Party At Sheckler's

by Alan Spencer

  "How do you figure?"

  "Well, most women look at me think I'm a big powerful man running his powerhouse company. He releases the best horror movies, and he's so sexy, and if I have his babies, I'll be set for life."

  "Very funny. Seriously. I don't want you to be a jealous boyfriend."

  "I'll do my best to withhold my animal instincts to demonstrate dominance against other males trying to step into my territory."

  She was about to insist he be serious.

  He beat her to it.

  "I understand the situation. It's all in good fun. As long as you can give me a signal when somebody's pushing it too hard, like in the past, then I'm going to trust you. You've worked for me for three years, and you've never gone beyond harmless flirting. It's your job. It's your personae. As hot as you are, Gory Girl, I enjoy you, Trudy, just as much as the fantasy you."

  Something in Trudy's eyes gleamed.

  "I always wanted to tell you something."

  "Yeah? Go ahead."

  "I often thought about if we ever got into a serious relationship how great it would be. We could be a power couple. Doing this the rest of my life...I mean, how wonderful would that be?"

  "It would be a very wonderful thing."

  They left the apartment to meet the limo waiting for them outside.

  The killer thought the mansion was unoccupied. The construction crew had finished their job hours ago. Sheckler was at the doctor's getting a check-up and doing errands in town. That bought a small window of time to store the things needed to make the party really come alive tomorrow night. The killer was searching the rooms and getting a better idea of what Sheckler had done to deck out his pad. Sheckler had outdone himself, but tonight, the real show wouldn't be the decorations. It would be the blood covering them.

  Someone entered the room the killer was currently searching.

  The killer didn't even hear the guy coming.

  "Hey. What are you doing here? You don't work for us. I've never seen you here before. What's your name?"

  "Hello there. I'm Rick. I'm a part of the clean up crew."

  "What clean up crew? We do that ourselves."

  Think fast. Feed this pot-bellied asshole some lines to get him out of your face. And what's with the cigar sticking out of your mouth? Light it and smoke it already or quit sucking on it. Nobody likes a slobber stogie.

  "The big boss wanted me to double check the work. Mr. Sheckler's a big client writing that big check. We want him to be happy with our services."

  "Who do you work for?"

  This guy's going to make things hard. "I don't have to explain myself. I'm doing my job like you. No different. You're as bad as the shit faces breaking up the unions."

  "We're not contracted under the unions. We all hate the unions. Everybody working for the company feels the same way. The unions keeps us out of work."

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. "Well, of course they hate the unions. Maybe I'm so worked up because my back is killing me, I show up to clean up after you mongrels, and I can't even do that because you're busting my chops."

  The guy was giving the killer funny looks. "Are you wearing make-up? Your beard, it looks glued on."

  I knew it didn't look right. Then again, I didn't expect to bump into flannel and denim dick wad either.

  "If you work for us, and you're as legit as you're saying, what's our company name?"

  You just signed your death warrant. I'm done pussyfooting with you. I was merciful. Now I'm going to be messy.

  "This is the right room for this to happen."

  The worker furrowed his brow. "What?"

  "You ever see the movie 666 Carpenters? I love the tagline: Give an inch, they'll take your foot. This room is recreating the deadly carpenter's shop. You got all the tools. And look at that table saw. It's perfect for the moment."

  "You're screwy pal. I don't have a clue what you're referring to, but I know you're either getting the hell out of here, or I'm calling the cops. Sheckler warned us something like this might happen. One of you weirdo fans might find out about his party and try to sneak in. You're getting out, or I'm kicking you out."

  The killer cold cocked him right in the face and threw him up on the table. The worker was dazed but not unconscious. The killer turned on the table saw. The blade growled.

  "No. No. Nooooooooooooooo!"

  The killer dragged him by the hair towards the spinning blade. "Satan says to turn you into a coffee table. I abide thee o' Satan!"

  The worker was split in three halves longwise. Blood mist wet the killer's body. The killer turned off the saw, satisfied.

