Party At Sheckler's

by Alan Spencer

  He arrived at the hotel they were staying for the night. After checking in, Carl told Daisy he would meet her back at the hotel. The plan, he would walk across the street to buy a bottle of whatever and come back and really give her the business between the sheets. When his blood boiled, he got horny. There was nothing like chewing out a slow driver on the highway to get some serious mahogany working.

  He purchased a bottle of bourbon and returned to the room. He was already taking off his shirt and starting to unbuckle his belt.

  "I'm sorry, Daisy. Let me show you my sweeter side. I'm not all claws."

  She wasn't on the bed or sitting at the table near the curtained window. That meant she was in the bathroom. She was getting ready to shower. Of course, he thought. They had been on the road most of the day. She wanted to freshen up the bait in her trap. Made sense.

  I'm going to sneak a peak of the goods. We're both old, but I swear, all those organic foods you eat, Daisy, you haven't aged a damn day. You'll always be a pretty daisy sticking up from the ground. And I'm a bee ready to suck your sweet stuff.

  He entered the bathroom. He thought it was strange the shower wasn't running.

  There was a reason for that.

  Daisy was sprawled out in the tub. There was so much blood everywhere, it was hard to see the details of her body. At first, she was only a set of legs hanging over the edge of the tub. The rest, just red. He couldn't move or speak. He stared harder and harder at the corpse, as if doing so would somehow undo her death. Her throat was still leaking gouts of crimson. The slash nearly decapitated her.

  What monster did this?

  Daisy's chest was two pink concave holes. Her breasts had been savagely dug out. Parts of the sternum were shattered because of the force of the removal.

  The walls of the hotel spun in place. Everywhere was a place for an enemy to lurch forth and attack. He wanted to charge at the door and get out of this death box called a hotel room.

  He saw it from the corner of his eye. The closet door opened, and out stepped the strangest figure. The lights in the room were off, even though sunlight bled through the closed curtains. That still left large areas of deep shadow.

  He distinguished a figure in a large black cape and black top hat.

  "Nature didn't give me what I wanted, so I chose to take it for myself."

  Two hands parted the cape to show a bare torso. Carl reeled at the reek of something rotting. It pierced his nostrils and stung his eyes. The intruder was wearing a bra, and housed in each cup, were a pair of molding, green, maggot covered breasts. The bra was unhooked. Both breasts fell and hit the floor making a thick mud smack.

  Hanging from the coat rack was yet another bra. The bra appeared to be custom made to accomplish this sick fiend's ends. Bulging from each cup was a bleeding breast. They were Daisy's. He knew so, because they were fatty, double d's, and most of all, fresh. The killer put them on, and once the bra was hooked, the monster sighed with relief.

  "I'm finally a woman."

  The killer pulled a scalpel from their belt loop.

  "The breasts only last so long before they rot." The killer kicked through the fetid breasts on the floor until they were near-liquid raw hamburger. "I need back-ups constantly. I'm only happy when I'm a woman. And yours, yours aren't a woman's...but they'll do. They're big enough to pass for breasts."

  Carl raced to the door. He tripped over his waded up jeans and slammed into the shag carpet. Before he could make another move, the killer was on top of him. The knife slid across his throat. He was talking through blood, trying to appeal to his killer. While he gargled and aspirated, he stared at his wife's bloody breasts on somebody else's chest.

  Nearing death, all he could hear under the killer's breath was, "You'll get yours soon, Sheckler. Oh yes you will."

  "Where are you, Jackie-Boy? Come on out, you punk. You think because you got Jack the Ripper's DNA you get a free pass to kill? I'm the sheriff of this town, and nobody gets away with slaughter. This house is only so big. You can't hide from me forever. Show yourself. Take on someone who can actually fight back. You scared, Jackie? You better be, boy. Only one person is walking out of this mansion alive. It's time to face justice."

