The hiss of steam and the distant drip of water echoed through the dimly lit boiler room, casting eerie shadows across rusted pipes and forgotten machinery—a thick layer of grime, rust, and years of dirt coated every surface. A flickering neon sign reading “Your Comfort Zone Will Kill You” hung askew. The neon hummed and pulsed intermittently, the orange-pink glow illuminating a wall featuring a free-standing bar.
Behind the bar, the wall held rusted metal shelves lined various bottles of alcohol. Lacking any of the layers of age and neglect, they were obviously recent additions. The neon light gleamed off their surfaces, strangely clean and out of place in the filthy surroundings.
Freddy Krueger paced back and forth, his boots clanging on the metal grating. His burnt flesh and bald head glistened beneath the overhead lights as he passed under them. He held an old corded phone to one ear, listening with growing irritation, teeth clenched and eyes blazing.
“What? What do you mean, you can’t make it?” Freddy growled into the phone, his voice a mixture of gravel and menace. “You gotta be fuckin’ kidding me, you plastic prick! You can’t bail on poker night! It’s your fucking turn to bring beer!”
On the other end of the line, Chucky’s voice came through, breathless and harried. “Look, Krueger, I’ve got my hands full here!” A crash sounded in the background, followed by the distinct whistle of a thrown knife and its sudden stop in a wall, leaving a warbling sound. Chucky yelled, “Ya missed me, bitch!” Then, there was a thud before he continued, “Ow! Look, Krueger. I have my hands full. Tiffany’s on the warpath and—“ There was a crash in the background; Chucky pulled the phone away to yell into the other room, “will you please stop for one second? — I just can’t do it tonight!”
Freddy rolled his eyes so hard they nearly disappeared into his burnt skull. “Fine,” he spat, “but your pussy-whipped plastic ass is doing next time. Beer, hosting…the works! No bullshit!”
As if on cue, a loud crunch echoed through the boiler room. Freddy turned to see Jason Voorhees, all six-foot-five inches of him, perched awkwardly on a decrepit couch, collapsing under his weight. A bowl of chips teetered precariously on his lap, and even through the expressionless hockey mask, Freddy could sense confusion as Jason attempted to eat a chip. Crumbs scattered everywhere, onto the cousins, into the crevasse, and patterning against the floor like confetti.
Freddy pressed his clawed hand to his face in exasperation, nearly slicing up his face. “For fuck’s sake, Hockey Puck,” he muttered.
“Vorhees is there already?,” Chucky asked, the sound of a door clicking shut and the shrieking of an angry wife fading into the background.
Freddy turned his back on the couch and walked a few steps, cupping his hand around the receiver. “Yeah, got dropped off by mommy a little while ago.”
Both killers burst into laughter, only to be cut short by Tiffany’s muffled voice erupting from the background. “What the fuck are you laughing about?” The crash of a breaking dish cut the laughter short. “Get out here right now!”
Jason’s head tilted sharply at the sudden stop of Freddy’s laughter. He stood abruptly, sending the bowl and remaining chips crashing to the floor.
“Ahh fuck!” Freddy threw his hand out at the mess in defeat.
“Oh hey, hey, hey, Pizza Face,” Chucky interrupted Freddy’s growing frustration, “I fucking forgot! We have the new guy showing up tonight,” Chucky’s voice crackled through the phone, “You gotta make him feel welcome. The guy is solid, and more importantly, he sucks at poker!”
“Oh, for fuck’s sake, Chucky! First you bail on me, and now you’re sticking me with babysitting?” Freddy’s expression soured, the burnt flesh of his face twisting into a grimace. He stomped past a wall, and his claws left a trail of sparks as he dragged them in a sudden, violent swipe. “GHhhhaa!”
“Fine,” Krueger said, “I’ll play nice with the fresh meat. But listen here, you dickless Ken doll, you owe me for this. Big time!”
“Ah, come on, it’ll be fun! Besides, think of all the souls you can win off him.” There was a sudden crash over the phone, and Tiffany’s voice, screaming for Chucky to get out of the bathroom, sounded in the background.
A slow, wicked grin spread across Freddy’s face at the thought. “Well, when you put it that way… Alright, I’ll play nice. For now.”
“Shit, I think she set the house on fire. Gotta go,” Chucky said quickly.
“Yeah, me too!” As Chucky hung up, Freddy’s gaze drifted back to Jason. The hulking killer had spilled most of the chips onto the floor and was now attempting to scoop them up with his massive hands, only succeeding in crushing them further.