  "Your arms and feet will make the coffee table's legs, and the top, well, that will take some doing. Maybe later. For now, I've got a lot of things to do, and no time. I'll clean this mess up and get on with the show. I'll have plenty of people to kill very soon."

  "Am I really seeing this?"

  Dominic had to really stare at it a moment to accept what was parked outside the entrance of his apartment building. This wasn't like any limousine he had eve seen before. The paint job was a dark blood red. Along the sides were decals of screaming skulls and arcs of flames. The driver was dressed in a butcher's smock with rubber boots to match. The beefy man greeted them by reading over the paper on his clipboard.

  "Dominic Stash, it's nice to meet you. Call me Slab. I'll be your escort to the party. You're in for a real treat. Inside, you have a real cult icon to tag along with you during the ride. But first, who is this with you? Let me check the list so I can make a confirmation."

  He forgot that Trudy wasn't on the list. Then he remembered the invitation. There was a gray area he could exploit. Why didn't he think of it before?

  "Trudy Runner won't be on the list. We recently became engaged."

  Trudy gave him a "what" expression.

  "This happened only days ago. I apologize for not telling Mr. Sheckler."

  The butcher dug into his pocket for his cell phone. "I can take care of this, sir. Congratulations. I can marry you when the time comes. I'll even dress like a butcher. I do themed weddings."

  He whispered to Trudy this was a part of the plan and to go with it.

  "Yes, Mr. Sheckler. I'm about to pick up Dominic Stash. He has a new guest. He recently became engaged, and he would like to take his fiancée to the party. Of course. Thank you, sir. See you in about six hours, sir."

  The driver gave them a once over. "Mr. Sheckler says you're welcome to attend the party, ma'am. Hop inside, and let's get you to the party."

  Slab opened the door, and Trudy stepped inside first. She gave a delighted startle when she entered. "You won't believe who it is inside! Hurry!"

  Dominic lowered into the vehicle. He wasn't disappointed. There he sat across from them on the red leather seat.

  Putrid Peter.

  The midnight horror host extraordinaire of Putrid at Midnight.

  This man went head-to-head with Elvira back in the '80's. The man used to wear green and white rotting make-up and a trench coat. He was supposed to represent a bum who lived in Ghoul City, a fictitious setting. Putrid Peter used deathly make-up to blend in with the city's population of monsters, ghouls, demons, aberrations, and abominations. He would talk about the cheesy b-movies playing on television as if the movies had happened for real right there in Ghoul City. The host would walk about back alleys, empty buildings, stand alongside body bags and crime scene victims, or troll the sewers for scares.

  Putrid Peter was older now, and he wasn't wearing his make-up anymore. He was dressed in a silver suit and blue jeans. Two cigars stuck out of his front pocket. The man had a shock of white hair, shaggy white beard, thick glasses, large belly, and a permanent fuck off expression. His face didn't change when Trudy and Dominic shook his hand. Putrid was more excited about pouring another finger of scotch over three ice cubes in a highball glass over meeting new horror fans.

  "Hello," was all he said.

  Trudy gushed about how she was a big fan, and loved P
utrid at Midnight. Putrid kept nodding and saying: "Uh-huh. Uh-huh. Yeah. Uh-huh. Thank you. That's nice. Oh wow."

  Dominic talked about how he would record both him and Elvira's show so he wouldn't miss either one. How he made his dad buy two TVs and two VCRs to accomplish the feat.

  Eventually, the one-sided conversation ran out of steam. The quiet allowed Dominic to really take in the special features of the custom made limo. The soft seats were in the shape of zombie torsos. On the floor was bloody footprint carpeting. The ceiling was thick padded and covered in fake rubber guts. Along the sides was a place holding chilled glasses. On the other was a refrigerated see-through compartment with various soft drinks, fruit juices, and bottles of high end liquor. Putrid stayed within easy reach of the high end stuff.

  The best feature was the television just below the backseat divider. Grounds Reaper was playing. He had only seen the film once. He recalled a resort grounds keeper who modified common tools like a leaf blower and weed whacker and turned them into super killing machines. He couldn't remember why the grounds keeper was picking off the high society members.

