Camp McClane

by Grant Fieldgrove

  “Yeah yeah, save the jokes,” Mort said, snatching his iPad back.

  “No man, this is fucking gold! I want to read more. I have to read more! Scroll up!

  “No.”

  “Please! PLEASE! I’m begging you!”

  “No.”

  With ninja-like stealth, Jimmy reached across Mort, touched the screen and flicked downward, causing the text to scroll up.

  “Fuck off, man!”

  “Neverrrr!” Jimmy said triumphantly. Laughing, Mort finally lowered his guard as Jimmy began to read. "They don't call us Ram Man and Fisto because we're strong." At this, Jimmy began jumping up and down with excitement. He was laughing so hard that Mort could swear he saw the slightest bit of drool fling from his mouth like a rabid dog.

  “Oh my God,” Jimmy said between hops, “what the hell are you doing, dude? This is awesome!”

  “Dude, erotic fan-fic is all the rage right now and any hack can do it. That's been proven. All you have to do is take characters you already know a lot about and make them fuck. See, you don't even have to come up with original characters because some editor will do that once they realize it's copyright infringement. They'll change a sword to a knife, swap one magical power for another and bang, lonely women in Capri pants and soccer moms will buy that shit like it comes with a carton of ice cream and a free babysitter. Trust me.”

  “What about those moms with the asses that go down into their pant legs?

  “They'll be first in line.”

  “And no talent is involved?”

  “Not much at all. I mean, maybe more than a nobody children’s book writer, but not much more. Just throw in a few thrusts and a few rock hard cocks and abs and have the female characters have massive orgasms and you'll sell a million copies by lunchtime.”

  “I might have to hop on that bandwagon.”

  “Yeah, well find your own source material. He-Man is mine. It's ripe for porn.”

  “Is there erotic ALF fiction?”

  Dave snapped his chair to bolt upright so hard the whole thing nearly came tumbling forward. “Did you say you're writing erotica?”

  Most sighed. “Yes.”

  “Nice,” Dave said leaning forward further, the rear of the chair elevated. “That's all the rage. Get's the girls in the mood.”

  Jimmy looked at him. “It does?”

  “Fuck yeah, homes. They read that shit and they're just begging for some real dick.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Yeah, two chapters in and they'll fuck anything with a wang, even the dog. Trust me.”

  Meanwhile, in the kitchen, James shoved something into the oven, set the timer for twenty-five minutes and told everyone there was nothing else to do now but wait.

  “Well,” Andie said, that bright smile of hers on full display, “I'm impressed.”

  “Me too.” Jacquelynn said, taking a seat at the kitchen table.

  “Meh.” Sarah. Obviously.

  “Well, I think you gentlemen did a fantastic job.” Jessica rose from her seat and stood next to James, who was wiping his hands on a dishtowel. “Something sexy about a man who knows how to cook.”

  Dave, who just happened to look up and notice Andie and Jessica standing a little closer to James and Stuart than he felt comfortable with, yelled, “How much longer? Cave Man Dave hunggy! Grrrr!”

  Andie, clearly embarrassed not only for herself, but also on Dave’s behalf, rolled her eyes and said, “Not too much longer, babe. Will you survive?”

  But Dave had already lost interest and had focused his attention back on his two loser friends.

  “What about Mr. T. porn?” Jimmy asked.

  “Well,” Mort said, dragging the word out as far as possible, “he is a real person, soooo...”

  “No, I said Mr. T.”

  Dave snorted. “Yeah, Mort. He said Mr. T. Not Apollo Creed!”

  Mort looked to Dave, then Jimmy, then back to Dave. “First off, Apollo Creed was played by Carl Weathers. Mr. T. played Clubber Lang.”

  “I'm pretty sure you're wrong.” Dave said this this while reclining back, nearly vertical, in his chair.

  “Really, geniuses? Then who is the actor that plays Mr. T?”

  A moment of silent pondering before Jimmy answers. “B.A. Barracus?”

  Mort softly closed his eyes, trying to block all noise from his rapidly developing headache.

  “Yeah,” Jimmy yelled. “That's what I thought.”

