Camp McClane

by Grant Fieldgrove

  Then there was your poor mom, run down by a hit and run driver in a stolen car. Imagine that. Do you know how to hotwire a car? Because I do. Now.

  Then your poor old dad. I almost felt bad about him until I remembered that he helped raise you. Your old man, diabetic with a bad heart, he was a ticking time bomb anyway, I just sped up the clock a bit.

  Can you feel that? I’m running your fingers over the keyboard of your laptop. You see, I typed something up earlier and wore gloves. The gloves would actually have wiped your fingerprints from the buttons I pushed, so I’m just brushing your fingers over the keyboard, back and forth, back and forth, just in case you were wondering.

  What were we talking about?

  Oh yeah, your dad. Have you ever heard of a plant called curare? I don’t blame you if you haven’t; it’s certainly not something people have growing in their gardens. Well, I got my hands on one of these plants…believe me, I went out of state to get it…didn’t want anyone to recognize me, no matter how small a chance there was… Anyway, you break this plant apart and you steep it in boiling water, kind of like you’re making tea, then you let the water evaporate and you’re left with a thicker liquid, maybe a little thinner than cheap jelly.

  Do you know what happens when you inject that cheap jelly crap into someone’s body?

  Paralysis. Complete paralysis, everything ceases up. Lungs stop contracting and you die of asphyxiation. Or, if you have a bad heart, that kills you first.

  I did my research on this one, believe me. I knew I had the right one when I realized I could inject it straight into an injection hole previously used for insulin.

  I mean, come on, the odds are pretty slim that they would do an autopsy on an old bastard like that, right? His wife died, his son died, and he had a bad heart. It was bound to happen sooner or later.

  But, you can never be too careful. Don’t want to leave any extra marks that can make someone suspicious. Besides, even if they did do an autopsy, they would have to test specifically for curare and never in a million years would they think to waste their budget money on doing that. Especially for no reason. He was an old man, who in their right mind would want to poison him?

  Can you feel this? You’re clutching a pill bottle. It’s important, trust me.

  And all these times, you were the victim. The tragic, living victim. It brought life to your previous lies, didn’t it? It made everyone think that perhaps you were destined for bad luck.

  And you loved it, huh?

  Don’t get me wrong, I know you were devastated. Trust me, if I didn’t think you’d be heartbroken and on the brink of a total breakdown, I never would have killed those innocent people.

  But, I know I’m right. Your precious reputation, your self-importance, your narcissistic little self, you crave the attention. You need it. And that’s why you’ve been tweeting about your neighbor.

  A woman you barely even knew, who just happens to be missing for three days, and you’re out gathering up all the attention you can get from it. Saying how much you love your neighbor and asking for prayers. Prayers! For a neighbor you barely knew who just happens to be missing.

  Now this one, this one I know is bullshit. How many times have you even talked to her? I’m guessing twice. Twice since you moved into this house and you have sixteen Twitter posts about her. Sixteen. You just found out she was missing yesterday and you have sixteen posts about her, all with comments from your little bitch friends, all telling you how sorry they are for you, and how they can’t imagine what you’re going through.

  Give me a break.

  Your precious reputation. Your precious ego. Your precious need for attention.

  You’re going to get a kick out of this one. When your roommate hung herself from the crossbeams in your old apartment…when the door was locked from the inside and with no possible escape from the eleventh floor of your building, when you had to call the landlord in a panic to have him cut the chain lock, only to find your roomie there, swinging by the neck, your IKEA kitchen chair on its side, her feet barely brushing against one of the legs.

  Now that, that had to have been a suicide right? It’s the only thing that made sense, even though her killing herself made no sense. She was always so happy, right? Isn’t that what you said on Twitter? Then, for extra attention, you started blaming yourself, saying maybe you should have known something was wrong and helped her. But that was bullshit anyway, because nothing is ever your fault, and you know it. Just another lie.

  I’ll never forget your scream when you first barged in and saw her.

