by Mike McCarty
Emerlinde stepped in front of her boss and pushed the notebook away. “No autographs allowed,” she said sternly.
“No written documentation of any kind,” Terronez said flatly, walking past the stunned gaffer.
Things have been just plain weird since Terronez made his grand entrance, Scottie thought as he played his eighth game of solitaire, waiting for the goddamn rain to stop.
All this rain–now that’s weird, the director reflected. I picked New Mexico in the summer because it hardly ever rains this time of year. Now look at it. Shit, where’s my ark? All this rain has put us a whole month behind schedule. And then the crew members keep disappearing. It’s like I’m on the set of some teen slasher flick.
The first crew member to vanish had been Cristopher Garton. Of course, the fact that Terronez had refused to give out an autograph had probably upset the kid. Cristopher was a sensitive little scrub–maybe that was why he just stopped showing up for work without even saying goodbye to anyone.
Then Danny Nicks, the soundman, took off. He went out riding his motorcycle to the nearby town to pick up some beer and never returned. But who knows, maybe he met some hot biker chick and rolled off into the sunset. Danny was the kind of horndog who would do something like that.
The oddest disappearance was Scottie’s assistant, Leesa Matheson. She had been working with him for the last ten years. She wasn’t the kind to just leave without telling anyone. Of course, Terronez has been making the filming process a living hell with all his ranting and raving. Nothing was ever good enough for him. If his chicken salad had even the tiniest speck of dark meat in it, he’d throw it to the ground in front of everyone. And woe to anyone if they handed him a fizzy soft drink that had gone just a little flat. Terronez demanded fizz, and he’ll splash the drink into the face of whoever had served it to him. Five or six times, that had been Leesa.
Scottie flipped over another card. The ace of spades.
Terronez has been a real pain in the ass–but at least his effects were realistic. The fake guts, hearts, brains, eyeballs and spinal columns were the slickest and ooziest Scottie had ever seen. And the synthetic goo he used for blood actually clotted if left out too long. The effects even had a bit of realistic stink to them. Some of the cast members complained about that. Ermelinde dismissed their comments by saying, “The master does not stop at visual accuracy. He believes that the performers must experience all the appropriate sensory input to foster maximal dramatic responses. So there.”
Terronez only came out of his bus, which was also his special-effects mobile lab, when it was time for him to do his thing, and he always brought his blonde sidekick. She shouted out all the commands through her megaphone–it was like she was directing the picture. Whenever the special-effects guru was inside the bus, Ermelinde was always standing outside, like a watchdog. What the Hell was Terronez doing in there for all those hours? Surely he’d prepared most of the special effects in advance. Why would he wait until the last minute?
Jeffrey pushed the cards off the table. He was bored with the game, and with the rain, too.
It was time for a few script changes.
“To hell with this fucking rain,” Scottie said to nobody at all as he climbed inside the cabin of his helicopter. He’d decided he would do some aerial location shots during the downpour. Maybe later he’d work in some scenes with a ‘dark-and-stormy-night’ kind of feel. He started the engine and the aircraft began to rise. The director had a pilot’s license from a brief military stint, and that license was now invaluable, since the original studio’s pilot also had recently disappeared.
The helicopter flew over Terronez’s special-effects bus. Emerlinde stood guard outside the bus holding a white umbrella. He had to admit: she was one hell of a faithful employee.
Then Scottie noticed that the bus had a skylight in the middle of the roof. Unfortunately, he was too high to see anything though the glass. The rain didn’t help matters.
Still...maybe there was a way he could see what was going on in that guarded fortress on wheels.
Scottie’s clothes were soaked, but he didn’t care. He quietly climbed up the back of the bus. He figured the sound of the rain pattering on Ermelinde’s umbrella would drown out any little noise he made. He crawled over to the skylight, only to discover that it was a mirror–probably a one-way mirror, so that light could still shine in. But why would anyone put a one-way mirror on top of a vehicle? That was just plain nuts.