  Dave’s chair flung forward. “What about Rocky erotica? We can call it E-ROCKY-Ca!”

  Jimmy and Dave high-fived!

  Unable to ignore them any longer, Mort opened his eyes, let out a loud sigh and popped his knuckles. “Pretty sure there was like one girl in all six movies. Might be a little, ya know...” Mort held his right hand flat and wiggled it back and forth, giving the international sign of IFFY…AKA gay as fuck.

  Just after filming officially wrapped for the day, Phil Rivera received the news from his producer, Annie, that the call had finally come through. The call Phil had been waiting for literally for years.

  There were actually people staying at Camp McClane!

  Phil had been dying to do a story on the haunted old camp, but no one had been stupid enough to stay there since those kids were all found murdered and burnt in the campfire. And how many years ago was that?

  Had to have been at least twenty, right?

  He wasn’t sure, and he didn’t really care. The important thing was some rubes were actually there. That is, if his source was correct. But, why would he lie? Why now?

  No, he was sure of it. That kid would have no reason to lie because he knew there would be no payment until the story was produced.

  Yeah…this was it. Finally!

  It had been over two years since Phil had scouted the area surrounding the camp. He had handed a young man who worked at the local general store his business card, and told him it would be totally worth his while to call this number if anyone, ever, for any reason, were to stay up at the camp.

  Phil had almost given up. But oh, how sweet it would be.

  He had heard rumors of the ghost that haunted that place. Sure, that crusty old bastard with the eyeball in his pocket was sentenced to jail, and actually died there, for the deaths of those kids, but he didn’t do it. Hell, everyone knew that.

  Carl Langer did it.

  Everyone knew it but no one would say it.

  In his dressing room, Phil was frantically panicking, if that were possible, making sure to pick out just the right clothes. Just because they would be in the woods, didn’t mean he would be able to look like your common shlub. Phil had style, he had class. He was a top rated star with millions of fans.

  He was also, of course, incredibly vain.

  The Pulse with Phil Rivera aired every Friday night at the prime slot of 9pm. Its direct competitor was Dateline NBC, but in Phil’s eyes, it was no comparison at all. Dateline sent multiple reporters out to do their job whereas Phil did everything himself. Phil did the stories that mattered.

  And what set Phil apart from every other so-called journalist and television personality?

  Simple.

  Phil got his ass kicked.

  Literally.

  While interviewing some local gang members about the skyrocketing rate of tagging on public property, Phil had gotten beaten up.

  While interviewing a local furniture salesman who was accused of sex trafficking, Phil had gotten beaten up.

  When Phil travelled to California to confront a professional athlete about his recently deceased wife, Phil had gotten beaten up.

  There are several more instances, but you get the idea.

  The first blow came during the investigation of a scam artist who had milked millions of dollars from unsuspecting dopes all over the United States, and it really did come as a surprise. The suspect landed one quick jab to Phil’s right eye then took off running.

  Phil, instantly knowing what makes great television, milked it for all it was w
orth. He flailed his arms back like he was doing the wave at a baseball game, stumbled backwards crashing into a table, and then hit the deck like a ton of cement. It wasn’t until after he was up again, with a steak on his eyes and some bandages on his hand, did he learn that the cameraman, that fucking fool, had dropped the camera in order to help his boss.

  Phil was furious but an idea was beaten into him that fateful day.

  From then on out, Phil would put himself in dangerous situations and, from that point forward, absolutely under no circumstances, were his cameramen to turn away.

  The beatings turned out to be ratings gold. It put 20/20 out of business and turned Dateline into a gimmick show, although not as successfully.

  His bruises, he felt, added to his sex appeal, and what kind of life is worth living without sex appeal?

  But this, this was going to be the big one, he could feel it. He was going to go face to face with Carl Langer, and he was going to take a beating, but he was going to walk away. It was he, Phil Rivera, who was going to be the one to finally stand up to Carl Langer and live to tell about it…at 9pm Friday night.

  So, before the sun set in New York City, Phil, his producer Annie, and two crew members, boarded a private jet and headed off to follow their story.

  As Phil Rivera’s jet was high in the clouds and the gang was finishing up their dinner, the sun at Camp McClane had dipped behind the mountains, casting everything in shadows for a few brief moments before darkness fell and left the moon to provide the only light.

