by David Dwan
He always refused not only to maintain the mystique surrounding Minx’s existence, but more importantly for fear of what the creature would do to them if it got close enough. (Maybe he should film that!)
Davis checked his watch, show time was now only thirty minutes away. As was usual at this time he got an acidic ache in his stomach. Would tonight be the night the priest actually won, and all this would be over? Or worse still, would this finally be the night Mister Minx somehow got free and could finally complete the mission that had no doubt been festering in the thing’s addled brain ever since it’s capture? Kill Michael Davis in the most horrible of ways.
He took in the tent, more to take his mind of that doomsday scenario than anything else. This corporate hospitality side of things had really come into its own in the last couple of shows. Some thirty people, all paying customers were enjoying the complementary food and drinks before they took their places in the more expensive seats out front.
And there was Dex Dexter, holding court, surrounded now by half a dozen admirers. Looking at him now it was hard to believe just how destitute the entertainer had looked when Davis plucked him out of obscurity to front the show.
The first time Davis had seen Dexter in the flesh he looked to the producer like the personification of the phrase ‘crawl into a bottle’.
The sometime entertainer, comedian and gameshow host, depending on what the occasion demanded. Had been washed up and barely employable after his ill-fated (though obscenely popular in its homeland) stint hosting the Japanese game show ‘Kamikaze Krazies.’
Although Davis hadn’t seen the show itself it had become increasingly notorious for the near deaths of several of its contestants. It was apparently a cross between gladiators and live action dungeons and dragons. Where the contestants would have to negotiate a labyrinth of traps and obstacles in order for the final two to then fight for the prize of fifty grand U.S.
As Davis understood it, the more the show grew in popularity the more dangerous the public demanded it to be. Health and safety rules were bent to breaking point, injuries grew (as did the ratings.) Until finally two contestants in the last five shows were killed, live on camera.
And through it all Dex Dexter’s smiling face could be seen hosting the show, thrusting his mic into the bleeding faces of the fallen. It had later emerged that allegedly the producers had deliberately steered the show towards being little more than a glorified snuff movie.
Police had been called, arrests made and Dex Dexter had fled the county in disgrace barely escaping with his liberty and life intact. That was when Davis had come across the host in a seedy Soho night club. Davis had heard Dexter was fronting an X-rated comedy revue so had gone to see for himself.
Whilst the quality of performers on show left much to the imagination the booze addled Dex Dexter still had a certain sleazy charm about him, charm that the producer knew would be perfect for demon time. Once the drunk was cleaned up and sent away to de-tox for a week or two of course.
A bell over the tannoy signalling the ten minute warning before the show was to start, pulled Davis back to the here and now. He watched as the tent slowly began to empty and the V.I.P’s were shepherded away to their overpriced seats.
A production assistant he didn’t recognise came up to him carrying an iPad clutched to his chest. “Erm, Mister Davis?” He asked timidly. “Show’s about to start, sir. The director wanted to know if you’ll be watching from the control room as normal?”
“I will,” Davis told him. “Tell him he can start the preshow whenever he likes, I’ll be up in a moment.”
“Yes sir,” the assistant said and darted away.
Davis followed the boy out into the balmy night air as the behind the scenes hustle and bustle played out around him. He glanced over to the large trailer the priest was in and contemplated going over there for a moment but then put the idea out of his head. After all, what could he say?
So instead he began to make his way over to the stilted prefabricated production office which held the main control centre from which the show would be directed.
He passed the hearse which was getting a final polish before its grand entrance and as he did so the first cords of the demon time theme tune blasted out through the PA system some way off. A massive roar from the assembled crowed made the hairs on the back of his neck stand on edge.
“Magic time,” Dex Dexter said as he appeared from around the other side of the hearse. He ran a comb through his thick dyed black hair and put it into his jacket inside pocket.
“Knock ‘em dead, Dex,” Davis said.
“Always,” the host replied flashing his bright teeth. “Say, Mike,” (Christ how Davis hated that.) “I was thinking, maybe I’d go onto the porch tonight during my opening speech...”
“No!” Davis snapped back a little too fearfully. He took a breath. “Stay away from the house, Dex. You know the rules.”
“Oh, c’mon, just onto the porch, the crowd’ll love it. Whip em up into a frenzy.”
“I said no!” Davis said with finality.
Dexter shrugged. “Okay, you’re the boss.”
“I mean it Dexter. Stay on your mark. Do that thing you do, but stay away from the house.”
“Your concern is very touching,” Dexter told him.
Davis was about to reiterate his point when an assistant director came jogging over. “Places please, can’t you hear the music?” He threw a thumb at the hearse and addressed the coachman who was now in a crisp black undertaker’s suit complete with black top hat. “Get this creepy thing over to its mark. Mister Dexter you’re on in five. We’re already live!”
“Well I’ll see you later, Mike. It’s show time!”
Dexter gave a theatrical flick of his hand and followed along by the side of the hearse as the coachman led the horses over to the edge of the arena.
The crowd let out another raw of approval as no doubt the demonettes were starting their opening routine.
