Satanic Panic- A Homage to 1980's B-Movie Horror

by Daniel P Coughlin

  “I don’t have a choice. I love her more than anything.”

  “You’re a pussy-whipped fuck who doesn’t know his dick from that wood axe.”

  “When I’m done with you I’ll have Brianna all to myself. I won’t have to worry about her falling in love with you anymore.”

  “She fell in love with me the day we met seventeen years ago! You stupid, lovesick, fucking asshole!” Brock was screaming and crying.

  Tears streamed down his face and melded with the snot spewing from both nostrils. It was a sick and saddening sight. Pathetic really. Grady found it repulsive. The gambling compartment of Grady’s brain assumed that Lance would attempt to free his friend. This banter was a distraction strategized to exploit an ambush.

  Right?

  But this performance was good.

  “I loved you like a brother!” Brock screamed.

  Lance stepped closer. Grady watched his knuckles turn white when they gripped the wooden handle of the axe.

  “Please, Lance. You know my mom. You know the people that love me. What will they do?”

  “They’ll secretly hate themselves for the joy they feel for not having you in their lives.” Lance raised the axe above his right shoulder.

  “No,” Brock whimpered.

  Grady couldn’t hold it in any longer. He laughed out loud and joyfully.

  Lance stopped raising the axe. He turned to Grady. “Why are you laughing?”

  “I’m really glad you asked,” Grady responded.

  Grady walked toward Lance and Brock, but kept his distance, just in case Lance decided to get brave and swing the axe at him.

  “Can I be completely honest with you?” Grady pried.

  “Fuck you! You’re only doing this because I fucked the woman you love.” Brock spit at Grady.

  Grady laughed harder.

  “No, Lance is going to kill you because you fucked the woman he loves. Honestly, I don’t care in the slightest that you two are fucking her. I launched a couple nuts her way, and I have to admit that she’s good. Those legs go on for days, don’t they?” Grady shook his head and smiled. “The reason you’re both here is that I worship a higher power. I was drawn to you. You were a chosen challenge.”

  “Stop it with that stupid Satanist bullshit. You don’t really—” Brock stuttered. His voice quivered as though he’d temporarily forgotten that he was bound to a chair and about to be sliced in half.

  Grady’s laughter faded. He continued speaking, “I worship Lucifer. Satanists don’t believe in God or the devil. They’re atheists to tell you the truth. I believe in God and in Jesus and I certainly believe in the Devil. When I finally arrive in the fiery pits of Hell I will be awarded slaves to worship me. Now, despite how grotesque and pathetic Brock looks, he will make the ultimate slave in Hell. I don’t want weak souls worshiping me. I only want fine, polished souls. Their torment is more robust. That is why I’m doing this to Brock. This is my belief.”

  The intensity in Lance’s glare was telling of his sincerity. Grady believed him.

  “So, if I kill him then he’ll have to worship me in... in the afterlife?” Lance’s eyes turned to the left as he pondered the gravity of this notion.

  Grady watched Lance’s head droop and his eyes shift from side to side. He was familiar with this expression. Lance was clearly considering the idea that Grady would accept him. And he was right.

  “Please, can I join you? The idea of Brock worshipping me while he burns in Hell is a very comforting thought.” He was almost whispering.

  “Your initiation will be to execute your friend with no remorse.”

  A muffled voice called out to Grady, “You might want to do that sooner than later.”

  Grady hadn’t noticed that Brock had escaped his binds.

  Brock’s fist slammed into Grady’s jaw, spinning his head and knocking him to the ground. Brock followed the punch with a focused kick to the groin. Grady curled and watched as his disciples enveloped Brock.

  Brock screamed, “Come on!” While his disciples circled in.

  Brock crescent kicked the Smiley Devil that rushed center. The Masked Devil sailed into a stack of wooden pallets. When his head hit the top pallet his mask lifted. It was Ricky Mack.

  “Why?” Brock whispered, but Ricky heard him.

  “Because the world is already on fire and it’s burning me. Grady taught us to enjoy the flame.”

  Impressive. Brock might fight his way out of this, Grady thought.

  Why is the Dark Lord punishing me?

