“Everything’s okay, my friend,” a man’s resonant baritone voice said. “They’re just stitching up your lip, is all. We’re taking care of you, bro.” The voice was warm, kind, and comforting. As a matter of fact, Weak Bitch thought it might be the most chill voice he’d ever heard in his life. Then someone grasped his arms and gently pushed them back down to his sides. “Easy now,” the mellifluous voice said. “You don’t want to rip your IV out of your arm.”
That’s when Weak Bitch realized he was in a bed, the back of his head half-sunk in a soft pillow. He turned his head to the left, toward the sound of the voice, but everything beyond an arm’s reach was a blur.
“But…but,” Weak Bitch said, struggling to speak.
“Easy now, son,” the voice said. “You need to rest. We’ll talk later.”
“But…but…I…just…saw…fucking…TERROR MANNEQUIN.”
“That wasn’t TERROR MANNEQUIN,” the chill voice said. Then the voice faded away along with the rest of the world as Weak Bitch sank back into unconsciousness.
***
His vision was much clearer when he regained consciousness again a bit later, and the pain in his eyes and lower lip had dulled to a tolerable soreness. He felt mellow, warm, lightheaded, and unworried—as if he were mildly medicated. Looking around, he observed he was in what appeared to be a sparsely furnished, windowless bedroom. Tom Two and The Membrane were seated in chairs off to the left against the wall. A big glass bowl of candy rested in Tom Two’s lap from which he and The Membrane ate greedily. Standing beside his nephews was the thing that had stitched up his lip: the hybrid mannequin/ventriloquist dummy/wax doll/voodoo doll/jack-in-the-box abomination that looked like the legendary TERROR MANNEQUIN, but was not TERROR MANNEQUIN according to what the soothing voice had said.
Beside the monster stood a scrawny, sixtyish man attired in a Bob Ross “Happy Little Trees” t-shirt, a pair of faded blue jeans, and an old beat-up pair of Timbs. His long, thin hair was mostly gray, though streaked with dishwater blond and pulled back in a tight ponytail. He wore an equally long beard, which was twined into two Viking braids. A pair of retro round sunglasses with red-orange lenses hid the man’s eyes.
“Holy shit!” Weak Bitch said, recognizing him. “Could it really be? Are you…Chillington, the Chillmaster of Chillville?”
“I am,” Chillington, the Chillmaster of Chillville, said in the most chill voice imaginable.
Chillville was a village in southern Ohio that was known worldwide as being, in all likelihood, the most chill city on Earth. Citizens of Chillville only worked two months out of the year, rotating shifts in the village’s world-famous brewery and on the lush marijuana farms that encircled Chillville’s small, quaint downtown area. During their ample downtime, the villagers—known as a chillagers—just basically hung out, enjoying a life of rest, relaxation, and recreation.
Until recently, the title of Chillville’s highest elected official had been Chillmaster. More like spiritual leaders than actual governing officials, Chillmasters had served lifelong terms, but could be impeached if they were ever observed to engage in unchill (i.e., asshole-ish) behavior, which almost never happened. When a Chillmaster died, the chillagers held a vote to decide who was the new chillest person in town, and that person became the next Chillmaster.
Chillington had been Chillmaster of Chillville for the last forty years. But in 1989, he left town to go on sabbatical at an undisclosed location outside the country, promising to return in a month’s time. Only he never came back. To this day, he was presumed dead, but Chillington was so beloved by the chillagers of Chillville that his successor took the title of “Chillminister” so that Chillington would always be remembered as the last Chillmaster of Chillville.
“But aren’t you, like, dead?” Weak Bitch asked.
“He who is truly chill never really dies,” Chillington said. The man was known for uttering sage aphorisms like this one, usually about the nature of chillness. “No, I’m not dead. I’ve only been in hiding. And I was doing a pretty good job of staying hidden until you, on the brink of death, floated into my house tonight with your friends. Now, it wouldn’t have been very chill of me to just let you bleed to death in that canoe, would it have?”
“Um, no, I guess not. Thanks for saving my life.”
Chillington bowed his head slightly in acknowledgement.