  That’s right. I heard you scream. But how can that be?

  It’s because I was hiding in your apartment. I locked the door with the chain lock after I choked the life from your roommate with a rope and strung her up like a pig.

  I was there. If you would have looked for me, I have no doubt you would have found me. But you didn’t. Neither did your landlord. You screamed and ran away. The landlord followed you and I strolled out of the apartment and down the fire escape like nobody’s business.

  Stay awake, dear, I’m almost finished. Don’t try to talk.

  Now, we’ve come to the end.

  I’ve taken the liberty of typing up a little suicide note for you. Nothing special, just a little something to clear things up a bit.

  Your precious reputation. Your precious ego. Your precious narcissistic little self.

  Please, keep your eyes open for just a minute more as I read it to you.

  To whom it may concern,

  I’m so sorry for all the harm I have done. I’ve lived my life thinking only of myself, and I’ve destroyed the reputations of others just to make myself feel better. But here is the sad truth: I am nothing.

  I killed my brother with Abrin because he was more successful than me. You can find the bottle in my medicine cabinet. I kept it in case I would ever need to use it again.

  I stole a car and ran down my mother because people had stopped talking about my brother.

  I killed my dad with curare. I injected into his belly where he shot his insulin. I knew there wouldn’t be an autopsy. I did it because people stopped talking about my mother.

  I killed my roommate and made it look like a suicide because people liked her more than they liked me. They said she was cuter and more fun to be around. No one actually said that to my face, but I could tell. I used a coat hanger and a lot of practice to lock the chain lock from the outside.

  What do you think so far? Seems like a pretty big reputation killer, eh? There it goes. Everything you hold dear, destroyed. And you get to go to hell knowing that every man you ever wronged has now been vindicated. No one is going to believe your lies now. And your reputation, the thing you hold so dear…gone. Poof. Like it never even existed. From now on, people will only speak of you as a monster. A jealous bitch. They’re going to say they never really liked you to begin with. They’re going to say; She always seemed a little off. They’re going to mistake your narcissism for a mental illness, a green-eyed monster, and no one will ever say another nice thing about you.

  And here’s the best part. Just in case you’re clinging to the hope that no one will believe you did those things, that you didn’t even write this letter, let me read you the end of your note.

  If you need further proof, my neighbor, the woman who has been missing for two days, she knew the truth. In a moment of weakness and a lot of wine, I let slip my little secret…so I had to kill her. She’s in my backyard. She’s been sitting in my bathtub since Tuesday. I just buried her tonight then took these pills.

  I’m not even sorry.

  Goodbye.

  Oh, that ought to convince them, all right. Truth is, that lady has been in my trunk the whole time, but it’s not important. I dropped a few of her hairs in your drain and buried her before you got home tonight.

  So, that should wrap things up. I know I sure feel better.

  That’s right, close your eyes.

  Go to sleep.

>   Go to sleep.

  Stay Tuned After Our

  FEATURE PRESENTATION

  For More Coming Attractions!

  This book has been modified from its original version. It has been formatted to fit this e-reader.

  Camp McClane

  Run. Trip. DIE!

  Teddy dropped his duffle bag by the fire pit and began rummaging through it. The rest of the gang was still several hundred yards back, but since Teddy had been here before, he had to be that asshole that leaves his friends behind in his wake just to prove that he has, in fact, been here before.

  Follow me! I know where I’m going.

  Big deal.

  Like being somewhere before makes someone special.

  Big fucking deal.

  Teddy pulled out a can of lighter fluid from his bag and set it on the dirt. In Boy Scouts, he had been taught how to light a fire with some sticks…or maybe it was a couple of rocks. Smack them together to get a spark?

  He didn’t remember exactly how it was done; he just remembered how dumb it was. Like, they’ve invented matches now, dummies! And lighter fluid. I’m not gonna waste my time smashing sticks together…or whatever.

  He really didn’t pay attention too much.