  After taking in all the details of the limo, Trudy made herself a screwdriver. Dominic made himself a scotch and soda.

  Trudy gave him a sideways smile and sat real close to him. "So now that we're happily engaged, maybe I should get to know you better, huh?"

  "Sorry about that. I had to think fast. I don't know why I didn't exploit that earlier. The invitation did say I could invite a person if they were a significant other. I'm not a good liar."

  "You might not be a good liar, but Stan Merle Sheckler is a masterful one."

  Putrid's voice wasn't like how Dominic remembered from the old TV show. Back then, he was a joking, wisecracking, black humored fun monger. Now, it had demurred into a baritone of bitterness. Every syllable was ice.

  "I only met him a handful of times," Dominic said. "Sheckler seemed like a nice guy."

  "Seemed like a nice guy. Yep. Sheckler can wear any face to get what he wants from you. I know about you and your company, and how you've put out some of Sheckler's supposed classics. Why wouldn't he be nice to you? You interviewed him and performed audio commentaries and kissed his butt. Sheckler loves the attention. It's all about him. He's a wheeler and dealer and slimy as any son-of-a-bitch who can make a dime off of you.

  "Judging by your faces, you disagree with me. You want to tell me how I'm wrong about Sheckler. I got a story for you. Why not? I'll spill my guts. We're in this stupid mobile for another five or six hours. I'm not going anywhere. I'm getting drunk. I'm really not this way in my normal everyday life. I promise I'm a good person and not a huge asshole.

  "My everyday life. Hah. Can you picture Putrid Peter selling real estate? That's what I do now. I show houses. I host parties to win new clients. I put out cookies and punch and glad hand until my wrist feels like it's going to break. Whatever. It pays the bills. That's one thing I can't say about my film career.

  "Let me rewind a second. So you're a fan of Putrid at Midnight? Great. I appreciate you. I really do. I love fans. I get emails from people, and there are fan pages. I love it. I know people enjoyed my work as a horror host. I'm fine with Elvira. Everybody thinks I hate her. I don't. She's the nicest lady I ever met. Everybody thinks we were competitors, but we were allies.

  "That's what I though Stan Mere Sheckler was when I first met him after shooting one of my episodes of Putrid at Midnight. He was waiting on the set. He took me out and bought me drinks, and we had a friendly conversation. You could say we became fast friends, Sheckler and I.

  "This was in 1990, and I had wrapped up another season of my show. Sheckler comes at me with an offer. He says I can make more money if I partnered up with him. Turns out Sheckler got his hands on a big vault of reels. They're all shitty films. Creature features, slashers, no brains, no budget screen fodder. You take a dump on the movie screen, you would be seeing one of these flicks.

  "But Sheckler is a marketing genius. He wanted to release these on the home video market and have me host them doing my Putrid Peter character. I remember him saying a hundred times, "Elvira's doing it too. She made a mint. So can you." He was reeling me in. He had me. The bastard really had me. I was salivating and chomping at the bit to get to work for a complete stranger.

  "I won't lie. I wasn't making much money doing that Friday night hosting gig. It paid my rent, and I was twenty-three at the time, and I had dropped out of college, and I was otherwise doing shitty community theatre and Shakespeare in the park. A TV guy randomly said I had a creepy sinister laugh, and would I audition for Putrid Peter, and well, anyway, I'm getting off track.

  "I wanted to branch out away from television. I thought if I did this Sheckler gig, I would be climbing that ladder to new things. More conventions. Fandom. Signing autographs for ten bucks a pop. Maybe even putting out horror themed trading cards. I was dreaming big, like the idiot I am. So I shook the man's hand. We made the deal. Verbally."

  The man threw back the last half of his drink. The face he made, Dominic thought he'd taken a drink of cobra venom.

  "We didn't have a signed contract. I was young, and stupid, and eager. I was begging to be swindled. It's nothing new in the Hollywood game. Bury me with the others, right? It's easy to be a victim of the industry.