  Have I not been evil enough?

  He’s very gifted with violence.

  All the more reason for him to worship me in hell.

  Grady turned his head to the right and watched Lance spin toward the Smiley Devil’s when they engaged him.

  “No!” Grady held a flat palm out and shouted to his disciples, “He’s joining us.”

  The Smiley Devil’s parted from Lance and rushed Brock who was handling two Smiley Devils. Three more Smiley Devils threw punches into Brock’s kidney’s and ribs.

  Grady continued to watch Brock—exhausted—insufferably bludgeon his followers. He looked like a modern comic book hero fighting his way through a gang of mobsters. Invincible.

  3

  Arteries pumped rich blood through Brock’s heart. His blood pumped and pulsed quick and heavy beneath his ribcage and revved his surrounding organs. Adrenaline continued to pump. Instinct allowed for the throwing of furious punches and kicks. Blood shot through his veins. The brutalizing that he continued to absorb should have rendered him dead. For each punch or kick delivered, Brock absorbed three. No time to think, Brock combined martial arts technique with the quick hands of boxing he’d recently acquired. If the fight took to the ground he’d be toast, and he knew it. He was an excellent wrestler in high school. But now he was tired. Fighting five to six people was exhausting, especially when one of them was a football hero. He no longer knew how many people he was fighting. All he saw were random faces and feet and hands and tossed bodies and blood. He stopped thinking and reacted: punch, punch, grab, flip, toss, stomp.

  Kick my way out of this sick, twisted satanic mess.

  In the back of his mind—oddly—he thought that if he were to survive this night that he’d straighten his life’s path. Morally. Maybe even go to church. Say hello to the imaginary man resting on the clouds. Give up meaningless pussy—because to be honest that is what got him into this disaster.

  The middle knuckle of his right hand shifted and clicked when his fist rammed into the mouth of one of these stupid fucking masks. The rubber tore and when Brock pulled his hand free he took the mask with him. The face behind the mask was familiar. She was the waitress at the diner that he, Lance and Brianna had met at to discuss their erotic plans. He’d seen the next Smiley Devil too. He’d been watching him at a bar. Presently, Brock’s recall was poor, but the connection sparked a clear image in his mind. He’d bumped shoulders and shots with this guy at The Quarter. Sharp reality struck. These people kept tabs on him. They’d followed him, gained access to his life and now they were striking like hunters of men. This dizzying thought heightened his rage. Paranoia overwhelmed. Adrenaline surged through his blood like electricity through conduit, which led to a hard kick that began with his foot flat on the floor. The foot then swung upward. Toes curled, his right foot hammered through the Devil’s under-chin. Front teeth and three inches of this Smiley Fuck’s tongue snapped free, flung and then glopped onto the floor. No time to think, Brock sensed the next Devil jump him from behind. Brock rammed a side kick into his chest. The sole of his boot absorbed the audible break of the Smiley Devil’s sternum.

  Wait.

  There was something different about this chest.

  The unmistakable softness of female breasts was present. Slamming an open hand downward, he ripped the mask free and saw that she was attractive, even in her anger. Her blonde hair and icy blue eyes were hypnotizing.

  “You bitch,” he screamed. Th
e image of fucking her doggy style flashed across his mind. This woman had seduced him to gain access to his life. He remembered taking her home from a bar a few months prior. These sick bastards must have followed him for months.

  Years?

  Her pretty face was un-prettied by the stomp Brock laid into the middle of her face. He stomped twice. The second time he felt the bridge of her nose collapse and blood exploded upward. She couldn’t scream, only gargle. Sheer adrenaline permitted Brock the strength to devastate the bone structure of her face. Blood sopped upward and absorbed into the material of his cheap boot. Behind the girl he saw Grady. In this moment, Brock thought he would accept death if he could have thirty minutes alone with Grady. A one-on-one fight would suffice. Then he could die with dignity.

  A fist flew past Brock’s face. He dodged it, grabbed the clenched hand, twisted it, and then yanked it downward onto the bony portion of his left shoulder. The arm snapped. The masked devil screamed. Brock ripped the Devil’s mask off, grabbed him by the head, and twisted until his spine splintered and severed the spinal cord before snapping. The body didn’t fall. It dropped downward and hard.

