Camp McClane

by Grant Fieldgrove

  Shit. He couldn’t remember. He had his hands full.

  “Shoot!”

  Annoyed, Carl stood up and headed from his fortress and towards the cabins, where, of course, the door was closed and locked. As always. But…what’s this?

  Down the mountain, past the main house, through the trees and past the parking lot…is that a car? What the hell?! Who the hell?! They’re obviously not part of the first group otherwise they would have parked in the parking lot.

  Uh oh. Carl knew who it was. He’d had to deal with these people from time to time.

  Yeah, he was all too familiar with who it was.

  Fuckers!

  Literally, fuckers.

  And nothing pissed Carl off more than people getting laid. With the fury of a fatass white woman with an A-line haircut returning something to Kohl’s, he stomped off towards the car.

  Justin Swinyer finally managed to talk the town’s human sperm dump, Alana Higgins, into a date. Sure, he could have driven her into town and taken her to a movie, dinner, or whatever else, but something told Justin that that would have been a waste of money, because, if the rumors were true, it didn’t take much to get ol’ Higgins naked.

  So Justin planned the cheapest thing he could think of. A picnic. He knew it was lame and totally ridiculous, but the actual picnic wasn’t the point. It was being out in the middle of nowhere, with a blanket to lie on. You take a girl on a dinner and movie date and it ends up costing you a fortune, and then what? If you actually do get laid, where do you do it? In a car? Doesn’t seem very comfortable. Maybe he could have rented a motel room, but come on, he was only twenty, lived with his parents, and had a shitty job; a motel would just add to the total.

  Total cost of the picnic: Zero dollars.

  He raided his parent’s kitchen, put together some bullshit lunch that a child might take to grade school, grabbed a blanket and was out the door.

  He parked down the road from some abandoned campsite, which was rumored to be haunted, ooohhhhh, and told Alana to follow him down the mountain.

  Alana had a big dumb grin on her face as she happily trailed behind the young man.

  “This is good,” Justin said as he spread the blanket out on the dirt and weeds.

  It wasn’t really that good, but it was flat and well, who cared?

  “Why don’t you lay down on the blanket, get comfortable. I’ve got some food here but it’ll take me a few minutes to get everything situated.

  “Okay,” Alana said, bubbly. She laid down and hooked her hands behind her head.

  Well, Justin thought, may as well just go for it. He sat down on the blanket next to his date, slowly rolled over and placed his arm across her chest. He kissed her and she kissed back.

  “I'm so glad you finally came out here with me,” Justin said.

  “Yeah. This'll be a day to remember.” In reality, she probably wouldn’t remember this day at all. Once the numbers hit the double digits, it’s hard to remember every single guy who, well…

  “Totally.” Justin put his hand under Alana’s skirt and was delighted to find no underwear. He quickly moved to his pants, unzipping them, and letting his dick flop out.

  “You promise it doesn't hurt...?” Alana appeared sheepish, shy, but Justin knew better. He knew damn well this was going to be like fucking a hallway.

  Still, he played along. Right? Who cares? “Nah,” he said, then put himself inside her. He thought…although he couldn’t be sure.

  Yikes.

  Like fucking an airplane hangar.

  Maybe if he came at it at an angle or something. He positioned himself until he felt a slight tickle on the right side of his dick.

  Sweet.

  Carl was still stomping through the forest like a child storming off to his room after being told he has to skip dessert or like that hack Paul O’Neill headed back to the dugout after yet another strikeout. He was busting twigs and branches with his heavy work boots, and kicked a poor little bunny that was unfortunate enough to hop in front of him. The bunny hit a nearby tree with fierceness and landed with a moist thud on the ground below.

  He saw Justin and Alana, the man on top of the woman, thrusting himself into her, and rage filled Carl like one of those red balloons that make-up wearing freak from Derry always left floating around.

  He thought back to that time in high school, when his crush, Dana Etchevery, was almost his. He was so close he could taste it. He had been cool and suave, and Dana actually had laughed at his jokes. Not only that, Dana had invited Carl to a field party that weekend.

