The pile of laundry stirred. Shirts, socks, and underwear heaped onto the bed shuddered and began to collapse. A pair of socks with matching holes in the heels fell to the floor, followed by a worn black t-shirt with a faded picture of The Sandman on it, followed by an empty bag of Doritos. Beneath the lonely mountain of fabric rose a hand, that became a fist, and that fist smashed the stupid alarm clock that had interrupted its slumber. Max emerged from his cocoon like a ghoul from its tomb. He rubbed his eyes, belched and looked around sleepily. He reached back into the pile and pulled out his glasses. A pair of thick lenses encased in equally thick, black frames. It had been over a year and this pair had remained completely intact, something Max took as a sign of personal growth. He scratched his scruff that was quickly becoming a respectable beard and looked out his window to survey the day ahead. The trailer park was still quiet at this hour and outside it was brisk with a very light breeze; it was a bright, clear day in late October. There were only a few months left in this year of 1996, but before it could wrap things up, there was today. A day more important to Max than any other day. More important than next weekend’s Halloween traditions, more important than his Uncle Lucky’s famous deep-fried turkey on Thanksgiving. Today? Today was…
OPENING DAY
Still in his undies, Max got down on his knees, made the sign of the Cross, and clasped his hands together.
“I'm not really a praying man. And, um, I never really ask you for much, so if you could just watch over us today, and show any mercy you believe us to deserve, I would be really, really grateful, thank you very much, Amen. I love you.” He kissed his fingers and placed them lovingly on the poster hung on the door in his room.
The poster was of his favorite movie of all time, the one film franchise he had been obsessed with since he was ten years old: Chain-Slaughter. A dirty, grungy, gorefest, with a body count that rivaled any horror franchise to date. A gorehound’s delight, Chain-Slaughter and its sequels boasted lovingly realized grisly practical effects, an always more than game cast and crew, and, in Max’s opinion, the greatest slasher in the history of slashers - the Chainsaw Maniac, the Gore King of Rose Hill, the legend himself, Edgar Salt.
Max’s particular poster was signed by not just Bill Rasputin, who had starred as Edgar Salt in every Chain-Slaughter flick, Margot Lee Quinn, the final girl and Edgar Salt’s twin sister, but Rutger Wolfe himself! The reclusive writer and director of the original Chain-Slaughter trilogy. Max’s prayer was especially important today, because today was a high holy day of horror. It was opening day of the newest installment in the franchise, Chain-Slaughter 6: Forever Gore.
Searching through his dresser drawers he finally found what he was looking for, he pulled out a plain white t-shirt, the collar had a tear hole in it and there was a hole in the right armpit, but those details barely registered. Beside his bed was a night stand, once white, but now completely covered with stickers of all kinds - bands, movies, comic books, any sticker he could get his hands on. He opened the top drawer and rummaged through the random junk he had stashed away. Thumb tacks, keys, interesting rocks, batteries, shoe laces, pieces of broken headphones, condoms, loose candy, rivets, a pair of needle nose pliers, buttons and pins. Finally he found what he was looking for, a chunky red Sharpie marker. He put the marker in his mouth and popped off the cap, holding it under his right incisor. That tooth was particularly fang-like and always appeared when he smiled. His crooked smile made him look like he was planning something and had gotten him into unearned trouble more than a few times. He cleared some space and laid the shirt out on his bed. With care he wrote out the words “GORE KING” in big, sketchy, block letters onto the shirt, including some artistic blood drips for effect. The fang reappeared as he admired his work. He popped on the shirt and completed his outfit, tying a red and black plaid shirt around his waist. Max grabbed his well-loved leather jacket off the floor as he headed out of his room, he suddenly stopped and rolled his eyes at himself. Heading back to his bed he reached into the nest and pulled out his Popcorn Video smock. It was a green bowling shirt with a yellow collar and matching piping on the sleeves with “Popcorn Video Entertainment” embroidered over the right breast pocket. Over the left was his name tag, a plastic caricature of the Popcorn Video mascot “Poppers,” an anthropomorphic bucket of popcorn. A speech bubble came from his mouth with an engraved “And Now, Your Feature Presentation!” and underneath was where Max was supposed to write his name, instead he had written “Haywood Jablome, Jr.” Max put on his smock and headed to the kitchenette to grab something to eat before he ran out the door.
