by Alan Spencer
If I can't use lawyers and blackmail, I'll do it the old fashioned way.
The classic gun to the face tactic..
Stan told the driver to park the limo on the side of the dirt road. He tucked his Beretta into his suit pocket. He stepped out of the vehicle and stopped at the driver's window. Stan dug out his money clip and counted off two crisp hundred dollar bills.
"Stay here. I'll call you when I'm on my way back. Don't do anything until I call you. Understood?"
The driver was pleased with the cash. "You got it, sir. I'll wait for your call."
Stan stomped in the direction of the mansion. He pictured Biff, or someone fitting that roid head mold, trying to stop him. The gun would be the equalizer. The gun was his power.
I'm getting what I came here for, and I'm not leaving until I get it.
He headed for the woods to sneak back into the party.
Ray Murphy crinkled the two crisp hundred dollar bills and took a whiff. That was the smell of easy money. All he had to do was wait for the pompous jerk to give him a call, drive the idiot home, and boom, job well done.
Something was really itching the high crotched society man's asshole tonight. He had transported Stan Barton to and from many places in his tenure as driver. One time, Mr. Barton was having sex with four different woman, while pouring champagne down their bare bodies. It wasn't easy cleaning champagne out of the upholstery and carpet.
Screw it. It's all on the man's bill. You can afford it, why not buy it?
The driver got out to stretch his legs and light a cigarette.
He enjoyed one puff before he noticed the odd man pointing a sawed off shotgun at his torso. The man was dressed in chino pants and a silk button up shirt. He also had a heavy beard and black sunglasses. Every inch of the man cried 'I'm a head case'.
"Whoa. What do you want, man? My ride? My money? Take it all. It's yours. The keys are in the ignition, pal."
The stranger didn't hear Ray.
"I noticed the way you've been looking at my ladies. You know we have a backroom. Two hundred dollars for an hour. Anything goes. My ladies like what they do. And you'll like what they do to you, pal."
Ray's face was a question mark. He wasn't allowed to speak. The man pointed his gun towards the woods near the road.
"Go ahead. Meet Lucinda. She's waiting for you. Real clean girls for you. Only premium grade. Merle's girls are the tops. Lucinda will help you get it up and keep it up. She's an honest to God juicy Lucy. First class puss."
Ray did his best to stay calm.
They walked deeper into the woods.
"There she is. Lucinda's a true beauty. All natural, farm fresh pussy. Give her a taste. I always taste them first to make sure all is right. It's all in the taste. If they're not sugary sweet, I move on. Go ahead. You're a red-blooded young man. Taste her."
The sawed off poked his back.
"I insist."
Lucinda was up against a tree. The woman's long blonde hair obscured her face. She only wore a skirt. The skirt was a giant white frilly number so big he couldn't see her legs. Her breasts were covered in a sheen of sweat in the moonlight. They were perfect rounds with pink nipples and bright cherry red areolas.
Lucinda beckoned with a finger and spoke in a jilted bimbo voice. "Give me a lick. Tell me if I taste okay to you."
Maybe this isn't a joke.
Better do what they say.
Both these people are crazy.
When he approached her, Lucinda's words were bimbo silk. "Take a gander. I promise you'll love what you see."
She lifted up the hem of her dress. Ray sensed the shotgun gun right behind him.
"Lick me, baby. Taste me. Really go in deep."
"You heard the lady. Lick her lollypop. She's all bubble gum."
Ray couldn't see in the dark, so he kept his hands on her warm freshly shaved legs and worked his way up to the pubic area. He didn't need the gift of sight to know the pubic area wasn't right.
It wasn't flesh.
It felt like putty or wax.
The area that wasn't actual flesh was in the shape of a box.
Wait, he thought, it was a box.
This is a magic trick. It's gotta be a joke with Sheckler's name written all over it.
I thought I was in serious trouble.
Boy was I wrong. Thank God it's one of the old man's tricks.
I'll give her a lick she'll never forget. Just because the joke's on me doesn't mean I can't laugh too.