  He couldn’t believe it. Holy shit, a field party…with the cool kids! This had been before the other party debacle and Carl was completely innocent in thinking the invite was genuine.

  Yeah… He was feeling good about this one.

  Carl had spent all day Saturday before the party deciding on just the right outfit. What did the cool kids wear? Did he have anything the cool kids wore? He wasn’t even sure. He was a simple kid, pants and a t-shirt type.

  Eventually he gave up and decided to go as himself. That is who Dana invited in the first place, so that’s who he would be.

  Good ol’ Carl Langer.

  Dana had told him she was going to the party with Jamie Mitchell, Cecilia Randal and Beverly Osterman (all so cool!) so he told her he would just meet her there. He begged his parents to let him take the car, which they did, and he set off to the party at 7pm sharp.

  He was so stoked. A real date. And not only a real date, it was a real date at a cool kid’s party.

  He was feelin’ great!

  That didn’t last long. Carl rolled up to the party, stepped out of his car like he owned the place, only to see Dana Etchevery, naked from the waist down, sitting on the trunk of Barry Melman’s red Camaro.

  Where was Barry Melman, you ask? He was pumping his dick into Carl’s date.

  Carl’s hands clenched into tight fists as he thought about this while stomping towards Justin and Alana. Justin’s tongue was down Alana’s throat, his pale bare ginger ass moving to the rhythm of thrusts. Their faces were so close their noses overlapped each other. Without even breaking his stride, Carl walked over to them, lifted his right leg high above Justin’s head, and stomped with all his might.

  Justin’s face smashed into Alana’s, their teeth clanking together so hard they shattered before Justin’s crushed and splintered skull stabbed Alana’s brain and both heads were turned to mush.

  Carl thought it sounded like someone dropping a bowling ball on concrete.

  Blood flowed onto the dirt, creating an ugly brown river beneath them. Carl was about to head back home, when he saw the picnic basket.

  He shrugged. Why not?

  He took a seat and dug through the basket.

  Peanut butter and jelly.

  “Really, dude?”

  Justin didn’t answer.

  “Oh well, better than nothing.”

  Carl ate until the blood puddle reached him, then he packed it up and took it to-go, but not before snagging the car key’s from Justin’s pocket.

  Carl opened the drivers-side door and tried to get in. Apparently, Justin was a midget, because what man would have legs this short?

  He adjusted the seat and tried again. Much better.

  He started the car, threw it in reverse and drove it past the cabins, down to the end of the lake, where he dumped it.

  He watched for a moment as the car hovered on the water before bobbing, taking a sharp dip, and sinking out of sight.

  Carl giggled. “Stupid Chevys.”

  The van pulled into the parking lot of an old fashioned general store, named Sawyer’s. If any of them had ever seen Deliverance, this place would have reminded them of it. But these kids were all stupid, young hipsters and had never even heard of the movie, thus they had nothing to remind them of it.

  (Well that last sentence sure was pointless.)

  They all spilled out of the van, Jimmy sporting an unlikely cocky smile on his face.
He was about to be the hero.

  Two weeks ago, he was put in contact with a black man. But not just any black man, a black man who could make ID’s.

  For two hundred dollars, this black fella could take Jimmy’s picture and spiffy up a spot-on driver’s license, stating that Jimmy was, in fact, old enough to buy booze, thank you very much.

  So, he raided his parent’s wallets, purses, piggy banks, safe, whatever he could find, until scrounging up that much coveted two-hundred-dollars.

  The gang was spread throughout the store, each scoping out what they wanted to eat, drink, snack on, whatever. Jimmy and Mort grabbed four cases of beer and slammed them down on the front counter, where a surly and unimpressed clerk looked at them through barely-open, bloodshot eyes.

  Jimmy had raided his parent’s wallets again before the trip because he knew he would need some spending money, and he had just enough to cover these four cases of beer. But now the tough question. Should he spend the majority of his money on beer in hopes that the girls will be so thankful they’ll drop to their knees? Or should he just play it safe, gather a few bucks from everyone, and not be MC Hammer poor for the rest of the trip?

  Decisions decisions.

  Cheapness won because those stick-on hanger commercials Hammer is in these days sure are embarrassing.