“Why me?” The killer asked no one. “Seriously, Hockey Puck? It’s not that hard. Look, you just lift the mask a little, like this…” He demonstrated with exaggerated movements, mimicking eating a chip.
Jason tilted his head and stared blankly.
Before Freddy could launch into another tirade, a resounding discordant CLANG echoed through the boiler room, causing both killers to look up toward the source of the noise. The air shimmered and writhed, reality seeming to tear as a figure appeared out of a shadowed nook.
Static electricity that seemed to spark from nowhere, coalescing into the shape of a man. Pinhead emerged in a flash of brilliant white-blue light, the sound of chains rattling ominously from some unseen place beyond the void. His pale, pin-studded face was a mask of solemnity as his beetle-black eyes settled on the two killers in the room. “Gentlemen,” he rumbled, his voice deep and toneless. “I am here to play!”
Freddy rolls his eyes dramatically, “Well, well, well! If it isn’t ol’ Pincushion, making an entrance flashier than a Vegas stripper. You know, a simple knock would’ve done the trick, but no, you just had to bring the whole light show and carnival act, didn’t ya?”
He sauntered over to Pinhead, gesturing broadly and giving the Hell Priest jazz hands. “Should have saved the dramatic entrance for the new guy who’s coming. Woulda made him shit his pants.” Krueger laughed at his joke.
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Pinhead leaned slightly, looking past the red and green goblin to look at Jason, who merely tilted his head in response.
Freddy looked dejected at Pinhead’s lack of response. “These are the jokes, you albino cactus. If you don’t react,” threw his hands up, “I’ve got nothing to work with.”
“I do not find your humor to my liking.” Pinhead said without humor, glanced around the room, his gaze lingering on the poker table, “I make no apology for my dramatic entrance.”
“Sheesh! Always so serious!” Freddy said.
“Yeah, well…so glad you could tear yourself away from your S&M party long enough to join us for a game. And for hell’s sake, don’t sit on the couch until I have a chance to clean it” He flicked a bladed glove to gesture in Jason’s direction, “Hockey Puck here just broke the couch and spilled five pounds of chips into the cracks.”
Pinhead moved past Freddy to stand before the poker table. The surface was scratched and torn, duct tape and black electrical tape slapped down in places, holding the sections of the green together. The soft cushioned bumpers, also covered with black and silver tape, showed signs of scratches and heavy use.
As Pinhead sat, he ran his fingers over its damaged and disheveled surface. There was a slight twitch of his facial expressions before he raised his voice, “Your game table is looking…”
“Yeah, I know!” Freddy cut him off. “I have my eye on this new table. Get this, blood red felt!” he stared into the distance and swept his gloved hand back and forth as if smoothing out the sheets of a bed, “Ohh, it looks so good. It has an option for LEDs under the bumper cushions. Sounds nice, eh?”
Pinhead ignored the implied question and began dealing himself a hand of solitaire.
Freddy made a dismissive hand wave. “Yeah, sure! Make yourself at home. The red-headed plastic turd bailed on us…again. So no beer.”
While Pinhead played solitaire, Freddy made an effort to tidy up more. Pushing the usual detritus of bricks and wooden pallets into the corners. He cleaned the chips from the couch and found a dart down between the cushions. He stood and threw the dart left-handed at a dartboard on the other side of the room. It landed to the left of the center, and Pinhead noted a photograph of Nancy Thompson’s face tacked to the board.
Nearby, an old dusty flat-screen TV had been showing static, but as he flipped cards, Pinhead saw from the corner of his eye the screen had changed. He directed his view and watched as the screen now showed Pinhead confronting Kirsty in the first movie, the volume off, their on-screen dialog silent.
Mesmerized, Pinhead distractedly said, “I sense… otherworldly power.” His tone was almost reverent.
“Heeeh! You like that?” Freddy grinned and gestured to the TV, “It’s possessed.”
Pinhead tore his eyes from the screen, snapping his gaze to Freddy. “Who’s soul is contained within?”
“Some old fart named Bob Wilkins.” Freddy flicked his blades dismissively. “Used to host a late-night show called Creature Features or something.” Freddy moved to the TV and gave it a wrap with his knuckles, “Come on, you old fuck, play something good!” He turned back to look at Pinhead, whose face remained impassive, “Turns out he was a big deal back in the seventies, so after his death, someone decided Bob would be happier back on TV. Bound him to this.”
At the mention of his name, a young bespectacled man appeared on the screen, seated in a rocking chair. Bob’s hair was blond, short, and swept to the side. His clothing appeared nice and well-tailored, but the discordant clash of muted colors and patterns spoke of the early 1970s. He sat on a set of poor paper-mache—the mix of a haunted house and torture dungeon. In the background was a window that looked out onto a cemetery, the tombstones strung with fake cobwebs. The spirit struck a match and lit a cigar, giving the faintest hint of a smile.