  Behind him, cutting through the thick cluster of trees, were his friends.

  “Where the hell are you, dude?” Shane called out.

  “I’m up by the fire pit, dude! Come on.”

  Up by the fire pit, Shane mumbled to himself, “Because I know where the goddamn fire pit is, honky.”

  “I think I see him,” Holly said, leading the way. “Yeah, here he is.”

  They made it through the forest to find Teddy sitting on the ground in a small clearing. Shane knew what Teddy was going to say before he even opened up his mouth.

  “What took you so long?” Teddy said with a smirk.

  For shit’s sake.

  “Come on,” Teddy said, “we need to gather up some wood if we want to have us a real camp fire.”

  As opposed to a fake fire? Calli wasn’t sure. In fact, she wasn’t sure of much, which worried her since she was, without a doubt, the smartest person in this group.

  Shane was a nice enough guy, but basically was a black stereotype. He was seriously one step away from holding up some fried chicken, or in modern terms, protesting about something before all the facts were in.

  Teddy was an idiot. Plain and simple. She had heard rumors that he wore American Flag bikini briefs and drank Mike’s Hard Lemonade, and well, that said all that needed to be said about someone.

  The other girls were nice, but well… Calli shook it off. She liked them all and didn’t need to judge her friends based on their intelligence, or lack thereof.

  Not that Calli should be throwing too many stones here. She’s wearing shorts that are almost short enough that she could poop without having to take them off, and a tank top that would be tight on a Barbie doll, sans bra.

  In fact, no one was wearing a bra. This little tidbit of news did not escape Teddy and Shane, and it was the main reason they agreed to be counselors at the newly opened Camp McClane.

  Whether these three girls knew it or not, these two fellas knew they would be getting laid that week. A lot.

  The thought of this caused Shane to smile wide, those white teeth a stark contrast to his dark, ebony face.

  So happy was Shane, he actually said aloud, “Yeah.” But of course, it sounded more like yey. You know exactly the way it sounded…

  Janice was the first to figure out that something was amiss. “Um, aren’t we supposed to be staying in cabins?”

  Yes, Janice, brilliant!

  Teddy laughed. “Yeah, of course, cabins, baby. But that’s tomorrow. Tonight we sleep under the stars.”

  Teddy is so romantic and shit.

  “Um,” Janice said, running her fingers through her long red hair, letting the last strand twirl around her finger before letting it drop with a little bounce. “We don’t even have sleeping bags.”

  “You don’t even need sleeping bags,” Teddy said, with that jock-boy, look-at-me tone that all high-school football players have when they either A) Want something, or B) Want to impress someone, or C) Are on the verge of some good old fashion date rape.

  He reached back into his duffle bag and pulled out a folded blanket. He snapped it open and laid it on the ground. It was a Spice World blanket.

  A fucking Spice World blanket!

  “Yey!” Shane said. “Scary Spice my girl!”

  Calli wondered if Shane’s selection of Scary Spice fit the supposed stereotype she had pinned him as. I thought black guys loved the white women. Or maybe they just have to be overweight white women? Calli wasn’t sure, but she made a mental note to find out.

  Oh, who was she kidding. She was going to end up banging this guy, no two ways about it, and she was white and certainly not fat. Polar opposite of fat, Calli weighed a scant eighty-nine pounds soaking wet, and was excited, maybe a little scared, to see how true stereotypes really could be.

  Wink wink.

  Holly, the oldest of the group, at eighteen and a half, thank you very much, wasted no time; she plopped down on the blanket, rolled to her back, stretched her arms out and up, then rested her head on her palms. Teddy and Shane both took notice at the ample amount of skin on display.

  They shared a quick, knowing glance.

  They knew what was up.

  Yey!

  Calli saw this and was none-too-thrilled. She called dibs on the black stallion and didn’t want to lose out to ol’ Titty Magoo over there. Shane is mine, she thought to herself with a kind of fury usually only reserved for picking on fat girls at school.