  Quickly, Brock surveyed his surroundings.

  Where’s Lance?

  4

  Lance watched—amazed—as his best friend was brutalized. These Devils didn’t care that he was once a child. Innocent. Had parents that loved him. In this moment, Brock was Christ-like. Lance was Judas. But Judas loved his friend. Lance no longer loved Brock. He didn’t know that he ever did. Being drawn to a person because they were stronger struck many of the same triggers as love, but was something different than love. Now, Lance was proud and unable to deny his understanding of the truth. Vindictive, he meant to kill his friend. And when faced with intense adversity Lance cared only for self-preservation. He would run or fight, whichever insured his survival. As for justification—given how tough Brock was—he didn’t feel bad about leaving him. He knew that Brock could manage, he just wouldn’t. Brock fought with tenacity. Watching the impossible fight within him was spiritual. A higher power sheltered this night. The notion was unshakable and nearly tangible.

  If Brock survived, Lance would convince him that by leaving he was buying time. Finding help. Sadly, Lance explaining his ineffectualness would come easy. Explaining to Grady that wanting him killed was a ploy—part of the master plan—and not outside the realm of possibility, if Brock lived. But Lance was certain that Brock would fall.

  Lost while attempting to focus, Lance adjusted his current understanding of logic. He would have to explain why he didn’t sever Brock’s binds. This would be hard. Brock wasn’t that stupid. Lance’s intention was clear. Brock continued to fight through these demonic assholes. Arguably, he was winning. Inevitably, Lance would need an explanation. That or Brock would kill him too. A new thought involved selling Brock on the idea that he was planning to cut through his binds, earlier, when he got close enough.

  How was he to know that Brock was capable of escaping on his own?

  Brock breaking his binds was impressive. Dismantling these tormented and disturbed individuals was impossible, but he executed well. And these psychotic assholes were giving him their best. Brock was a wounded animal. Keeping him bound hadn’t worked. God or Satan had placed a hand on this massacre.

  A hollow snap happened to be another splintered spine. The neck belonged to the blonde woman. The post-mortem groan echoing through the warehouse chilled his blood. The tone and pitch were that of a wounded canine.

  Back to work, Lance thought. He glanced across the warehouse at Grady who watched the fury unravel. A sly grin never left his expression. After a brief moment, he caught Lance’s glance. He turned, faced him, and smiled.

  “Still want to join us?” Grady hollered.

  Lance spun from Brock to Grady.

  Grady gleamed.

  Quick odds struck Lance. Numbers explained that Grady was going to win.

  Bet on him.

  Two Smiley Devil’s remained. Brock had deactivated the lives of the other three. Lance and Grady knew that Brock would finish triumphantly. The next assessment was Grady.

  How well could he fight?

  Brock possessed inhuman strength. But Brock was exhausted. He could barely breathe.

  Grady would champion the battle.

  Finally, the answer was decided. Lance would kill Brock, accept Grady’s offer. They would leave this nightmarish hell intact. Together. From there, Lance would devise Grady’s demise.

  Lance couldn’t conceptualize his life within the occult. Joining was a survival option and he would stay only long enough to dispose of Grady and rescue Brianna.

  How had he attained this level of depravity?

  Only a few months ago he was an average college student with a crush on a girl. That crush led downward into perversion and then twisted until he found himself in the pit of Hell. Never in the bowels of his most creative ideas would he have believed that he’d join a cult of psychotic-mask-wearing Satanists. The idea sounded like a terrible B horror film. Who knew, maybe if Lance survived he’d write a book based on this evil night.

  Enough pondering. Lance needed to act.

  Grady or Brock?

  What an asshole.

  Lance ran toward Brock. Raised his axe.

  Brock twisted the life from the fourth Smiley Devil. With bleeding eyes, he shakily tilted his face upward. Made eye contact. Lance witnessed a lifetime of disappointment in his eyes. In this disappointment Lance saw hatred. The disappointment wasn’t displaying the fact that his friend intended to kill him. Hurt radiated from the betrayal. And hatred stemmed from Brock’s inability to harm his friend. Even after everything Lance had done, Brock still loved him too much to harm him.