“Where did you acquire this cursed soul?” The cenobite asked.
Freddy grins wickedly, his burnt face twisting into a grotesque parody of mirth. “Swapped it with Pennywise for a slightly used red balloon.” He pauses for effect, then leans in conspiratorially towards Pinhead. “Well, okay, it was a used cherry-flavored condom! But that’s just being picky.”
The demon of pain’s eyes twitched slightly, and he pursed his lips, clearly unamused.
Freddy cackles at his joke, the sound grating and unpleasant. “What can I say? The clown’s got a weird sense of value. But hey, one man’s jizz filled balloon is another man’s treasure?”
Pinhead’s face remained impassive, but his voice carried a hint of steel as he responded to Freddy’s crude joke. “Your lies do not amuse us, Krueger. We sense the falsehood in your words. Speak truth, or do not speak at all.”
Freddy’s grin falters momentarily, replaced by a flash of annoyance, then he sighed and his shoulders slumped. He tossed his bladed glove up in mock surrender. “Alright, fine! You want the truth, you prickly pear?” Freddy grumbled. His tone was a mix of irritation and pride. “Some poor sap in Springwood got their hands on this possessed boob tube. Started having nightmares about it - myyyy kind of nightmares.”
A wicked smile flashed, revealing his sharp and crusted teeth, “Being the King of dreams, I whispered in his ear for a few weeks, persuaded them the TV was the source of their nightmares. I encouraged them to ship it here. To me.” With a flourish, Freddy gestured to the metal door with both hands. “Had them deliver it right to my front door! Nothing like a little dreamtime yard sale to get what you want. It’s amazing what people will do when they think they’re gonna piss the bed, eh?” He cackles, clearly pleased with himself.
Pinhead’s soulless black eyes returned to the TV, his expression inscrutable. The ghost of Bob Wilkins faded as the screen went dark, then flickered to life with a grainy, black-and-white image. An eerie silhouette of Count Orlok climbing the stairs, his elongated fingers casting grotesque shadows on the wall.
Freddy saw Jason lumber towards the table near the bar, laden with chips and snacks. He bent down, yanking open an ice chest on the floor. Cold sodas peeked out from the layer of ice. With a tilt of his masked head, Jason reached in and stood up, clutching a can of soda.
“Ah, fuck! Hold on, Swamp Thing,” Freddy darted past the giant monster towards a well-used kitchenette in the corner. The area boasted an old but functional sink, some sturdy metal shelves stocked with an eclectic mix of snacks, and a mini-fridge humming quietly. A microwave sat on a counter, its door plastered with horror movie magnets.
Freddy scanned past a coffee maker that gurgled, filling the air with the aroma of fresh brew, noticing a drawer that hung slightly open, revealing an assortment of takeout menus from local joints that didn’t ask questions about their unusual clientele.
Above the counter was a shelf holding a metal tin of bacon-flavored popcorn, and there, his eyes zeroed in on a collection of novelty glasses, each featuring a different classic movie monster. He grabbed one, showing the snarling face of The Creature from the Black Lagoon, stuffed with an assortment of colorful straws.
In one fluid motion, Freddy snatched a straw, popped open the soda can, and jammed the straw in. He thrust the drink back into Jason’s massive hand before the lumbering killer could fumble and soak the already filthy floor.
“There,” Freddy sneered, “You’re welcome.”
Jason tilted his head in what might have been gratitude or confusion, then slowly raised the can to the approximate location of his mouth, the straw disappearing beneath the hockey mask’s edge.
Closing his eyes, Freddy growled to himself, releasing a long, heavy sigh at how the night was already going to shit. His eyes opened and settled on a board hanging on the wall, the ‘Rule’s Board.’ His eyes slid from that one to the ‘Betting Board” next to it. They had put it up during their last poker night, and it was still hanging crookedly over the bar. Scrawled in red marker: “Next Hollywood Remake,” “Most Creative Kill of the Month,” and “Next Slasher Movie being a Horror Comedy.”
As he stared at the board, he was reminded that Chucky what said about the new guy. Well… that just meant more chips in Freddy’s pile, he thought. His frustration melted away, replaced by a familiar predatory excitement.
Across the room, Pinhead shuffled the cards and dealt himself a new hand of solitaire while Jason continued his losing battle with the straw. Freddy allowed himself a small, wicked smile. Playing nice with the fresh meat or not, it was going to be one hell of a night.