Weak Bitch touched his lower lip, ran his finger over the stitches. He glanced down at the IV catheter in his arm. A tube led from the catheter to a bag of translucent purple fluid hanging from a metal pole beside the bed.
“Hey, what’s the purple stuff you’re giving me?”
“What, did you think Chillington, the Chillmaster of Chillville, would give you a regular old, boring saline drip? Nah, man. You get the good stuff around here. That solution is infused with some of the best purple chronic from Chillville’s world-famous cannabis farms.”
“Whoa. Well, that explains this wicked mellow feeling I have—I’m fuckin’ high as a kite.” Weak Bitch pushed himself up in bed, rolled his shoulders, and twisted his head around to stretch his stiff neck. “How long have I been out for?”
“About an hour.”
“Shit. Seems longer.” Weak Bitch glanced down at his legs. “Hey, why am I wearing sweatpants? Where are my jeans?”
“The sweatpants are a loaner from me. Don’t you remember? You, um, fouled yourself in the canoe.”
Tom Two and The Membrane shook with silent laughter in their chairs. The Membrane formed its limbs and signed a message: Haha, you pooped your pants like a big baby!
Weak Bitch cast The Membrane a dirty look, then the candy bowl caught his attention. “Oh, shit. Hey, you shouldn’t have given them candy. It’s illegal to give Tom Two and The Membrane candy on Halloween.”
“But you came here tonight to trick-or-treat. You’re the first trick-or-treaters I’ve ever had out here actually.”
“We didn’t come here to trick-or-treat. We came here to reverse trick-or-treat.”
Chillington frowned. “And what, might I ask, is reverse trick-or-treating?”
“I’ll tell you,” Weak Bitch said, “but first I have some questions of my own.” He pointed at the mannequin. “For starters, if that thing is not TERROR MANNEQUIN, then what the hell is it?”
“Oh, that’s just Aw-Yeah. He’s basically my personal servant, bodyguard, and personal chef all rolled into one. He may look like TERROR MANNEQUIN, but trust me: Aw-Yeah is chill as hell.”
“Why is he called Aw-Yeah?” Weak Bitch asked.
“Because he can only speak one phrase. Anyway, how about we continue our conversation in the living room? I’ll have Aw-Yeah fetch us some refreshments.”
As if on cue, the Chicken McNugget’s mouth hole widened to say, “Awwwwwwwwwwwww yeah!”
Chapter 18
S undry Halloween lights and decorations—such as orange and black lava lamps and skull-shaped plasma balls flickering with green and purple electricity—adorned Fallingwater’s spacious living room. Heavy black drapes cloaked the windows in the room, preventing even a pinpoint of light from shining through to the world outside. An immense C-shaped sofa dominated the space, where Chillington bade Weak Bitch, Tom Two, and The Membrane to kick back and make themselves comfortable.
Chill instrumental music played at a low volume from unseen, super-high-end speakers throughout the room. The music’s hypnotic, slow-funk drum groove lent it a kind of smooth jazz feel while the ambient synth and slightly dissonant, reverb-washed guitar comping above the groove added an ethereal, almost otherworldly quality to the music. Weak Bitch and Tom Two both found themselves bobbing their heads to the music while The Membrane’s entire form twitched in time with the beat.
“Man, what’s this music you’re playing?” Weak Bitch asked. “It’s chill as hell.”
“It’s called chillcore. Glad you like it. It’s a music genre I invented myself. I recorded this album in my home studio here at Fallingwater.”
“No thanks. I think I’m high enough as it is, my tiny little weak bitch.”
Chillington’s head jerked up as he coughed, expelling a long plume of purple smoke. “Did you just call me your tiny little weak bitch?”
Weak Bitch chuckled. “Oops. Yeah, I did. Sorry. Not sure why I said that. I guess I’m just really high. Heh. See, my name is My Tiny Little Weak Bitch.”
“Surely you can’t be serious about that, compadre.”
“Unfortunately, I am, man. My boss made me legally change my name to My Tiny Little Weak Bitch yesterday. It was either that or get canned.”
“Whoa. That’s not chill at all.”
“Yeah, tell me about it.”
“Well, I’m not about to call you My Tiny Little Weak Bitch. What was your name before that?”