If the skin is wax, then I wonder what her pussy's made of?
I'm going to find out.
Man, this is jacked up.
It won't be the first time I've felt like a fool going down on a chick.
He stuck his head deeper between her legs. The darkness did him no favors. His head was inside of a circular hole within a wooden box. When he stuck out his tongue to get his lick, a blade on top and under his neck clamped together like a double guillotine. His head snapped off and bounced twice inside the wooden box, while "Lucinda" and the shotgun man watched Ray's leg move in death jitters.
"Don't get lost in there, buddy," shotgun man advised. "I mean have fun, but don't lose your head!"
Nobody heard the two killers' laughs.
Sheckler's party was in full swing, and the slaughter had only begun.
Dominic and the group waited for Sheckler to reveal his big secret. The director stopped talking and leaned down to pick up a VHS copy that had been knocked off a shelf during Stan and the director's fight. Sheckler was going off topic by the video distraction.
"Oh. I remember this one. Terror Legs. I think it's one of the more underrated of my films. I want you to re-release this first, Dominic. I got all the footage that was taken out of it. Every scene where a guy sticks his head between a stripper's legs and gets their head popped off like a beer tab I want reinstated. Don't forget the ample nudity. I hired two dozen strippers to do full frontal, full beaver, full bush, the works. Man, the MPAA really butchered that film. But I got the cut scenes. My cannibal strippers will see the light of day again uncut."
Sheckler realized everybody was waiting for him to explain why he was out of his wheel chair and not sickly anymore.
"Oh, I'm sorry. I get nostalgic about these movies. I understand the looks you're giving me. I did have cancer. That wasn't a lie. I'm in remission. And having this happen, it's really opened my eyes. There's a lot I still want to do, and I'm not young anymore. I have to jump on my dreams or jump in my grave.
"I apologize for misleading you good folks. It was the only way I could get everybody from my past to enjoy the party. Half the people here have good reason to hate my guts. I wanted to make amends and apologies, right the wrongs, pay my debts, and bring everybody together again.
"This is also an apology for making those Hollywood movies. I'm paying the actors and crew what they deserved when shooting my early low budget films. It's all in the hopes they'll let me hire them again.
"You're hearing me right. I'm going to make low budget horror movies again. I have enough money to make ten modest films. With your help, and my old friends' support, hopefully I can pull it off before I really am pushing up daisies."
"That's great!" Dominic shook Sheckler's hand. "This is so wild! Do you have scripts?"
"I do. I would love a pair of lovely ladies to star in them." Sheckler winked at Minx and Trudy. "I'll release them through Cult Crushers exclusively. I got the funds for distribution and everything."
Trudy kissed Dominic's cheek. "This is great!"
Minx was quiet. Dominic knew why. He hugged her by the side, and Trudy followed his lead and hugged her other side. "We're in this together now as a team. Okay?"
Minx couldn't help but tear up. "You guys are so nice to me. I don't deserve it."
"You were in a bad place," Dominic said. "This is a new beginning. This evening keeps getter better and better. We freed you from Stan's clutches. Mr. Sheckler is letting us re-release his old movies. We're going to
be a force. And now, we get to release BRAND new Sheckler films. I'm going to poop my pants so hard shit is going to break through denim."
"Before you do that," Sheckler said, "I got one more surprise tonight. One other secret."
Putrid lit a new cigar. "Oh my. Another surprise. I don't know if my ticker can take it. I went from hating your guts to loving your guts in a matter of hours. You're a ringmaster, Sheckler. I have to respect you. You're the master of shock."
"Tonight's about reparations, old friend. Time heals. Money rehabilitates."
Dominic walked with both girls arm in arm. He couldn't help but feel like he was on top of the world. Stan Barton, the mighty pillar of ass-holiness had been toppled, and with Sheckler's recent news, what else could happen this magical evening?
Sheckler led them down a hall beyond the stairway. Dominic hadn't seen this part of the mansion before. They stopped in front of an elevator. Sheckler used a key to unlock it. Everybody entered, and the director hit the button for the top and third floor.
