Party At Sheckler's

by Alan Spencer

  Party At Sheckler's

  (Homage Night)

  Alan Spencer

  You can't have a party without the entertainment. That's why you invited me, isn't it, Mr. Sheckler? I'll be the clown. The stripper. The booze. The weed. The cocaine. I'm all the fun you'll ever need. I'm chocked full of merriment. Per invitation: death, dismemberment, and decay. Party at Sheckler's, everyone!

  You're invited, so come on down. You'll have so much fun, you'll really lose your head! This soiree will be a real bash...to your skull. I'll really bring down the axe over your heads. Chop, fucking, chop.

  Just like in your movies, Mr. Sheckler.

  Just like in real life, once I get started.

  Gloved hands clutched two fire axes and gave them each vigorous tests swings. Satisfied by the strong swooshing sounds, the future killer placed them back into the special axe box for later use.

  I'll really bring the party to you, Mr. Director. Together, we'll paint that mansion of yours blood red. The curtains will drip gore. The carpets will be saturated in crimson. Every step will be a squish.

  You ever step on a spleen? Or how about a gallbladder? By the end of the evening, someone will know that special feeling of stepping on a dead man's insides. Maybe you'll step on your own guts, Sheckler? Now that would be a laugh riot.

  The gloved hands picked up a propane tank connected to a specially rigged flame thrower. The killer inspected the soldering and special rigging jobs. Once he shot two jets of thick flames from the spout, the contraption proved functional.

  I know your secret, Mr. Sheckler. Yeah, you kept secrets from me. Not smart. Not smart at all. This isn't gossipy, petty bullshit. This was serious morbidity. I never knew you could be capable of such cruelty.

  The gloved hands seized a meat cleaver and imagined splitting a face in two halves. Panting in excitement, the gloved hands tested a mallet hammer and pictured eyes bursting in their sockets. And the various knives, oh boy, the killer filleted and skinned imaginary victims with precision. The killer was all smiles. Imagining it was one thing. Doing it later would later prove to be something much more fulfilling.

  Life has a funny way of going full circle. I blamed myself for what happened all those years ago. But it wasn't my fault. It was yours, Sheckler, all yours.

  My story is the pursuit of truth. I found that truth, and now, the climax is soon coming to you, Sheckler. This won't be a "it was all a dream" ending. I won't pull any punches. You're really going to get what's coming to you, pal.

  The gloved hand stretched out rope nooses, reams of barbed wire, and tried on a dozen form fitting rubber latex masks made of the highest quality.

  You know about theatrics and drama, Mr. Director. Well, so do I. You're a master of the grand guignol. I'll make sure everybody has a bloody good time. I'm more fun than a six pack and a coked out whore with spread open legs.

  We'll really nail 'em to the wall. It'll be a barn burner full of dead roasting bodies. By midnight the guests of honor will be screaming in terror.

  Everything goes full circle, Sheckler. I'm bringing the lines together. One by one, you'll drop. Nothing will stop me. All things do come to an end, and you'll be dead by the end of the evening, but boy oh boy, what a fun time we'll have together.

  The back of the U-haul trailer was lit up by a battery powered lamp. Boxes of weapons, costumes, and other fun tidbits were spread out in the back ready for use.

  The surrounding woods were pitch black. This ensured privacy. Nobody could catch on to the plan beforehand. Mr. Stan Merle Sheckler was really going to get his, because he deserved it.

  The killer closed the back of the U-haul trailer, locked it up, and walked to the driver's seat. He started up the engine. The U-haul sped off the dirt path and drove onto the main road. The terror wagon eventually hit the main highway.

  Nobody heard the crazed driver shout out of the driver's side window, "Party at Sheckler's! You'll just die of fright! Hahahahahahahahaha!"

  "You're my adopted brother, and I love you like a blood brother. When I say this, know it's coming from the right place. Here comes my question, Dominic. Please don't take it the wrong way. But honestly, are you a fucking idiot?"

  Frank always asked him this blunt question when he visited his apartment in Eastern New Jersey. His brother didn't understand his love of horror movies. They were about to launch right back into another heated and pointless debate about bloody cinema.