  He would pay for the beer right now, and then collect money afterward. He didn’t want to be seen collecting money while in the store, on the off chance this idiot clerk would refuse to sell if all the members of the group weren’t twenty-one.

  Jimmy, always thinking, always one step ahead.

  He removed his ID and handed it to the clerk, whose nametag read Grant. Grant’s facial expression suggested that, if given the choice between working this job or having barbed wire shoved up his pee-hole, he would have chosen the barbed wire.

  He looked wearily at Jimmy’s ID.

  “Rodrigo Handjob?” Grant said while still looking at the fake ID.

  Jimmy, annoyed, corrected him. “It’s pronounced hawn-joob. It’s Israeli.”

  “Is that a fact, Rodrigo?”

  Unsure, Jimmy said, “My mother was Mexican?” It came out more like a question. Shit.

  “Are you sure, or are you asking me?”

  “No?”

  “How about this, Handjob...You get the fuck out of my store and I won’t shove my fist up your ass and use you as my own personal puppet?”

  Jimmy, looking pissed, grabbed his license from the clerk and shoved it back into his wallet. He took two steps back and made a grunting noise while using both index fingers to point to his crotch. Words not needed! That’ll show him.

  Mort lowered his head in shame and slowly turned to walk away. Jimmy followed, mumbling, “Stick your fist up my asshole. I’ll stick MY fist up YOUR asshole!

  “Oh damn,” Grant yelled as they were walking away. “Good one! Come on, man, we can take our act to Vegas! We’ll sell out every night. The Amazing Grant and his dummy Handjob. We’ll make millions!”

  Jimmy walked to the door but didn’t step outside. Instead he leaned against the window, one leg bent up, foot on the glass, like a rebel. If only he had a pack of smokes rolled up in his sleeve.

  “I can't believe you still paid that guy after he gave you the name Rodrigo Handjob,” Mort said.

  “Well, he was black and dangerous looking.”

  “Black doesn't make someone dangerous looking. You were just too pussy to walk away.”

  “Dude, you weren’t even there. It was dark! And he was black. That equals scary to any white person you know!”

  Mort laughed. “Dude, if I was ever president, I would legalize weed but I would make it so it would only be available from black guys in dark alleys and parking lots.” They both laughed. “Like, how bad do you want it, cracker?!”

  Mort was on fire. He took the ball and ran with it.

  “Oh! I would also require all cigarettes to be called fags, like in England. That way all the dumb redneck homophobes that still actually smoke would have to admit to sucking on fags everyday.”

  More laughs before Mort ruined everything for poor Jimmy, like usual. “Still can’t believe you paid him after giving you Rodrigo Handjob, dude.”

  “Yeah, I get it. I'm a shame to everyone I know.”

  “Oh damn! Maybe you should have asked the scary black man if he knows any desperate fat white women.” Mort laughed. Alone.

  Stuart joined them against the wall…fucking Stuart, and said, “Relax guys. I’ll buy the beer. We’re both over twenty-one.”

  Jimmy rolled his eyes in disgust. “Of course you are. Why wouldn't you be?”

  To Jimmy, Mort whispered, “I don't think you're going to get laid this weekend.”

  “Nope.”

  “Jacquelynn doesn't seem like the one-night-stand type and Sarah seems pretty unimpressed with, well, everything.”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. My only date will be a cold shower and the five-knuckle shuffle. Got it.”

  Just then, behind them, the door dinged and in walked two women, a mirror image of each other. Jimmy, still sulking, looked up and noticed them. Oh my god! Twins! “Holy shit,” he said quietly.

  “Wow,” Mort said, eyes wide.

  “See, Morton, you never have faith. Jesus shall provide.”

  “Jesus, huh? He's now supplying pussy? And it’s not Morton, it’s Mortim-”

  “He's very generous. Ever heard of Eve? Yeah!” He turned towards the twins, smiled and bowed, seriously bowed, and said, “Well hello there, ladies.”

  Savannah and Breanna both smiled.

  Jimmy, slightly thrown by their lack of verbal response, said, “What brings you lovely ladies to the middle of nowhere?”