"You can say all the terrible things about selling out," Putrid said, "but you're living large, Sheckler. When you have an elevator in your mansion, you know you're living the American dream."
"My definition of the American dream is tits, ass, gore, boobs, blood, and monsters. It's about time I go back to that dream."
The trip was quick. The elevator opened. Dominic studied the bare walls and the thin walkway ahead of them. This wasn't a new chamber to the house. This was a narrow recess behind the walls of other rooms. He could hear the muted drone of music and conversation through them.
"There isn't much room to walk, but I wanted to show you something. This'll open up to an actual room, I promise."
The group followed Sheckler. Everybody had to turn their bodies to the side to get through the thin opening. After a time, they made it to a crowded and small room. The set-up was a long table with a row of computers and monitor screens. There were camera angles of dozens of rooms recording the party in progress.
A guy Dominic didn't recognize was busy at a chair checking everything was in order. He was dressed much like Dominic, with a t-shirt for The Nursery, Sheckler's film about a haunted day care where the babies get an appetite for flesh. The tagline, he remembered, was: These babies aren't cute.
The stranger was in his early forties, and he reeked of cigarette smoke and cheap beer. Everybody shook the man's hand. The worker was more concerned with capturing the party events rather than meeting the group.
"Everybody, this is my helper Graham Jenkins. He's been recording the events in progress. I'm calling tonight's events my shockumentary. It'll be a gift to all my guests. You see, tonight, my mansion will actually be the set to my next film. I'm calling it Party At Sheckler's. It's a classic slasher kind of movie. The plot, a horror director is throwing a party only to realize someone isn't happy with him and starts picking off the guests.
"You haven't explored my mansion yet, but the rooms are designed to mimic my old movies. I hired people to act like my old villains. Imagine a funhouse meets a haunted house. It's interactive. I want to use real reactions of my guests in the movie to give it a certain flair.
"Graham here is recording this, and he'll help me cut the best footage of jump scares. It'll be wonderful. I'm letting you guys in on the secret. Promise me you won't let the cat out of the bag."
Putrid was the first to speak up. "You never change, Sheckler. This was all for a movie. You bleed cinema. I'm happy your cancer is in remission. Your secret is safe with me."
Everybody agreed to keep Sheckler's plan under raps.
"Now go forth! Enjoy the party. We have so much to celebrate."
Sheckler showed them back to the elevator. The host soon released them back into the wild. Before Dominic could ask Sheckler a question, the horror director had disappeared.
Trudy and Minx stood in front of him with big smiles on their faces.
"I know what you're thinking," Dominic said. "I agree. Let's scout out this place and get scared out of our minds."
Minx moved to Putrid and locked arms with him. "Do you mind if I'm your date tonight? I'm your biggest fan, and it'd be an honor."
Dominic couldn't believe it. Putrid's face said it all. The man was thrilled to have a lovely lady attached to his arm.
"Sure, I'll show you around. I'll give you the fright-mare tour of your dreams."
Minx winked at them. "We'll catch up with you guys later."
Trudy gave Dominic a sideways smile. "Yeah. We'll catch up. You two have fun."
Putrid and Minx blended in with the crowd inside the lobby. Dominic wasn't sure where they were headed. "She's up to something. Putrid is sure in for it."
Trudy kissed his cheek. "She's a fan girl. But I got the better end of the deal right here. You're the man of my dreams. So how about it? Let's get the pants scared off of us."
Dominic and Trudy headed for the stairs that led to the upper levels of the mansion.
The horror was about to begin.
Graham Jenkins helped wire the house so the special effects in each room would work properly. Everything was hooked up to working perfection. He had already scared dozens of guests, and the night was still early. Every new victim made him smirk in delight.
"Yeah lady, fill those panties."
"Is that pee running down your leg, pops?"
"I bet you just tore your aorta, dweeb."
"You can't stop shivering. Like a baby lamb. Dumb bitch, I got you."