  "No," Dominic argued. "I'm not a fucking idiot, thank you very much. I'm just really into what I'm into. It's that simple and uncomplicated. You know this about me already. I haven't changed. I've liked crazy horror movies since I was five years old."

  Frank pointed at a poster of Washing Machine Holocaust. "Yeah. Great. Maybe you're not an idiot, but you have horrible taste. These movies are twisted. You see that poster on your wall over there? Why does the woman have to be stuck in a front loading machine with her boobs pressed against the glass? What does that do for you?"

  "It doesn't have to do anything for me. It's cool to look at. Why dissect it like it's a crime scene? I know you're a private investigator and everything. Don't be so serious. It's entertainment. It wasn't meant to be canonized for college English classes. Fun is the operative word. And who doesn't like boobs? You like boobs, don't you, Frank?"

  "This conversation isn't about me. I got my act together, but you, how do I put this so it doesn't come off the wrong way? The truth is, you need to get laid. Instead of looking at boobies on posters, you need the real thing. Imagination is a good thing in some circumstances. When it comes to female action, nothing beats real life. You need boobs in your hands instead of boobs on your walls."

  Dominic was getting fired up. "I've been married and divorced, remember? I've had boobies in my face plenty of times. I know boobs."

  "How long has it been since you've dated?"

  "A year."

  "That's a long time to go without boobies in your face. Seriously. If I was a chick, and I entered your apartment, I'd close my legs and run like hell. At least put your movies in storage. Give yourself a fighting chance to get some loving."

  "No way. The movies stay. Some chicks think horror movies are cool. You ever think of that, Frank?"

  "You mean the Internet trolls who read your review blog and never leave their homes?""They're not trolls."

  "No. They're probably worse than trolls. It's a big bad world out there, brother. You don't know who you're talking to on your computer. It's so easy to be anonymous and public at the same time. It's kind of creepy. Like this apartment."

  His apartment was a one bedroom. The kitchen, living room, and bathroom each doubled as space for shelves of VHS, DVD, Blu-ray, Videodisc, and Beta horror and cult movies. Last count, Dominic owned over five thousand movies.

  He wasn't only a collector. His full-time job was running Cult Crushers Releasing. He purchased the rights to old horror movies from the '80's and '90's that were once forgotten and gave them the loving treatment. New film transfers. Color correction. Better audio. He interviewed hundreds of b-movie actors, conducted as many movie commentaries for special releases, and was constantly traveling to locate prints of hard to find or once considered lost classics. He had racked up the miles on his car and piled up frequent flier points all in the name of horror cinema. He sold his products at various conventions across the country and online. He was a legitimate businessman. He loved his brother, but he couldn't get through to Frank what he did for a living was worthwhile AND legitimate.

  Frank was standing over the table heaping over with Cult Crushers' latest DVD pressing of Tit Trance. His eyes were locked in judgment as he turned the movie upside down, over and around, and right side up. The cover of the movie showed a painting
of a woman naked. Where her breasts were supposed to be, each blank boob showed a guy's face screaming as blood streamed from their vacant eye socket holes.

  "What is this cover supposed to mean? I imagine finding a viewfinder somewhere showing pictures of some psycho's wet dreams. Tit Trance. This is a movie? What a bunch of crap. Sick."

  Dominic had to take in several breaths. He wanted to tear into the argument. Once they got into a yelling match, the argument was already over. Nobody would win.

  I don't care how many times he gives me shit. I'm defending my movies. He can talk all he wants.

  "Hold up. This is art and social commentary. Guys are always looking at women's tits, right? Women are sick of it. It's about women's rights. This woman on the cover, you see, she's born with a certain genetic mutation. Anytime a man stares at her bare breasts, the man feels such intense pain in his eyes, he has to rip them out."

  His brother tossed the DVD back onto his kitchen table with a smirk. "I'm sure women's rights groups covet Tit Trance. After watching the film, the female gender says, 'Damn it feels good to be a woman'. 'This movie really tells the story of our movement.' Yeah. Right. Don't lie to yourself, little brother."

  "To each his own, man."