“My life,” Davis said with a shake of the head and began to make his way over to the production office to watch the show unfold.
And thus began the final ever episode of demon time.
THIRTY
The tension was so palpable it bordered on the oppressive. It was like a physical presence weighing heavy in the air, five hundred breaths caught in five hundred throats as they waited. Waited for the show to start proper.
They had seen the spectacle of the opening number unfold before their eyes. Yes it had made the whole experience feel finally real as it played out with choreographed perfection before them, but that was not why they were here.
They were here for the supernatural. They were here to feel the blood freeze in their veins. In short they were here to feel something beyond their reality.
Darkness descended on the arena. As the last of the dry ice that had heralded the demonettes opening number drifted towards the night sky like a half remembered memory.
Back in the control room, Michael Davis watched like a general on the cusp of an epic battle as the players took their places unseen by camera and audience alike. He turned to the director who was silhouetted against the large central monitor that dominated the production office. Waiting for that one syllable that would start the show. That one word that would seal someone’s fate tonight. Who knew? Maybe his own.
Jeff Miller leant forwards ever so slightly, studying the image before him. He glanced to the other monitors which depicted the behind the scenes manipulations. Until finally he seemed satisfied everything was in place.
“Action.”
The whispered word was ether and a hammer blow all at once.
Down below the large window of the production office where Davis was stood. The dark shape of the horse drawn hearse began to move out of the darkness and into the subdued light of the arena.
Although Davis hadn’t asked for it, the sound supervisor had decided to place a mic under the hearse so it picked up very single hoof fall to great effect. A
nd against his better judgement (which would no doubt change once the show was over) Michael Davis decided then and there to give the guy a raise as the effect was so spectacular.
The arrival of the hearse was greeted by hushed whispers of anticipation from the crowd rather than a roar. They could have cheered as it emerged but instead they were caught up in the whole drama of the scene. They seemed content, on mass to let it play out to its theatrical conclusion.
Although it broke the undeniable tension of the scene, Davis couldn’t help but look to the monitor which showed the live feed the internet was seeing. He felt a pang of regret which he didn’t like. It was a great shot, the hearse silhouetted against the subtle glow of the ambient lighting as it made its way to the centre of the arena. It was good, but it did little to relay the sheer tension of what those here were feeling live.
But still when the screen cut to a panning shot of the crowd Davis was pleased to see several dozen of them were wearing official demon time and Mister Minx t-shirts they had purchased before entering for twenty-five euros a pop. He made a mental note to check after the show to see how many they had sold and how many had been pre-ordered online.
Finally the hearse drew to a stop. And for a moment Davis wished he was just some ignorant observer in the crowd. But he was cursed to hear the all too necessary behind the scenes directions whispered around him.
“Christ this is fucking gold,” someone said to his right, in a hushed almost reverential tone.
Miller, the director rested his right hand against the speaker of his headphones. “Ready when you are, Dex,” he whispered as if fearful he might be heard by the crowd. Then; “Jay, make sure you’re tight on the back of the hearse when he pops out. Clara, get ready with the floodlights when he does. I want maximum shock and awe. This is the big reveal.”
A beat passed. Dexter ever the showman was keeping them all waiting. Davis hated the bastard but his talent for holding a crowd was undeniable. The monitor running the live feed cut to a panning shot of the crowd again. Pale faces in the near darkness, bums teetering on the edge of their seats.
Boom! The back of the hearse burst open and Dex Dexter sprung out through the doors with theatrical ease.
“Hit it!” Miller instructed and the powerful floodlights came on bathing the hearse and its occupant with a blinding light. Dexter’s heavy metal theme tune began to blare out of the PA system in perfect synchronisation.
The crowd when wild.
As Miller directed the cameras, Davis drew his attention back out of the large observation window to watch it all live. He felt Goosebumps breakout as Dexter began to work the crowd into a near frenzy.
In all the lunacy it looked for a moment like the coachman might lose control of the two horses as they reared up at the commotion around them, but it just added to the drama of the scene.
Finally as they bucked and whinnied he just about manged to rein them in and with great skill eased the hearse away and back over to the back stage area and sanity.
Dexter slowly raised his hands up into the air and milked the adulation that was now bordering on the hysterical.
“Fuck me!” Someone snapped in the booth and Davis saw it was the sound mixer who was frantically pushing faders and adjusting the mixing desk levels. “Christ that’s loud!”
It’s music to my ears, Davis thought. As the showman down below slowly let his hands fall in a ‘quiet’ gesture to the crowd and the five hundred strong zealots willingly complied.
The camera moved in to a close up of Dex Dexter’s face and it picked up the slightest hint of a smile.
“Welcome,” he whispered. Then shouted; “TO DEMON TIME!!”
Again the roar from the crowd fair rattled the Perspex of the viewing window as the lights pulsed brightly. Several of the production staff inside whooped and hollered along with everyone outside. And without realising it, Davis found himself clapping as Dexter began to strut up and down the low stage. He was in complete control of the masses like some gaudy otherworldly cult leader. If he said riot, there was no doubt in anyone’s mind here tonight that they would riot and be glad of it.