The moments were all captured and recorded. It would take weeks to cut out the boring parts out. Sheckler was paying him well for doing a job he would've done for free.
He was a filmmaker in his own right, having release four low budget movies independently that no one gave a damn about. Sheckler offering him a part on his crew for Party At Sheckler's was nothing short of a miracle.
Something caught Graham's eye. He had a backlog of old feeds of the house. He also recorded the crews who built the props and rooms.
A feed started playing by itself, or had he accidentally opened it while doing ten others things at the same time? His mind was fried from working so hard, he didn't have time to question it.
The feed showed one of the construction workers approaching a strange man also dressed up as a construction member. They were arguing, and all of the sudden the one man threw the other onto the table saw and...my god, is this really happening?
This wasn't a joke. The killer was cleaning up the pieces of his victim, shoving them into plastic bags, and then casually going about his business. This wasn't a Sheckler trick. The guests weren't on the property yet.
What he had seen was real murder.
Graham fumbled for his cell phone. The kneejerk reaction would've been to call the police. Instead, he dialed Sheckler's cell phone. This was a special number in case of an emergency, and this most definitely qualified.
The call wouldn't go through. It wasn't like Sheckler wasn't answering his phone or the number didn't exist. The phone wasn't getting any signal at all. Blocked.
It can't be.
The signal is being jammed
There's no other explanation.
A gloved hand from behind Graham put a phone up against his ear. Before he could understand what was happening, the phone's receiver gave a quick POP. The sound was like a big firecracker. The light explosive caused Graham's left eye to shoot out like a pop gun. The orb dangled from a pink string. Liquid brains were streaming down his cheeks like tears.
Graham died instantly.
The killer admired his work a moment and said, "Sorry, he can't come to the phone right now. He's crying brains right now! He'll return your call IN HELL!"
The room was a replica of the set from Rent-A-Death. The business office was a simple set-up. Desk. Water cooler. The walls were what made the room special. Posted in glass frames were death policies.
$5...Acid Bath.
$10...Paper Shredder Decapitation.
$25...Sledge Ham
mer Lobotomy.
$50...Bat Blood Suck.
$75...Rusty Nail Death Massage.
$100...Derailed Train Flattening.
$125...Botulism Buffet Food Poisoning.
$150...Psycho's Choice.
The most expensive, and easy deaths, were:
$5000...Die Peacefully in Your Sleep.
$10,000...Death by Good Sex.
The wax figure of the salesman, who wore a white lab coat and carried a clipboard, was seated on the edge of his desk. A motion sensor was triggered, and the scientist/doctor/salesman began his spiel.
"Death doesn't have to be a great mystery. You see, we've set up a payment system to heaven. We transfer the funds to God, and he gives you a choice. How do you want to die? You pick it. You can go as cheap or as expensive as you like. You see something that's not on our board, let me know. We can make special arrangements. Most people in my field sell life. I sell death."
"Nice try, bozo," Dominic said, pointing his finger at the manipulative doctor. "I know your schemes. You're not working with God. You're working with the devil."
Trudy was scanning the walls and reading the various deaths.
"Well, I think most everybody would like to die having awesome sex. Do you get enough time to smoke a cigarette after you get off, or do you die right when you get off? It's a fair question."
Skip Whitley entered the room. He was the special effects ace behind many of Sheckler's films. He wore that bright and ugly parrot covered t-shirt. "Oh, you guys are in here. I was trying to find a room to take one of the pretty ladies into and...well, you know."
Skip eyed the room and a fondness shined in his eyes. "God, what a movie! I loved doing the special effects for this one. Sheckler said here's five hundred dollars and a bunch of left over body parts, fake blood, and make-up from a bunch of other finished movies. I worked in my studio creating molds of crazy dismemberment and deaths.
"The funniest death was the bum who only had a quarter to pay for his death. Our doctor here dropped a concrete cinder block from a skyscraper onto the man's testicles. I had a giant grocery sack of fake blood crammed into the bum's pants. I strapped a light explosive to it, and when the concrete block hit the man's jewels, it was like a geyser!