  Savannah smiled, and then said with an English accent, “We just live up the mountain a couple of miles.”

  Breanna, glassy-eyed as a dead frog, followed up with, “Yeah, just up the mountain.”

  “Oh nice,” Jimmy said, attempting to smile and be flirty, but it mostly just looked like he crapped his pants. “Um, are those accents I detect?”

  “Uh huh.”

  “Uh huh.”

  Mort noticed a trend in Breanna’s speech pattern and wondered, seriously wondered, what her I.Q. could possibly be. Also, accents?

  “You’re British?” Mort asked, confused as to what two Brits would be doing in the middle of Middle America.

  “No,” Savannah said, “we’re from England.”

  Mort’s eyes slowly closed and he tried to compose himself. The sting of such stupidity was actually making his retinas burn.

  “Yeah, England.” Breanna seemed to be copying everything her sister said.

  Wow.

  “Well,” Jimmy said, with a clap of his hands, “we're staying at Camp McClane. Ever heard of it?”

  “Is that place open again?”

  “Yeah, open again?”

  Mort gave Jimmy a weird look. This seriously makes no sense. They’re from England, moved to the middle of Pussyfart Nowhere, and have heard about the old campground? This is like a badly cast movie where they needed twins and the only two to show up to the audition were British so they just used them and hoped no one would question it.

  Like Jimmy.

  “Yeah. Well, no. Not officially. We're friends of the owner and we're staying up at the main house for a week, ya know. To get away from our high paying jobs back home.”

  Mort rolled his eyes. Had this routine ever worked? Our high paying jobs at what? We’re teenagers and we’re obviously not actors and even more obviously not models. There is nothing else left for us.

  But again, the twins don’t seem to be, well, smart. At all.

  Savannah tilted her head to the side and said, “I see.”

  “Yeah.” Breanna said. “We see.” Then, as if remembering she was supposed to tilt her head too, she over compensated and tilted it so far and so fast it hit her shoulder, like someone knocked it down with a swift kick.

  Jimmy, annoyed these
two mental midgets didn’t take the bait, tried again. “Yep, high paying jobs back home. It’s a relief to get away from the stress of um, our jobs.”

  “Oh…” Savannah said. “Cool. What do you do?”

  “Yeah, what do you do?”

  Jimmy had no idea how to answer. He glanced at Mort. He was so woefully underprepared for such a situation. He hadn’t thought this through at all. What could be a high-paying job that a skinny, dirt-lipped teen could possibly hold?

  And then it came to him. “We’re writers.”

  Mort sighed. Nothing like having his aspiring dream mocked by a pencil-dicked twat.

  “Writers, huh?” Savannah said.

  “Writers, huh? Hmm.”

  Savannah’s eyes narrowed. She must be thinking really, really hard. “Like, real writers? Or are you those assholes that scribble five lines on a page, then pay an artist to illustrate your shit story, then pay some shit publisher to publish your shit story, and then you go on Facebook and shit and say like, Look at me, I’m a published children’s book writer?”

  Mort had fallen in love.

  “Yeah,” Breanna said. “All those words she said.”

  Jimmy looked nervous. He actually felt like he was going to crap his pants. It didn’t used to be like this. He used to be suave. He used to have game. He thought back to the night he landed Madeline. He was in the backseat of Mort’s mom’s car, his arm around her, and he delivered smooth line after smooth line. Madeline was practically swooning.

  Nervously, he laughed.

  “Ha. No, no children’s books for us. I mean, come on, anyone can write that crap. We’re full on writers.”

  Jimmy had started tugging on his collar like a bad Dangerfield impersonator. The girls looked suspicious, but too dumb to really care much. I mean, what’s the harm?

  They both knew that writers are nothing to brag about. I mean, unless your name is Stephen King or…neither of them could think of another writer… Who wrote Harry Potter?

  Both girls had considered reading those books at one point in their life. Then they saw how big they were and watched the movies instead.

  Well, most of them. They were really long.

  Jimmy, the smooth-machine, cleared his throat to fill the awkward silence with… something… anything, until he could think of something else to say.