  Carl turned on a small flashlight, tapped it twice to get it to flick to life and set it on the floor, shining on his pile of goods. He pulled the bear trap from the pile and looked at it for a moment, admiring it, then smiled from behind his mask.

  In the distance, thunder cracked, a coyote howled and a bear shit then ate it. Carl set the bear trap down and picked up a box of light bulbs, which he filled with powder from shotgun shells. After spilling more than he actually got into the bulbs, he lifted his mask up, like a catcher running to the mound.

  Much better.

  Another loud crack of thunder, this time followed by the tap tap tap of rain beginning to fall.

  Of course, Savannah thought as she parked her bike, lifted her coat over her head and ran toward the main house, Breanna right behind her doing exactly the same thing.

  The mud had already started to form on the ground, and the girls had to slow down their pace otherwise one of them, or probably both of them, would be eating some dirt.

  Knock knock knock!

  “Who could that be?” Andie asked while making her way to the door, her heart thumping wildly and the brief thought of it maybe, possibly being Carl Langer, here to kill them all. Nah that wasn’t very likely.

  Shrugs.

  Andie opened the door and saw the soaking wet Savannah and Breanna standing in the rain. Andie gave them a curious look as she didn’t even remember them from just a few hours ago, but then again, she was pretty busy at the store thinking about why, indeed, they needed colored maxi-pads.

  Breathlessly, Savannah said, “Hi. Sorry. We were invited here tonight.”

  “Yeah. Invited. Sorry.”

  “Oh!” Andie said, finally remembering where she had seen these two before. “Okay, well come in from the rain.”

  “Thanks.”

  “Thanks. Yeah.”

  Andie smiled. “Sure.”

  They stepped inside, wiping their feet and hanging up their wet coats. Savannah spotted Mort and Jimmy in the living room and pointed to them.

  “Those are the guys that invited us.”

  “Yeah. The guys.”

  Sarah and Jacquelynn shared a look, unsure of what to think of their new guests. Was the second one, the one who kept repeating everything, right in the head? They weren’t sure. Sarah thought briefly about them being one person in the womb, then magically separating right before birth…that would explain things, she supposed.

  And then she supposed that thought was pretty stupid and she was glad she didn’t say it out loud.

  “Not surprising,” Jessica said smugly. Those two horndogs would have invited anything with a hole.

  “Well,” Andie said, raising her arms in a gesture of welcoming, “by all means, come in and hang out. We just finished eating dinner but I can make you guys a plate if you're hungry.”

  “Oh no thanks. We've already ate.”

  Under her breath, Jacquelynn muttered, “Eaten...”

  Breanna, smiling way too wide and for no reason, said, “Yeah. We've already ate,” causing Jacquelynn to roll her eyes and sigh. Bad grammar was one of her pet peeves. In fact, it was probably the top pet peeve. For someone who read two books a week, hearing people talk like uneducated cousin-fuckers made her heart break. This was basic, third grade English and adults couldn’t seem to master it.

  Savannah clapped her hands together and said, “We were promised beer, weed and a good time.”

  “Well,” Andie said, “we certainly can provide, I suppose.” Her tone was less than convincing. She had, after all, hung out with Mort and Jimmy before and a good time being had was fairly rare. But whatever. “Come on in.”

  “Good time,” Breanna said, a little late this time.

  Savannah and Breanna cut through the kitchen and into the living room with the guys; Mort too busy typing away to even notice the guests, Jimmy laying upside down on the sofa, and Dave flat on his back in the recliner, rubbing his stuffed-full belly. “Ohhh, I’m fuller than a tick on a tampon.”

  Okay, maybe those assholes could cook, but so what. Right?

  Once the twins were out of earshot, Andie turned to her friends and mouthed, “Fucking whores.”

  “Cunts.” Sarah.

  “Fake ass sluts.” Jessica.

  Jacquelynn cringed. “Wow.”

  “Hey guys.” Savannah said to the guys, surprising all three.

  “Guys. Hey.”

  Mort scrambled to hide his iPad, the thought of these two gorgeous girls seeing this shit he was writing almost made him want to barf.