He pushed his fingers under the edge and managed to swing it open. Terronez and Ermelinde weren’t so brainy after all: they’d forgotten to lock an entryway. The director climbed into the dim interior of the bus.
What Scottie saw as he jumped down to the floor shocked and nauseated him. He vomited within eight seconds of entering the vehicle, splashing the liquefied remains of a club sandwich across the bus.
Of course, the place was already such a ghastly mess, his contribution didn’t made it look any worse.
He had expected to see Jeffrey Terronez smoking pot or snorting coke, or maybe having sex with one of the few remaining crew members. But it was worse than that–much worse.
Scottie saw Terronez cutting off Leesa’s slender, freckled arm with a machete. He also saw the remaining body parts of other members of the film crew–on tabletops, in trays, stuffed in bottles. He even saw some heads speared on sticks, which in turn were stuck in an umbrella stand.
“So you’ve discovered the truth,” Terronez said with a sneer as he turned to the director. “What took you so long? I left the skylight latch open–I figured you’d find your way in.”
“You’ll never get away with this! I’m going to call the police,” Scottie said, pulling his cellphone out of his pocket–he hoped it wasn’t too wet to operate.
Terronez knocked the phone onto the floor and smashed it with his foot. “Ha! It would be hard to finish the movie with your special-effects guy in prison, wouldn’t it?”
Before Scottie could answer, Terronez said, “I am indispensable–but you are not.”
“What are you talking about?” Scottie said nervously. “I’m the director–I’m the most important guy here.”
Terronez shrugged. “I’m afraid not. Emerlinde can fill in for you. She’s a lady of many talents. Sound, camera, editing, acting, directing–she can do it all. She’s a genius, really, with an I.Q. of 187. She’s also my sister, and I don’t like the way you’ll been ogling her. That look of fear on your face right now is really priceless! It would be perfect for the final decapitation scene.”
Before Scottie could scream, Terronez swung the machete, slicing through the director’s neck. The way the head toppled off the body looked exactly like one of Tom Savini’s Friday the 13th effects–except for the fact that this scene used a real head.
The Los Angeles world premiere for the film was held at midnight–a Terronez idea, of course. Usually at these things, there were several limousines dropping off the stars at the red carpet, so they could all slowly stroll into the theater.
But for this premiere, there was only one white limousine. TV camera crews, photographers, paparazzi and fans all scurried to snap glamorous shots of Jeffrey Terronez in his silky white PJs and dark sunglasses and Emerlinde in her long white gown and black shades.
Aimee Breeze, Entertainment Reporter for Talent Tonight, stuck a microphone in front of the special-effects whiz and said, “We’re here with Jeffrey Terronez, the self-styled Wizard of Ooze. Jeffrey, your contributions to horror films are legendary. What can we expect to see in this new release of yours?”
Terronez smiled for the camera. “I raised the bar on cinematic violence even more with this one. It will be my goriest, most realistic production yet.”
Aimee flashed a bleached-teeth smile at the camera. “Anything else you’d like to add?”
“Yes.” Terronez kept smiling.
“To those of you who think special effects are taking over today’s horror films, I say: You’re exactly right. Enjoy.” He gently took his sister’s hand and walked with her into the theater.
Part Two:
McTERROR!
Solo Novellas
Giant Cockroaches
from Outer Space
by Michael McCarty
PART ONE:
D.T.: THE DRUNKEN TERRESTRIALS
as told by Piers Blayloch, Junior from the University of Iowa, Iowa City, IA
Maybe we were just a couple of stoner college students who had smoked too much cannabis, drank too many cocktails, and watched too many bad sci-fi movies. But I swear on Hugo Gernsback’s grave that all the events are true, or as accurate as memories can be, if they came from a time when your brain was saturated with weed and booze.
Let me introduce myself. I am Piers Blayloch, a University of Iowa pre-med major, with an interest in genetics–in other words, a mad-scientist-in-training. My roommate and best bud in the whole world is a part-time disc jockey who goes by the name of Goose–he’s also a pre-law and business major, a lawyer-in-training. The two of make a pretty wicked combination.