“Glont Lamont.”
“Then I’m calling you Glont.” (Dear Reader: Since Chillington, the Chillmaster of Chillville, insists on calling him Glont, let us go back to doing the same.)
Aw-Yeah returned from the kitchen, the dummy part of it bearing a large silver tray that contained jack-o-lantern-shaped sugar cookies, bat-shaped brownies, caramel apples, apple cider, and a metal bucket filled with chilly bottles of Chillington Brewery’s own Chilltoberfest dark lager (8.7 percent alcohol by volume).
“Would you all like a beer?” Chillington asked, to which The Membrane immediately gave an enthusiastic thumbs up.
“Me and The Membrane will. Thanks,” Glont said. “But apple cider for Tom Two. He’s not old enough to drink alcohol.”
“Not old enough, eh?” Chillington said. “How old are you, Tom Two?”
Tom Two signed at him: Eons old.
“Luckily I’m adept at sign language,” Chillington said. “For, as I’ve always said, ‘He who masters sign language is chill as hell.’ So you’re likely eons old, you say?” Chillington turned to Glont, one eyebrow arched in confusion.
“Might be eons old,” Glont said, “But he’s also two years old. I know, that doesn’t really make a lick of sense. It’s kind of hard to explain.”
“Well, then explain away, my friend. I’m all ears. I’ve never had visitors here before. All these things you see here—the good food, the abundant herb, the ever-flowing brew, this chill house itself—well, I haven’t been able to share them with anyone. Hence, I’m delighted to have your company and would love to hear your dudes’ stories. So how about you tell me about you, then I’ll tell you about me, okay? But first, I just have to ask, why were you reverse trick-or-treating here tonight? I mean, no one ever comes out here. Did you not see all my NO TRESPASSING signs?”
Tom Two hopped to his feet on the couch, arms and hands signing with much animation to inform Chillington that they would never have come if Chillington hadn’t removed the barbed wire fence and the NO TRESPASSING signs around the property.
“I didn’t remove my barbed wire fence or those signs!”
Well, someone sure did, Chillingsworth, The Membrane signed.
It’s “Chillington,” not “Chillingsworth, Tom Two signed to correct him.
“Damn, I should’ve known,” Glont said. “It was someone from town. I bet whoever it was did it so we’d have to come out here tonight. They probably hoped we’d run into TERROR MANNEQUIN and get killed.”
I bet Lance Montgomery was in on it, Tom Two signed.
“Nah, I don’t think so. If Lance had wanted us to come out here tonight, he wouldn’t have tried to make me kill myself earlier. It could have been just about anyone else in town though since everyone loathes you guys. I guess it really doesn’t matter who did it. Fuck ’em all.”
Yeah, yo, fuck this whole flaming-turd town in the ass with a big, blue, sweet, spiked dick, mang! The Membrane signed.
***
Glont told Chillington all about Tom Two and The Membrane: about their enigmatic, apparently supernatural natures, their strange and unexplained origins, their connection to the Lamont ancestral home, their ostracization and persecution by the hard-hearted residents of Selohssa, and the cruel tradition of reverse trick-or-treat. He also told Chillington about himself; about his role as a caregiver for his nephews and ailing mother; about how, despite having the perfect job, he hated it; about how he longed to work grueling, demoralizing, soul-crushing, 15-hour shifts seven-days-a-week as a coal miner or maybe a sewer cleaner or perhaps a roadkill scraper-upper; and about how he hadn’t gotten his dick wet in something like twenty years, not since the last time he’d had blindfolded sex with Ma-He’s-Makin’-Eyes-At-Me.
Chillington listened to it all intently, his face screwed into an intense, focused expression as he took in and contemplated all the sundry injustices with which Glont regaled him. When Weak finished telling their stories, Chillington exhaled a spiraling ribbon of purple smoke and said, “Man, I’m really sorry to hear about that dry dick of yours, but I’m even more sorry to hear you don’t dig working for my company anymore. I mean, I understand though. The super-chill, super-idle life isn’t for everyone.”
Glont went wide-eyed. “Your company?”
“Yeah. I’m, like, Fun 4-Life’s anonymous founder, majority shareholder, and its secret CEO.”