  Childhood memories of playing tag at the park melded with the remembrance of teenage angst. Drinking their first beer. Smoking their first cigarette. And then thoughts of Brianna took over: the pounding sensation in his chest when she was near, her distinct smell. She was his only love.

  The axe swung downward. Brock kicked the metal blade and it slid then crashed. Intended to break and split Brock’s head, the axe, instead, slammed into the foot of a dying Smiley Devil. The agonizing howl released from the Devil demanded Lance’s curiosity.

  Brock jumped forward, grabbed the final Smiley Devil at the base of his skull and slammed his face downward. Broken skull echoed loudly. And then there was only Brock, Lance and Grady. They stood amongst a sea of gore and chaos. The amount of blood sprayed, splashed and spread across the warehouse was maddening. Silence was unnerving. Brock, gasping for his breath, dominated the room. Lance found no words. Involuntarily, his mouth opened. “Let’s get out of here.” Lance held his open hand to Brock.

  Brock’s dripping face quivered with contained insanity. His entire body quaked.

  “You know God damn well that you meant to kill me.”

  “I didn’t,” Lance lied. He was aware that he sounded like a preteen making excuses for being out past curfew.

  “Is this a brothers-gotta-fight kind of moment?” Grady stepped forward and asked. He walked toward Brock and Lance. There was no shake to his posture. No quiver to his walk. He was confident. It was clear that Grady held experience in this category of depravity. “You both know that Lance wanted to kill Brock. Sure, you’re his best friend, but Brianna is in love with Brock and that is very hard for Lance to accept.”

  Did that even matter anymore?

  Metal crashed into the cement.

  Lance couldn’t believe what he’d done. His action was difficult to understand because he wasn’t very aware that he’d committed it. Brock’s eyes never left Lance’s while this betrayal took place. Disappointment, anger and defeat remained in his gaze as he fell.

  Lance looked at the blood dripping from his axe. He’d slammed the wood axe through his best friend’s neck. Brock’s head nodded, fell to the floor and then rolled a few feet, stopping at Grady’s foot. Lance’s eyes travelled up Grady’s legs until he saw
the smiling face in front of him.

  “You did it,” Grady stared at the rolling head and then kicked it as if it were a discarded apple core. “Here I thought that you two were attempting a rope-a-dope.”

  “I told you I wanted him dead. I did what I said. Now, you said you’d tell me where Brianna is.”

  “You’re right. And I’m a man of my word.” Grady slowly shook his head. “Do you remember what else you said?”

  “I said that I wanted to join you.” Lance dropped the axe. The metal blade landed with a loud clank and stuttered in a spreading pool of Brock’s blood.

  “You don’t know what the group is.” Grady placed his index finger below the tip of his own nose. “Let me ask you—did you feel good just now?”

  Lance smiled. Unable to hide the truth, he’d never felt this confident. He didn’t care that he’d lobbed off his best friend’s head. He felt no emotion. No guilt. No shame. No grief. Maybe this was insanity. “Killing the person that meant most to me felt great. I feel nothing right now except horny. Hell, I might kill Brianna.”

  “That’s the spirit.”

  “Right?”

  The two men embraced.

  “Beer?” Grady offered nonchalantly as if they’d just finished an oil job or completed a good run.

  Brock’s body convulsed.

  “Sure,” Lance answered.

  With a slight tap from Grady’s foot, Brock’s head rolled and settled, face upward. His eyes involuntarily shifted to the right.

  “Cool,” Grady remarked.

  Grady walked to the warehouse entrance, opened the door, exited, and popped the trunk of his car. The blustery winter wind howled. Snow shifted sideways. A blizzard had begun.

  Grady returned. His hair had accumulated flakes of snow that immediately melted, dampening his hair. Slick with wetness, Grady walked to Lance, handed him a beer and then cracked his own. They clanked cans and slammed their beer.

  The beer was sweet and cold and was the greatest drink. It went down smooth and icy, the first consumption to his new existence.

  “After this beer, you’ll tell me where Brianna is?”