  The pot-bellied sheriff stalked the darkened hallways of the Porterman Mansion. This was home of Jackie Taylor, the man who had brutally killed twelve people in the small town of Fedora, Missouri. The power had been turned out. The lights didn't work in any of the rooms. He entered a library, and nobody. Next, the kitchen. Nobody. He was about to check the back door to see if the killer had slipped out when he noticed a thin crack of purplish light. That light was coming from a battery operated lamp.

  "You fucked up now, Jackie. I know where you're hiding."

  The cupboard shelf was one of those deals that turned like a lazy Susan and revealed a hidden compartment. The sheriff charged inside the secret room, gun raised. What he saw horrified him.

  The room was as tight as an amateur photographer's dark room. Hanging on the walls from handmade hooks were various brassieres. Fifty bras hung crammed with severed tits. Some were fresh and dripping blood onto the floor. Others were tinged blue. Most of them were blue black and growing fetid with mold.

  Jackie was removing a set of breasts from the wall to try them on. The killer had been standing in the room trying to pick the right pair the whole time the sheriff had been searching the mansion.

  "Jackie, your sickness is beyond imagination."

  The sheriff suddenly had two .357 Magnums in his hands. Both barrels spat sparks. Hot lead blasted the bras into wild blooms of cherry hunks of meat.

  "Never again, Jackie! Never ever again!"

  The room was covered in dripping breasts debris.

  "What do you have to say for yourself, Jackie? Speak up, boy. Why are you cutting up the breasts of our female population and wearing them like some kind of sissy boy? Answer me, or I'll plug a bullet into your head and call it self-defense."

  The killer turned to the sheriff and gave him a jackal's smile. "Your wife...she has wonderful breasts. I think I'll wear them next."

  Dominic clinked his beer can against Trudy's.

  "Yeah, Jackie. Give that sheriff a run for his money. You know that evisceration scene earlier? I had to track down four different prints of Jack the Ripper Has Breasts to find that scene intact. There was a porno house in Belgium that closed down, and a guy in New Jersey inherited it from his uncle. He put the reels up on Craig's List. I had to meet the guy in the parking lot of a Dairy Queen in downtown New Jersey. After talking movies for four hours and buying him lunch, the dude just gave me the reels for free."

  "Sounds like you got lucky." Trudy was well onto her way to being so drunk, she was going to fall asleep. She said this barely above a whisper. "All I know is you kick ass. Your company kicks ass. These horror movies kick ass. Everything kicks ass."

  "I love the ending of this movie. Our heroine shoves a severed boob in the killer's mouth, and he chokes on it. Very subtle."

  He went on to talk about three other movies he acquired through Craig's List, and the swap meet he attended in Florida that had a super rare, still in the package, VHS of The Horny Butcher, and how he knew it was the uncut release because the watered down version was called Kosher Kill. That, and the tagline for the uncut version was: "The town of Harrisburg didn't care what was in the sausages, because they tasted so damn good."

  He paid two dollars for that copy, alongside ten other flicks. One of which was another Sheckler title called Gor-e-o-las. It was a classy spin on the word areolas. The VHS copy was the only version available, because Sheckler had lost the reels, and no other prints existed. Cult Crushers released Gor-e-o-las despite the poor elements and loaded it up with extras, including an interview with ex-porn star, ex-heavy metal queen, and current Christian televangelist, Amy Ryder.

  He noticed Trudy hadn't said a word.

  She was passed out on the couch and lightly snoring.

  "Oh."


  He put a blanket over her, and he stopped the current movie, picked up another beer from the fridge, and popped in a DVD copy of Gor-e-o-las.

  The cover showed a sexy woman dressed in a tight black bodice. Slimy demons that were crosses between mosquitoes, crabs, and imps surrounded the woman. The woman raised her hands up as if encouraging her fleet of beasts to eat the world at will.

  The plot also had a breast related theme. A woman uses a tainted breast pump to fill her breasts with milk. The tainted milk turns her child into a hideous demon. Her motherly instincts take over, and she wants to turn everybody into the same demon. She turns to prostitution along the Vegas Strip. After letting countless men drink from her radioactive bosom and turn into evil beasts, it's up to a man who lost all his money at the crap tables to stop her and her collection of demons from killing the city.