  "After we shook hands on the deal, I turned down an offer to do another season of Putrid at Midnight. I wait a week. I wait two weeks. I wait another week, and still, I don't hear word from Sheckler. I have to dig around to get his contact information. I call him, and he simply says to me, "Things aren't going to work out. I'm sorry." Then the asshole hangs up on me!

  "I soon hear he got a contract with Paramount or United Artists, and he's getting paid beaucoup mullah to do some action movies or romantic comedies. Doesn't matter. He's a sellout. He gave up the horror movies and jumped right into bed with a bag of fucking money.

  "I rush back and talk to the producer of my old show. I ask him if there's any chance I can still do another season. He tells me no. The station wants to focus less on the horror stuff. I guess the bottom was starting to fall out of the industry. Horror was fading out, as far as the mainstream was concerned. My career was over in a blink. I tried to get other acting gigs. It wasn't happening. I've been selling houses ever since. I hate real estate, but I'm good at it. When you got child support, alimony, and your own bills to pay, you stick with it. Moral of the story is Sheckler screwed me over. He's no good to his word. Money talks and shit walks."

  Dominic listened to the story with rapt attention. He loved stories behind the scenes, and he hadn't heard this one before.

  What Putrid said about Sheckler's vault of movies perhaps being a lie had him concerned. Sheckler was a wordsmith. A ballyhoo expert. He wondered if there really was a bunch of movies in Sheckler's vault, or was that a line of bullshit to get him to come down to his mansion?

  That couldn't be it, he thought. Why invite him to come down at all if it weren't for those reasons? It would be very strange if it was a lie.

  What if the deal's a bust?

  So what?

  I'm still going to have a good time no matter how things turn out.

  He had a good question for Putrid.

  "You have reason to hate Sheckler's guts. Knowing that, why are you coming to his party, besides the fact he invited you?"

  The ex-horror host was about to take another drink and stopped himself. He gave a deep sigh, closed his eyes, put his head back, and then suddenly his eyes sprang open.

  "I came for an apology and an admission of what he did to me was wrong. And if I don't get that, we're going to have a serious problem."

  An uncomfortable silence followed the man's words.

  Sounds of a rich yuppie getting her heart stabbed out by a garden trowel could be heard from the television.

  The killer was mesmerized by the Sheckler mansion. The rooms, the hallways, every chamber was decorated to look like a scene from one of his old movies.


  The bastard sure made his mint in Hollywood. The killer bet Sheckler's ex-wives were going to be pissed a chunk of his estate had gone to decking out the mansion.

  Forget those whores. They'll get theirs.

  My therapist said revenge and payback are empty things. The pain will still be there even if those who deserve it get what's coming to them. They're wrong. After I got my bill from that quack, I went to their house and slit their throat, and it felt great! And I still feel great!

  Some things cannot be forgiven.

  Sheckler's death will bring me nothing but joy.

  The killer focused back on tonight's task. Every trick, modification, costume, and weapons stash was complete and charted in the slaughter notebook. The killer knew the mansion from top to bottom. Every plan of attack and timing of each move was down pat. The killer knew the party schedule. The meet-and-greet was coming up soon. Sheckler would be giving a toast to himself, the conceited bastard. The guests would have time to explore the mansion and enjoy the life and career of Sheckler. After that, the director would be divvying out his will. Some of it was money, parts of it were property, and then there was his vault of movies and his collection of lurid and rare cult movies.

  Make no mistake, the killer thought. Nobody was going to enjoy what Sheckler was going to give them. The only thing anybody was going to inherit was death.

  The guests were on their way.

  Sheckler would be back from his doctor's visit soon.

  The killer returned to the woods behind the mansion. Next would be a wardrobe change. Hydrate with water. Get a few hours sleep to recover from the long journey here. When the killer woke up, it would be time to arrive at the party. Then the axes would really start swinging.

  The killer stopped to listen. Something rustled in the surrounding woods. Those sounds were coming closer. The killer's eyes were adjusted to the night. They were merely figures moving in the shadows at first. Closer and closer they approached the U-haul until everybody had finally shown up.

  The crew is here.