We decided to skip school one day to go to a sci-fi convention in lovely downtown Iowa City. We spent the whole afternoon in a hotel meeting room watching freaky flicks about aliens–It Came from Outer Space, Communion, Strange Invaders, and Men in Black, Parts I and II. Strangely enough, Johnny Cash did not appear in either part.
After the movies, we prowled the hotel bar in search of sleazy con ladies who put out. Our quest may have been fruitless, but we did catch a good beer buzz.
Both bummed and burned out, we decided to go for a ride in my ‘79 Cutlass Oldsmobile, which I’d named Flattery, since Flattery will get you nowhere. With a couple cases of Black Label beer and some rockin’ tunes cranking from the ancient eight-track player, we went cruising through Iowa City.
Sometime shortly before dawn, we were out of beer and the needle of the fuel gauge was teetering on E. We parked Flattery in a lane leading into a cornfield near Highway One. We were listening to the end of Jethro Tull’s “Aqualung” on the eight-track … when it happened.
Crazy psychedelic lights filled the sky: red, blue, green, yellow, orange and purple. It was more awesome than a Pink Floyd concert–too bad the light show didn’t come with a band. We soon saw that the weird highbeams were shining out of some kind of U-F-frigging-O, a real honest-to-God spaceship.
I just about peed my pants. Goose actually did. The ship made a strange humming noise, like that CD by those monks that came out a few years back. I opened the glove department and searched for my Polaroid camera. I could snap some pictures, sell them to the National Blab and pay off my student loan. Then I remembered I’d left the camera at my girlfriend’s house. She’d bought some sexy lingerie from Victoria’s Secret and–well, that’s another story.
The spaceship landed, its big-ass silver doors slid open, and out stepped three hideous creatures. They had the usual movie-alien features–buggy eyes, lots of limbs, drippy mandibles–but that wasn’t why they looked strangely familiar.
They looked like something I saw everyday in my kitchen.
Cockroaches.
The leader was a giant roach on his hindlegs, who stood over seven feet tall. He wore a purple vest, a matching beret and several tacky gold chains around his thick neck. He smiled at us–I think it was a smile–as he said, “Could you please direct me to the nearest Roach Motel?”
We stared speechlessly at the giant insects.
“That’s a joke,” he said with a deep, rattling sigh. “I thought Earthlings were supposed to have a sense of humor. Say, do either of you have any plutonium on you?”
We slowly shook our heads.
“We need it to charge our ship’s batteries. Perhaps there’s a place where I can purchase some plutonium in your city?” The roach who was dressed like a pimp gave us that creepy sort-of-a-smile again. His hand was resting on a holster that held an ominous canister.
“I have some bummer news for you, Mr. Bugman,” said Goose, his voice quivering. “So don’t shoot me with your ray gun, okay? Iowa City is a nuclear-free zone.”
“My name is Dr. Strangebug. You mentioned a ray gun…?” the cockroach asked quizzically. He looked down at his holster. “Oh, do you mean this?” He pulled out the canister. “This isn’t a weapon. It’s a can of Black Flag. We use it to get high.”
“Bug-people get stoned, too! Waaaay cool,” I said, giving all three roaches high-fives. Suddenly, Earthlings weren’t the only stoners in the universe. We were no longer alone.
“It’s good that we’re bonding,” the big bug from another planet said, “but our ship is still stranded here on this mudball you call a home planet. We need to get back home. Earth is a nice place to visit, but I wouldn’t want to live here.”
Goose’s eyes lit up. “Hey, bug-dudes, I have an idea.”
“Yes?”
“We can attach some kind of lightning rod to your ship and wait for a storm. Then, when a thunderbolt hits it, the energy can jumpstart your ship.”
“Interesting hypothesis….” the alien said. He took a hit of Black Flag and giggled. “But it isn’t going to work. There isn’t a cloud in the sky–so, no rain in the forecast.”
“Yeah, it only rains in Iowa when you don’t want it to,” I said.