  "You say that every time I criticize one of your stupid movies, or you say it's the Citizen Cane of its genre. It's so bad it's good. That makes no sense. A movie is either bad or it's good. Cut and dried. You make these shitty movies sound better than they really are. You're a salesman, I'll give you that. You can turn a turd into a trophy."

  Frank selected a random Cult Crushers DVD from a pile or previously released films. Dominic rolled his eyes. He just had to pick Blood Bog. Once his brother got started on his anti-horror movie tangent, there was no stopping him.

  "What's Blood Bog supposed to be about? All I see is a pink monster hand coming out of the water grabbing a woman's head. And stop the presses, the woman's breasts are showing on top of the water. How's this garbage redeemable? It's junk food for the soul. Garbage in, garbage out, that's what these movies do the human brain. They turn you stupid."

  "Now hold on. Blood Bog is great. There's this underground abortion clinic, you see. It's really in a doctor's basement. He's doing these illegal abortions back in the fifties. He has to use cheaper methods to perform the operations, right? He's also dumping the unborn fetuses into a bog that's near his home. The bad chemicals from the abortions causes the fetuses to survive in the water. These fetuses, once adults, stomp out of the bog to crawl back into their mothers' wombs in the hopes of being born as a normal human. Anybody in their way, man, you better watch out!"

  "Can you hear yourself talk? This is not a movie. It's idiocy."

  His brother dug through more Cult Crusher movies. He knocked over a tall tower of them: Bloody Mask, Hives, Eyeball Eaters, Queen of the Psychos, Bookwormz, and Nubile Nuns Love Long Knives. Among the many, he selected Rip-O-Lantern.

  The cover displayed a scarecrow figure wearing a pumpkin head with a menacing expression. The hands wielded a scythe in one hand and a severed head in the other.

  "Okay, smart guy. Tell me why this piece of shit is worth anybody's time? Go for it. I'm listening. And while you're at it, tell me why the scarecrow's body has huge female cleavage?"

  Dominic sucked in a breath.

  This was going to be epic.

  "For starters, dickhead, Rip-O-Lantern is the first slasher film to use a villain with a jack-o-lantern for a head. It's also the only horror film to have pumpkins send out psychosomatic messages to a small town that turns them into evil killers. The scene where everybody in town sleepwalks to the pumpkin patch and puts the pumpkins on their heads is classic. The pumpkins just fit on. How is that possible? Who cares, because it's so funny.

  "Then the town next to that town has to fight hundreds of jack-o-lantern wearing murderers. It's fantastic beyond imagination. And why does the scarecrow on the cover have cleavage, you ask me? Who gives a shit? It sells the package, and it's freakin' cool, you old school carrot dick, silver carpet muncher."

  "That's it. You're going to get it now!"

  Frank threw aside Rip-O-Latern and tackled him. He was forced onto the floor with his arm twisted behind his back.

  "God, let go! You're going to dislocate my shoulder, hemorrhoid breath. Let go, dude. Seriously!"

  His brother didn't let up. "That's a good one. I never talked to a hemorrhoid to know how its breath smelled. I bet it stinks. Good use of your words. No matter how much stronger I am than you, your mouth can bench press a MAC truck. You wanna know why I'm paying you a visit today? Huh?"

  "I already know why. You want to tell me my movies suck, you tampon drip."

  His brother released his arm and helped him up off the floor. "Sit down. I'll stop railing on your movies. I do it because I love you. You're my only brother. I have to look out for you. I have to give you a hard time."

  "I know you love me. You have a funny way of showing it."

  "I do. Sorry if I hurt you. I'm making my point the hard way. I'm here because I'm worried about you. You're a wimp. You can't defend yourself, per my demonstration of physical dominance."

  "You going to teach me karate today, or something?"

  Frank dug into his suit pocket and showed him a photocopy of the special invitation Stan Merle Sheckler had sent Dominic two months ago.

  "You still going to this party tomorrow?"

  "You know it. It's the one and only Stan Merle Sheckler. The guy's legendary. He made creature feature, slasher, and exploitation flicks for over thirty years, until he started making mainstream films. He really sold out big time. A real A-lister piece of shit. I try to act like that never happened. The guy deserves a break, though, and I'll give it to him. He directed Tit Trance, and Gore Poor, and Jack the Ripper Has Breasts, and, Bury My Mother Already.