  But then again, she supposed Teddy, too, had certain selling points that were appealing to the superficial female.

  Still though, three girls and two guys…

  Was she that naïve that she really thought one girl might be left out?

  This was the nineties, after all. Internet porn featuring all sorts of crazy group sex was still several years away.

  If Holly stole Shane away from her, could she, Calli, manage to get Teddy before dumb fire crotch Janice got to him?

  Holy shit, had this somehow turned into a war?

  Shouldn’t she be more worried about not having a place to sleep tonight? Some fucking idiots drag her out into the woods a day before they are set to arrive at camp, and all he has is a Spice World blanket, and Calli is worried about getting laid?

  It was silly, the more she thought about it. Certainly there would be other counselors arriving tomorrow, on time, and certainly some of them would have penises.

  Calli flipped her unwashed brown hair over her shoulder and smiled. Yeah, she was just being silly.

  Teddy laid down next to Holly on the dumb blanket and Calli’s eyes narrowed.

  God damn it.

  Then Shane laid down next to her, too.

  God god god damn it!

  Calli did the only thing she could think of; she laid down on top of Holly.

  “Oof!” Holly said, as the tiny brunette pounced on her. “Hey girl.”

  Holly laughed, Janice laughed, Calli pretended to laugh.

  Bitch.

  Bitches.

  But wait. Being on top of Holly wasn’t totally awful. In fact, Calli felt a little tingle down below. What in the world was going on?

  Janice noticed the strange, sensual look on Calli’s face and felt herself get a little angry now.

  I don’t want the black guy, she thought.

  Fuck.

  I mean, he has a high-top fade, for Christ’s sake. What is this, 1990? Is he trying to be Bell Biv DeVoe? Kid from Kid ‘n Play? Or…um…some other black guy? Ah, they were all the same, right?

  Janice rolled her eyes. A high-top fade? Give me a break.

  Still, though…I wonder if he’s got a big one? A big old burnt log just hiding in his pants, ready to unleash on a petite little redhead, stoned out of her mind and ready to…


  Wait, no. He’s black. Yuck. Black. Yep, she’s not that kind of girl! Her daddy would beat her ass if she showed up with a big black dude. Especially one with a high-top fade.

  Still though, her dad wasn’t here…

  No. Black!

  Still though…

  But all of this ignorant worrying was completely irrational and totally worthless, because all of these dumb motherfuckers would be dead by sunrise.

  Night had fallen and Teddy and Shane had successfully talked the girls into going out into the forest and picking up wood to burn. When they returned, drenched in sweat, their nipples all managing to be seen through their minuscule tops, Teddy piled the wood up in the pit, doused it with lighter fluid, then dropped a match.

  A mild Hiroshima attack lit up the forest for a moment before dying down, the way lighter fluid always manages to first impress, then disappoint-Just like pancakes. No one likes the last bite of pancakes as much as the first bite.

  Teddy kept trying to throw leaves on the fire to get it to burn, but funny thing about leaves that aren’t dead…

  He eventually resorted to more lighter fluid. And then some more. Until finally, that stubborn son of a bitch stayed lit.

  Janice unzipped her duffle bag and pulled out a bag of marshmallows. “I knew these would come in handy,” she said with a smile.

  “We don’t even have any sticks, Janice,” Teddy said. Duh. Dumb redheads.

  “We’re in a goddamn forest, Teddy. There are sticks everywhere.”

  Dumbass.

  Teddy laughed. “Oh yeah. Shane, go round us up some sticks!”

  “Yowza boss.”

  Calli’s eyes narrowed. This stereotype thing was hard for her to peg. Oh well.

  Shane literally took two steps from where he was seated, grabbed a few sticks, and then passed them out.

  “Good work my dark friend,” Teddy said.

  Shane clapped like a drunken monkey and said, “Yayyyy.”

  Humor in the nineties was pretty fucking low-bar. I mean, David Spade had a career, for Christ sake! But still, the girls laughed.