers (Halloween), The Ghostface Killer (Scream), and The Fisherman (I Know What You Did Last Summer).

Round 3: Little Killers

Freddy Krueger (Nightmare on Elm Street), Leprechaun (Leprechaun), Chucky (Child’s Play), and Blade (Puppet Master).

I know fuck-all about horror movies, and I haven’t seen most of these in over a decade. My logic is inherently flawed, and this will be based entirely on total bullshit. So let’s fuck shit up.

Let the games begin.

Round I

Phenomenal Cosmic Powers! Itty Bitty Killing Space

The teenage couple tussled frantically on the bare mattress of the dilapidated old house, because don’t they always? Nothing says romantic third date like speed-fucking in an abandoned hovel. Clothes became underwear as the two kids became a tumble of skin and obligatory nudity.

“Condom. Condom. CONDOM!” The girl shouted. It was not the boy’s pet name.

He stopped. “What, Brandy, WHAT?”

“Put on a rubber. I don’t want a prom night dumpster baby, Billy.”

“My name’s Mark.”

“Does it matter? You’re not going to live past this cliched expository scene anyway. No glove, no love.”

“I can’t believe those are going to be your last words.” Mark or whatever muttered as he ran on sock feet to the bathroom. He rummaged through his jeans crumpled in the corner until he found the small foil packet. He splashed some water on his face and looked at his reflection in the mirror.

“C’mon. You can do this. You can do this. You’re the man! The Can do Man! THE Can Do MAN! THE CAN DO MAN! CAN DO MAN! CAN DO MAN!!!!”

“Close enough.” whispered a menacing voice over his shoulder. A massive grinning black man reflected over Mark’s shoulder. He raised a rusty hook hand.

“Dude. Come on. At least wait til I fucked her.”

“Don’t work that way, son.” The hook ripped into Mark’s stomach, tearing a gaping hole for his innards to slip through and become outards.

Mark tried to hold in his guts as he staggered towards the reclining Brandy, still horror movie grade naked on the bare and sketchily love-stained mattress. She was listening to her iPod, because that’s a thing kids do I think, when Mark collapsed in a splooshy heap next to her. As his blood splattered her, she let out a ear-piercing shriek, which along with her perky teen breasts got her the brief part in this exploitation.

Brandy scrambled to her feet as Mark’s blood saturated the tattered mattress. His body seemed to dissolve in a chunky pool of gore. Black glistening chains suddenly burst from the puddle, their hooked barbs jamming in the rickety worn down boards. One of the chains raked past Brandy’s cheek, scoring a long tear in her soft flesh. From the burbling bloodpool rose a leather aproned demon, his face a pale orb, spiked with a gridlike pattern of nails. He stared at the young girl like the insect she was. “Welcome to oblivion, child.”

Brandy screamed and fled into the hallway as chains hurled after her. Her feet pounded against the broken stairs. Why? WHY? WHY did they have to fuck on the upstairs floor? She dashed down to the front door and yanked it open to face what looked like four tiny monks with cowled hoods. Trick-or-treaters? She opened her mouth to tell them to run when the dwarven zombies tackled her to the ground and pinned her down. She screamed again, higher, proving her lungs were good for more than keeping those fantastic sweater puppies aloft.

A tall long haired old man in a morticians drab suit stepped into the doorway. He surveyed the entryway to the old mansion, his eyes coming to rest on the writhing girl beneath his mini-minions. He raised a hand, and a silver sphere appeared, three sharp razored blades jutting out from the end. As if an angry hornet, the sphere sprung from his hand, making a pass of the room before tearing towards Brandy’s exposed forehead.

“Ah, ah, Stretch. Save some for the rest of us.” A swarthy dark goateed man sneered from the corner. He wore a finely cut suit and several rings on his fingers.

The sphere punched into Brandy’s skull right between her eyes. A tiny drill bit scored into the bridge of her nose. Brandy twitched and shrieked as a geyser of blood sprayed from a hole opened in the back of the sphere.

“For a guy who plays ball, that was hardly sporting.”

The Tall Man shrugged. “The sentinels do their own bidding.”