  "Why wouldn't I go this his party? I've met him a few times at various conventions. This will be the first time I get to visit his home. I hear his health isn't so good. Something about lung cancer. He's seventy-eight years old. He's not a spring chicken. I want to talk to him again before he's, you know, dead. Maybe sneak in an interview. And if he's got some prints of movies he hasn't released, there's a chance he'll let me buy them from him."

  Frank crinkled the photocopy of the invitation in his powerful fist.

  "I did some poking around about Stan Mere Sheckler. Looks like he's got a nice list of guests. Maybe a hundred people. He's been working on this mansion and doing weird things. He's turning his residence into a shrine of sorts. A homage to his horror movies. I guess an homage to himself, really. How egotistical."

  "What else did you find out about the party? Don't ruin it for me. If Sheckler's got surprises, I don't want you to spoil them. Why are you digging around looking for trouble? The worse thing that can happen are hangovers. The booze will be flowing like crazy.

  "I talked to Mr. Sheckler himself the other day on the phone. He's inviting people who've helped him throughout his career. Old actor friends, critics, distributors, and even his ex-wives. Yikes! Think of it through the eyes of a man who doesn't think he's got that much time left in the world. He wants things to go full circle. When he made low budget movies back in the day, I'm sure he ruined a lot of friendships and hurt people. This is his way of apologizing and making amends."

  His brother raised a sharp brow. "And he invites you, Cult Crusher boy? Why? You're thirty-two years old. You didn't help him make a single movie."

  "I have helped him. I've rereleased a dozen of his movies, and best of all, horror fans are taking notice. They realize he didn't just crank out romantic comedies and action blockbusters in the '90's. Mr. Sheckler really wants to be remembered for his shock and awe campaigns. The guts and gravy.

  "He also told me he's going to split up his collection of movies among a couple of collectors like myself. I'm talking about VHS, Beta, film prints, and all kinds of awesome shit from back in the day. Posters, lobby cards, and pictures from behind-the-sce
nes of Sheckler's movies. Things the public either haven't seen in decades or don't even know about. This is a huge deal. I know you don't understand how exciting this is, but talking about it, I'm about to crap my pants."

  His brother's face soured.

  "Hold it in or go the bathroom. Look, I'm not saying you shouldn't go to the party. I'm asking you to be cautious. A lot can happen at a party like this. Think about it. I'm sure other people would want prints of Sheckler's unreleased movies. You got friends, and enemies, and people drunk and possibly high mixing under one roof. People get volatile. Plus, Sheckler thinks he is living his final days. He might try to pull something on all of you. Anything can happen. The giveaway of movies could be a lie just to draw you in.

  "You're the nicest, sweetest guy God ever created, Dominic. You would do anything for anybody if you thought it would help them out. Even perfect strangers. You're not naive. Don't get me wrong. But I twisted your arm and had you on the ground in two seconds, and I didn't have to try that hard. I love you, but let's face it. You're a wimp. You're one hundred and fifty pounds. You're full of cotton candy sugary sweetness. Strangers would look at you and think you belong in some old school punk band by the way you dress, but you're a soft teddy bear inside."

  "Okay, I get it. I'm a wimp. What am I supposed to do about it before going to Sheckler's. Take a bunch of steroids?"

  Frank dug into his suit jacket pocket and retrieved two items.

  "Two things to help you. Pepper spray, for starters. Shoot this in the eyes, obviously. Careful about spray back. You don't want to be blinded and on the floor with your aggressor. If you really want to fuck them up, spray it into their mouth. That'll teach the son-of-a-bitch for messing with you."

  "You're talking to me like I'm a single woman in a bad neighborhood. I can defend myself."

  His brother shook his head, that no, his brother couldn't defend himself.

  "One other item. A butterfly knife. I'd practice folding and unfolding it. Get used to the action. I think it's obvious what you do with this guy. Stick it to them. A really good place to poke this bad boy is under the armpit. But in the heat of the moment, anywhere will do."