Father Ross came out of his trailer and into the balmy night air as another roar went up. He could just about see the glow of the arena over the line of thick treetops that shielded the behind the scenes production village from the open field and the show itself.
He found he was clutching the borrowed bible to his chest as if for protection. Then he realised that was actually what the book was. His only means of defence and possibly attack at his disposal. That and his wits and what limited knowledge he had brought back with him from Mexico.
“Okay Father?”
Ross turned to his large eastern European bodyguard who was waiting by the trailer’s steps with a skittish looking production assistant.
Ross nodded, it was a lie and the man clearly saw it as such.
“Last chance,” he said.
“Hey! None of that!” The production assistant snapped. “We have a show to run here, Rubin.” The young man’s face dropped as he realised just who he was talking to. “I erm, What I meant to say...” He fumbled.
Rubin silenced him with a look. He turned back to Ross waiting for him to speak.
“It’s my choice,” was all the priest could say in way of explanation.
“Erm, this way Father,” the assistant said meekly and gestured over to the other side of the back stage area where four of the zombie cheerleaders were waiting by a gap in the vehicles.
Ross followed a couple of paces behind the assistant as he made his way over to them. He glanced back to see that Rubin was still standing by the trailer, clearly having no intention of joining them. The two men locked eyes for a moment and Ross was shocked to see fear in the large man’s gaze. Rubin nodded slightly and looked away.
The production assistant turned to Ross as they reached the strange looking quartet waiting on their mark for their cue.
“Please wait here, Father. I’ll let you know when it’s time. The girls here will lead you out into the arena. All you have to do is let them guide you over towards Dexter and the house. Then...” The young man paused, it was as if it just hit him what all this actually meant. That this wasn’t just some normal stage production where he was leading an extra to his mark.
“Then, I’m on my own,” Ross finished for him which raised such a blush to the man’s cheeks that Ross could see it even in the gloom of the back stage area.
“Hi Father,” one of the pale faced zombie cheerleaders said in a light friendly voice. It was hard to tell under all the grease paint and fake blood but she looked to Ross like she was barely out of her teens.
“You’re American,” Ross said with surprise. Although he could hardly believe that was going to be the most surprising thing that would happen tonight.
“Canadian,” the girl replied with the practiced boredom of someone who clearly spends most of her time correcting ignorant foreigners regarding her accent.
“Sorry,” Ross found himself saying.
She girl waved a dismissive hand. “That’s okay,” she broke ranks and slipped her arm through his. “Just stay with be Father. I’ll get you there.”
With this she led Ross over to the others. Each gave him a smile in turn and for a moment, being so close to the artifice of the show, the priest almost found himself half believing it was all fake.
Suddenly the four of them started clapping and Ross looked up to see the horse drawn hearse coming towards them. They split into two groups to let the horses walk past. The coachman doffed his black top hat to the ladies and gently drove the horses off down the field.
“Guess he’ll be coming back for me later?” Ross said.
This won a ripple of nervous laughter from his undead companions and a wince from the production assistant.
Another whoop of delight from the crowd and Ross looked over between the trucks. From where they were waiting he had a perfect view of the low stage where Dex Dexter was
strutting around as he talked to the crowd perched high up in the stands around him. And boy it was clear even from here that the host was loving it.
THIRTY-ONE
“Friends,” Dexter said and held both arms out to silence the crowd which he held well and truly in both hands. “It’s almost time...” He seemed to let that sink in for a moment and even from where he was waiting, Ross could almost feel the sense of anticipation from the crowd wash over the host like radiation from a cracked fusion reactor.
“To introduce the star of our show,” Dexter finally added with sombre gravitas.
Dexter looked back over his shoulder to the vague outline of the house someway behind him, just on the very edge of the light like a grey shadow against the night sky.
He spun back to the crowd. “What is this strange creature that fascinates and scares us so? Where does it come from? And what sick and devious mind dreamed it into reality, making nightmare flesh?”
Up in the production booth Davis’ eyes narrowed as he watched through the observation window. Dexter was off his mark, he was a little closer to the back of the stage than usual. He could sense more than hear Miller the director whispering improvised directions to the camera crews below.
Dexter stepped off the back of the low stage and onto the grass.
“Fuck, fuck!” Miller cursed. “Jack, stay with him. Clara, keep the follow spot on him, but for Christ sake don’t light the house, that’ll ruin the whole effect.
Lucky as he glanced at the monitor showing the live feed, Davis could see that both the cameraman who was framing the shot and the technician on the follow spot here experts at their jobs. Dexter was in full frame shot from a high angle so as not to show too much of what was behind him but lit just enough to maintain the atmosphere.
“I’ll fucking kill him,” Davis breathed as Dexter took another couple of steps back.
A ripple of uneasy chatter ran through the transfixed crowd.
“Stay with him,” Miller whispered into his mic. “That’s it no tighter, wicked shot. Flood lights get ready to light up the house on his cue.”