“No way,” Glont said, incredulous.
“Kinda crazy, huh?”
“So is that why you’ve holed yourself up here at Fallingwater all these years? To be closer to your company?”
“Oh, no. I haven’t had much to do with Fun 4-Life since even before my disappearance from Chillville, at least not directly. That company always just sorta took care of itself. It’s mostly funded by profits from Chillville’s brewery and marijuana farms, but I’ve been more or less high and/or blackout drunk for the last thirty years, so I honestly can’t remember the last time I checked in to see what was going on with Fun 4-Life or any of my many other assets and investments for that matter. But from what you’re tellin’ me, hoss, it looks like some very unchill motherfuckers have infiltrated senior and middle management over there.”
“Well, they’re not all bad. I mean, Marty—my floor manager—is kinda a dick, but he’s alright most of the time, I guess, despite dressing up like a big baby every day and forcing employees to change his poopy diapers. But Lance Montgomery? Yeah, that guy’s the fucking worst. Shit, he’s the one who nearly killed me tonight!”
Glont cracked open another Chilltoberfest as Chillington continued to sit quietly across from him, a contemplative look on his face.
“So if you didn’t come out here to be close to your company…” Glont started to ask, but caught his tongue, thinking he was being too nosey.
“Then why did I come out here?” Chillington finished for him. “You want to know what would possess me to abandon the most chill city on the planet to come out here and live like a hermit for three decades and counting?”
“Yeah,” Glont said as Tom Two and The Membrane both signed a yes.
“Well, the short answer is that thirty years ago, I, Chillington, the Chillmaster of Chillville—and although I am deeply ashamed to admit it—began to have certain unkind—nay, certain unchill—thoughts.”
Suddenly wide-eyed, Tom Two gasped and raised both his hands to his mouth in shock.
Chapter 19
C hillington explained that, as the most chill people on Earth, the chillagers of Chillville had always adhered to a strict policy of Gandhi- and Thoreau-inspired pacifism. In their code of chill behavior, violence was considered very unchill, so all chillagers were taught from a very young age to turn the other cheek and to resolve conflicts via nonviolent means, at least whenever possible.
“But around thirty years ago,” he said, “whenever I was made aware of the innumerable assholes populating the world outside of Chillville—be it assholes I encountered while travelling o
n business, those I saw on TV, or those I heard on the radio—I began to feel a mounting anger like I’d never felt before, anger that eventually ballooned into a rage. This rage, in turn, gave birth to bad—nay, violent—thoughts. Sick violent fantasies—fantasies of me beating and tearing unchill people apart with my bare hands. And with these fantasies came feelings of great shame, shame at ever having entertained such unchill thoughts. As a result, I began to fear I was no longer fit to be the leader of Chillville and its public face. That’s when I decided to go away on a retreat. I wanted to go someplace quiet and isolated, a place where I could purge my head of unchill thoughts and recharge spiritually. So I called my old friend, the retired oil tycoon Silas Amadeus Cruthers XVII, and asked him if I could come stay at Fallingwater for a few weeks.”
Glont nearly choked on his beer. “You were friends with Silas Amadeus Cruthers XVII?”
“Yes. Silas and I went way back. In fact, I had been something of a spiritual adviser to him during the final years of his life. The man regarded me as one of his only friends. I’d been a guest here many times before my sabbatical, so Silas was more than willing to accommodate me by giving me private access to the house’s recently and secretly constructed basement, which the Old Man had used for top secret business meetings prior to his retirement. To avoid any unwanted visits from the paparazzi, he promised to keep my stay here a secret from the rest of the world, including from his own house servants and security guards.
“When I first arrived here for my retreat, I spent a lot of time practicing tai chi, kung fu, yoga, and Zen meditation. I stayed away from the TV and the radio. I read chill books, including a number of ancient chill texts, smoked a lot of chill weed, and exercised a lot. The basement here connects to a tunnel that leads to a secret door in the ravine not too far downstream from the swimming hole at the end of the water slide. That passage allowed me to come and go as I pleased without worrying that anyone in the house would see me. As such, I spent a lot of my time here going for walks in the woods, communing with nature.
Terror Mannequin Page 9