Chains slammed into either side of Brandy’s corpse, scattering the dwarven zombies like leaves. Pinhead stood at the banister, pointing a furious finger at the undertaker. “Her soul was mine! I claimed her!”

The sphere tore out of Brandy’s head with a crunch and hovered back to The Tall Man’s hand. “It’s right here. Come and fetch it.”

The sentinel leapt from The Tall Man at blinding speed and soared towards Pinhead. As it bored towards his skull, it came to stop, floating just inches from a nail. Pinhead cocked his head and smiled, as the sentinel crumpled like a beer can and fell to the ground. “I loathe toys.”

The cenobite raised his arms to unleash the forces of hell on the unworthy, when suddenly a jagged hook burst through his chest. He twisted around as the Candyman sawed the hook through, trying to rip up through Pinhead’s chest. He grabbed hold of the hook and tore himself free, crashing through the banister to the floor below. Candyman laughed victoriously, and leaped to the ground floor, intending to smash his boots through the Cenobite’s chest wound. Chains caught him in midair, twisted around his legs, and snapped down, cracking the lanky former slave like whip. He bounced against the ground once and crashed against the far wall.

The Candyman started to rise, but the shady Djinn in the suit kicked him in the face. As he went for a second punt, the Candyman took his hook and yanked the sketchy magical being by the leg. The Djinn stumbled and fell. Candyman raised his hook for a kill, when the Djinn raised his arms as if incanting. “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice!”

Nothing happened. Candyman shook his head. The Djinn shrugged. “Uh…Jumanji?”

The Candyman lashed down for the kill as a chain lassoed around his neck, pulling him off the ground and strangling him. The Djinn clapped his hands. “I’ll be right back. You hang there. I’m going to go find something big and stabby to put through your heart.”

The dwarven zombie hurled towards the fallen Cenobite to contain him, when they suddenly exploded like microwaved cantaloupes. Tiny little guts showered the room and hung themselves in strips from the balcony. The Tall Man screamed with rage, when the Djinn pounced on his back and jammed the crumpled silver sphere into his neck. Thick yellow goo spurted from the neck wound as The Tall Man sank to his knees. He gaped back at the grinning genie. “I can’t…believe I was bested….by the bad guy…from Toy Soldiers. You couldn’t…even beat…a hobbit.” Then he sank to the ground, as his mustardy blood pooled around him.

“Yeah, Lurch. Well, the Jawas weren’t doing shit either.” The Djinn cocked his eyebrow at the rising Cenobite. “You next, Spike?”

“Foolish creature. You have the temerity to meddle in my affairs? Your powers are worthless, infantile. You’re a second rate Robin Williams knockoff. You can do nothing unless someone else commands you. And then you twist the words to punish them. You’re a worm.”

“Then make a wish. Home Depot gift card? Get some fresh nails?”

“I wish. You’d just fucking die. Right now.”

The Djinn frowned. “That’s fucking cheap.” Then he melted in a pool of B-movie blood and a shimmery Armani suit.

The Cenobite turned his attention to the Candyman who was freeing himself from the chain noose. “You should be accustomed to shackles. Boy!”

The Candyman sprung forward, swinging strong with his hook. Chains shot out and latched on to his arms, hooking through the meat of his biceps. “I can see into the depths of your pitiful soul, apparition.”

The Candyman opened his mouth in a bellow of pained rage, and a swarm of bees buzzed angrily from his mouth. Pinhead swatted at the insects as they stung his eyes and face. Individual bees burst and popped like moviecorn but the majority filled his nose and throat.

“Can you see in my soul? Boy?” The rusty hook punched into the underside of Pinhead’s jaw, lifting him face to face with the angry slave.

“Then you know I am Death, come to take the souls of children who should have died in plane crashes, car wrecks, a lame ass roller-coaster stunt, and a NASCAR rally. But more important than that?”

He raised his good hand, clutching a handheld sledgehammer. “I’m motherfucking Tony Todd.”

The Candyman proceeded to batter the nails into Pinhead’s pasty skull, driving them deeper until all that remained was a pulpy mass of hardware and goo. The Candyman let the hammer fall and cast his arms up in victory. The bees swarmed him, and he faded into the shadows to be called upon again.

Tune in next week for Round II

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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