  “Fuck,” Jimmy said, falling to the floor headfirst. “Hey. Hey ladies.”

  With his iPad successfully hidden, Mort said, “Uh…Hey...ladies. Hey ladies.”

  Savannah snapped to attention, arms stiff at her side as if she was presenting herself to a drill instructor for inspection. “We made it.” She smiled.

  “We-”

  Breanna was cutoff by Jimmy…not like it mattered; everyone already knew what she was going to say, anyway, and really, her routine was already getting pretty annoying.

  “Noice! Please, please. Sit.” Jimmy reached into his pocket and pulled out a Ziploc bag of marijuana. “I believe this was promised. Right?”

  “Ohhhhh. Nice.”

  “Nice.”

  In the kitchen, Stuart and James were cleaning the last of the dishes, because aren’t they just fucking perfect?

  Hanging a damp towel on the handle of the stove, James said, “Have you guys heard the legend of Crazy Eddie?”

  Andie laughed. “No. Well, not really. Just that he killed some kids then died in jail. We were just talking about it on the way down here.” She was too embarrassed to admit she was actually frightened when there was a knock on the door a few minutes ago. Of course, she was scared of Carl, not Crazy Eddie…but still, how dumb.

  Stuart washed his hands and said, “Yeah, that's the official version.”

  Jacquelynn said, “What's the unofficial version, then?

  Stuart said, “Well, legend has it, that Crazy Eddie was just the patsy.”

  Jessica, with a disgusted look on her face, said, “I'm sorry. Like, I don’t understand what being gay has to do with anything.”

  Everyone laughed and Jessica was confused as to what they were laughing at, so, with no other options she could think of, she joined in.

  Jacquelynn clarified, “Patsy, silly. Not pansy. But that’s… actually that’s pretty offensive and-”

  “Like a f
all guy,” Sarah interrupted, monotone.

  “Oh,” Jessica said, feeling furious now about the laughs at her expense.

  Stuart: “Yeah. Like, he was framed.”

  Jacquelynn: “But, by who?”

  Stuart: “Well, the local authorities, I guess. They needed to pin it on somebody.”

  Andie: “But...I heard he had an eyeball in his pocket.”

  Stuart: “He did. And that's why he was the perfect guy to pin it on.”

  Jacquelynn: “Well...If he didn't do it...then who?”

  James cleared his throat, a true showman. “Well,” he whispered, “the legend, ya know, said a guy named Carl Langer did it. They said, way back when, Carl and his parents were camping and got murdered by a witch doctor or gypsy...”

  Stuart interrupted, “Or something like that...”

  “Yeah,” James said. “It doesn't really matter. The point is, Carl died and went to hell for whatever reason...”

  Stuart: “But the devil didn't want him...”

  Sarah snickered at the absurdity of this dumb story. And really… “The devil? Give me a break.”

  Stuart, already not a fan of the ninety-year-old bitty trapped in the body of a teenager, said to Sarah, “I'm just telling the story.”

  James smiled. “Anyway, the devil sends Carl back to earth to roam this campsite for all eternity. Anyone who dares step foot on it is said to be doomed. Carl will come back and kill you all...”

  Jacquelynn leaned forward. “So that's what happened to those counselors the first time they tried to open up this camp?”

  James nodded. “That's what they say. Carl is ruthless...”

  Stuart adds, “Stone cold.”

  From the living room, Mort threw his fist in the air and yelled, “Austin 3:16!”

  He was ignored.

  Jacquelynn whispered, “But...I mean... Come on, that's all bullshit, right?”

  Sarah rolled her eyes, as usual. “Of course. There is no devil, first off.”

  “How do you know?” Jessica asked, as if this personally offended her. “My daddy went to church a few times and even once I considered going with him, so to not believe in the devil is to not believe in Jesus. Are you saying you don’t believe in Jesus?”

  Sarah giggled sarcastically, a skill she had mastered over the years. “Really? The devil, huh? With his stupid pointy tail and his fucking pitchfork like he lives on a goddamn farm with Ma and Pa Kettle? And Jesus? He died for our sins? Really? He came right back…”