“Bummer,” said one of the other roaches. He grabbed the Black Flag, took a hit and giggled, a few notes higher than his boss.
There was a moment of awkward silence. Then an idea jolted me–the most brilliant notion ever to come out of my beer-soaked, Mary-Jane-clouded brain. “Yo. What if we use a power line instead of a lightning rod? The sudden surge of power should juice up your ship in no time.”
“A fine idea, Earthling with a goatee,” said the roach leader with a nod of his huge shiny head.
“Hey Blayloch,” Goose said. “Do you know anything about power lines?”
“Sure, my dad taught me all about them.”
“Oh, does your old man work for the power company?”
“He did when he was alive,” I said, clearing my throat nervously. “He got fried a few years back while he was installing a new power line–but only because he was sober at the time.”
“We don’t have to worry about that,” Goose said.
Goose and the alien leader followed me back to Flattery. The other two cockroaches scrambled into a nearby ditch, looking for some kind of plant they could smoke.
One of the disadvantages of driving a beater is that you never know when or why it will break down. So you pack lots of tools. My car was well equipped for any kind of emergency roadside repair.
I grabbed my insulated work gloves, pliers, wire-cutters, and black electrical tape. I then climbed up a nearby pole, sliced the power line, climbed back down and hooked up the cable to the spaceship’s power-source.
Sparks started to fly…. Lots of them. I’m talking the sort of electrical discharge you get when somebody sticks a fork into a toaster. Goose did that once. It didn’t hurt him–in fact, it cleared up his complexion.
Suddenly the spaceship started to shake violently. Apparently our Earthling power-flow wasn’t in synch with their alien technology. I jumped out of the spaceship a few seconds before it exploded into otherworldly smithereens.
Needless to say, the giant cockroaches from outer space were pissed off.
To stop them from killing us, Goose and I let them move into our two-bedroom apartment on Benton Street. We decided not to tell our landlord about the roach problem.
It wasn’t easy, living with three oversized insects from another planet.
For one thing, those kinky alien freaks used our roach clips as nipple clamps. Earth insects don’t have titties, but with aliens,
anything goes. Who’d want to smoke ganja with a clip that has touched roach-nips? Gross-out city!
Having the roaches living with us reduced our chances of scoring at home. I mean, I have a hard enough time hiding Goose to get some, but trying to conceal talking jumbo creepy-crawlies–? Plus, I refused to get busy with a date in a car–that is just too high-school for me.
Cockroaches are nocturnal creatures, and our bug dudes were no exception. They’d stay up all night, smoking our pot, drinking our beer and watching MTV. They never fully grasped the concept of Music Television. The videos, the reality-based shows, the road trips–they thought that was how all Earthlings lived. They loved the band Papa Roach. They mimicked all their video moves and knew the words to all their hits. The monstrous cockroaches would keep us awake by dancing around our apartment and singing at the top of their lungs, if indeed they had lungs.
The pesky pests from beyond the stars even penned their own rap song, entitled ‘Bug, Bug, Buggin’.” Those three words were also the full lyrics. I had to admit, it was just as catchy as anything Papa Roach ever did.
The end result? Because of the bugs, I developed bags under my eyes. I no longer worried about dates–with peepers like some kind of strung-out Goth guy, I knew I’d never score again.
Then things got weird.
It was kinda weird already–but it suddenly changed from being mondo strange to freaky-deaky like that.
The alien bugs started watching vampire movies. They discovered a new cable channel, VTV–Vampire Television, all Dark Shadows, Dracula movies and other bloodsucker shows, twenty-four hours a day. They loved watching that old silent Nosferatu flick, intently studying every tiny detail.
At first Goose and I were relieved. We were able to get some much-needed sleep. Goose was looking even worse than me–he has dark circles around his eyes like the Somnambulist from The Cabinet of Dr. Caligari.
But eventually the big buggies decided they wanted to become vampires. They wanted to live la Vida Muerto. They thought being vampires would help them to score with Earth chicks. As if!