  This was one of Sheckler's early films. Despite its low budget and extreme aspirations, it was a very entertaining watch, especially the Vegas cartel who wants to kill the main character because of his debts. The cartel ends up battling the evil mother and her demons in the middle of the desert. The same scene that's repeated throughout the feature shows a man suck on fake nipples that squirt green blood into the guy's mouth.

  He was half-way through the movie. It was already two in the morning. He was exhausted from helping Trudy bring up her things. He ran over tomorrow's plan in his head one more time before falling asleep on his recliner.

  A limo is picking you up at ten. You got a long drive ahead of you. We'll get to Iowa at about seven. Then we'll arrive at Sheckler's private mansion. Then at some point you'll view his collection, and the estate will be divvied out between me and another collector. Whatever else Sheckler's got planned will be a complete surprise.

  He glanced at the coffee table before falling asleep and noticed the pepper spray and butterfly knife. It amused him that his brother thought he could be in any danger at all.

  It's only a party.

  What's the worst that can happen?

  Through the night binoculars, the killer could view the Sheckler mansion. The lights were on in the residence despite it being four in the morning. Sheckler was working around the clock to deck out the rooms special for the party. He hired a crew of carpenters and artists to pull it off. The work had been going on for the past few weeks.

  The dying bastard was spending a pretty penny to throw a party in honor of himself. He used to be an indie, do-it-yourself, fuck the big production companies kind of movie maker. Then he changed the last fifteen years of his career, hashing out mega blockbusters, sell out, money talks, corporate machine produced tripe.

  It doesn't matter who he was back in the day, and who he is now.

  The end result will be the same.

  He will die in a bloody pool of my revenge.

  The killer focused back on the plan. The U-haul was parked in the thick woods surrounding the Sheckler mansion. There wasn't another house, building, or sign of civilization for miles in every direction. The setting was perfect for the killer's plan. The perfect place for a slasher movie recreation.

  First on the list was throwing a dark green camo tarp over the U-haul rig. From a distance, nobody would see the vehicle. Second motion of business was the waiting game. Everything else would have to wait until tomorrow mid-afternoon. Sheckler was due for a hospital visit at two p.m. The crew working on the mansion would be out of the house by then. That gave the killer the chance to do some pre-show set-up.

  It'll be my turn to decorate for the party.

  Because it's going to be a blast.

  They'll come for the party, and stay for the slaughter.

  The killer returned to the waiting game. In the darkness, the killer wore a white baseball jersey. The helmet had a dark net over the face. The features couldn't be seen. The killer lugged out a specially made pitching machine. Instead of baseballs, the device pitched hands, feet, arms, legs, and heads.

  The killer stepped out onto an imaginary mound and began the fun.

  Pitch human heart.

  Swing bat, and crack!

  "This one's going to crush your skull, old boy."

  Pitch foot.

  Swing bat, and crack!

  "I hope you bleed internally for hours before you die, Sheckler."

  Pitch spleen.

  Swing bat, and crack!

  "Fuck you for what you did to me."

  Pitch face.

  Swing bat, and crack!

  "You'll smell my revenge when you're in the grave. It will stink for all eternity."

  After swinging the wooden bat and nailing several bits and pieces out of the park, the killer released enough pent up energy to put everything back in the truck, including the bodily pieces strewn about the woods. Then the killer laid out a sleeping bag, hid under the giant tarp covering the U-haul, and waited for sunrise.

  Trudy was taking a shower.

  Dominic stood in front of his bedroom closet. The limo would be picking them up in an hour for the ride to Sheckler's mansion. He wasn't a fancy dresser. T-shirt and jeans. T-shirt and shorts. T-shirt and fill in the blank. The real decision was which shirt to wear. His attire was a mix of heavy metal shirts and horror movie designs.

  Should he wear a T-shirt from a Sheckler movie? He had a great design from Gor-e-o-las. Two hideous, leaking green deformed nipples were drawn over where a person's nipples would be. Below the nipples in drippy giant font was the movie's title.

  He could go that route and give a wink to Sheckler. Then again, he could pick a horror t-shirt of a super obscure movie. When he sold his DVDs and merchandise at various horror conventions, he saw many repeat faces, and it was a friendly unspoken contest. Who was the biggest horror fan? Who was the leader of the movement to keep cult movies alive? Who wore the coolest, strangest shirts?

  Gore Poor was a strong candidate. The t-shirt was a bum clutching onto two severed arms with a bone sticking out of the stumps to create a handle, because--

  "Dominic? Hello? You there?"

  Trudy had transformed into Gory Girl. The sight of her took his breath away. He couldn't lie to himself. He was a gentlemen, and knew Trudy on a personal level, but she was hot. She wore torn up, black netted stockings. Red leather boots with straps. She had on a short black skirt. Her top was a netted red number. Flames made up of red material rose up from her navel to cover her breasts, but just barely. Her black hair with those blue highlights was put back to show off the shaved sides. She had on pale foundation with dynamic blue eye shadow. Black glossy lipstick. Perfume to cause men to follow their noses to the prettiest flower. If this woman couldn't sell horror movies to the horror fans, then the male population of the universe had been neutered overnight.

  "By your expression, I must've done something right."

  "Most definitely. You look great. I mean it."

  "Nice? Am I wearing a pretty dress for church? I'm an advertisement for Cult Crushers. If they want to fuck me, and they can't, they settle with buying your movies. Have I achieved my goal?"

  "I try not to be one of those guys. You know?"

  "You can still find me visually appealing without being a pig."

  "Okay. Yes. You're going to sell some movies. You do a damn good job."

  "You still can't do it, can you?"

  "Do what?"

  "Not be my boss for a second and sexually harass me a bit."

  Her lips were on his before he realized it. Something overcame him, and he urged her up against the wall. They were kissing so hard, and touching and groping each other, Trudy had to put her finger to his lips and say, "We'll have to finish this later."

  His heart was a double bass drum. Every pint of blood in his body was a fast circulating current. She had gave him a serious jump start.

  "Wait. What about Chad?"

  There was a worried look in her eye.

  "I have to come clean. Please don't be mad at me. I know some people would call it manipulating you. Chad didn't break up with me because of th
e website stuff. He broke up with me because I wouldn't stop talking about you.

  "He kicked me out of his apartment, and I wasn't sure what to do. Tell you how I feel, and risk losing you as a friend, and this wonderful job, or buy some time and make up a story like I did. I'm sorry I lied to you."

  "I'm not mad at you." He spread out his arms. "Come here. I'm only hearing good news."

  He hugged her, and they kissed again, and one more time, Trudy had to end it.

  "If we don't ease up, we're both going to pop."

  "Yeah, I hear you."

  "Besides, I don't want to give you blue balls. And I don't want to get purple flaps."

  "What did you just say?"

  "You heard me."

  He loved this woman. He wouldn't have admitted it to himself before this moment, but he did. What man couldn't fall in love with a woman who was a fanatic about horror movies, guzzled beers, pounded shots, could fart, belch, and had an insane sense of humor?

  The doorbell rang.

  The limo had arrived.

  He scrambled to pick a shirt, and ended up with Satanic Butlers Carve The Yuppies. Trudy was reapplying her black lipstick, which made him wonder if he needed to wipe off his face. He laughed out loud seeing the bottom portion of his face covered in black smears.

  You're one lucky bastard getting to suck face with Gory Girl.

  After cleaning his face, he was almost out the door when he stopped and grabbed two important items.

  Frank would've killed me if I forgot.

  He picked up the mace and butterfly knife and tucked them away into the side pocket of his jeans. Before they left the house together, Trudy held him by both of his arms and stared into his eyes.

  "One thing. If we're going to be a couple, you're going to have to be understanding when guys want to take pictures of me and make comments. It's a part of the deal. You can't beat up every guy that whistles at me or stares at my tits."

  "As long as you don't lie to me about anything ever again, you have nothing to worry about. It's really you who has to worry."