“Lucky! Uncle Lucky! Today’s the big day, dude!” Max excitedly called for his Uncle. “Uncle Lucky?” He looked around, checked the recliner in the living room, where his former legal guardian could be found most mornings. He wasn’t there. Max knocked on the bathroom door. “Uncle Lucky? You dookin’ it out in there?” No response. Max opened the door. Empty. “Well. It’s opening day of Chain-Slaughter 6 and it’s going to rule fuckin’ ass, man. You’d probably like it, too. Gore, boobs…probably boobs. I guess we’ll find out….I’m pretty pumped…” Max chuckled weakly. He rustled his hair and sighed.
He saw his black beanie was on the kitchen counter and stuffed it into his back pocket before checking the fridge for something to eat. It was mostly bottles and cans of beer. There were some condiments on the door and a mostly empty bottle of orange soda on the top shelf. Max grabbed the soda and shook it until it was flat and finished it off. A Pizza Hut box was on the bottom shelf, two slices of pepperoni were left. Looks like that was going to have to suffice this morning. Max tossed those into the microwave for a minute and doused them in some hot sauce. He pulled back the curtain on the kitchen window with a finger and took a peek outside, suddenly worried that Uncle Lucky might have passed out in the yard last night, but the trailer park was empty. He looked with more intent and he could see his van parked in its usual spot. He was relieved, a second, more distressing worry had bitten him, that Lucky had taken his van without telling him. That would’ve really fucked his plans up for the day. Max leaned against the counter and started on his second slice of breakfast pizza. Next to him was an issue of Guts! Magazine, his favorite horror publication. There was a great article in that issue, where an intrepid Guts! reporter had gone in search of Rutger Wolfe to ask him about his thoughts on the legacy of the original Chain-Slaughter.
For the past year and a half Max had collected and poured over every horror and sci-fi mag he could get his hands on. Absorbing every small detail, every rumor, every behind the scenes pic like a thirsty desert traveler searching for an oasis. He even went to see Lawnmower Man 2 just because there was a chance he might see the trailer. But today was the day! He had it all planned out. First, work his shift at Popcorn Video, get out at 5pm as usual, then head over to the local convenience store, Snap-Mart, grab provisions, and then stake out his territory in line at the theater by 5:30pm. Five-thirty was a bit later than he would like, but the stop at Snap-Mart was essential if they were going to be waiting in line until tickets went on sale at 8pm. The most essential part, of course, was that by his side the entire time, would be his best friend in the entire world…
Jonesy placed the Lake’s End Woodpeckers cap backwards on her head, completing her ensemble for today, her shaggy red hair sticking out the back. Jonesy had been wearing a backwards hat since she was maybe 5 years old. She had been given a Strawberry Shortcake cap for her birthday from her Uncle Cal. She loved her Uncle Cal, she thought he was the coolest dude she had ever met. Somehow he was related to her dad, the exact opposite of everything cool in the entire universe. Uncle Cal listened to the Ramones and Generation X while he drove, Uncle Cal owned tons of comics and movies, and always had the latest home entertainment equipment. He lived in New York City and ran a record store in Queens. She couldn’t believe she ended up with Ray Jones as her dad and not Cal. Life could be so cruel. The Strawberry Shortcake hat was pink and red, with a strawberry on the front and in script “Strawberry Shortcake” on the back. It still hung on a hook on the backdoor of her closet. It was too small for her now, but it had so many good memories attached to it, she could never bring herself to throw it away. The hat she wore now had also been a gift, but from her older brother, Karl. He was currently playing for the Woodpeckers, a local minor league hockey team, and had given it to her the last time he had visited. She had always looked up to Karl. He was handsome, naturally charismatic, and incredibly smart. Karl was tall and athletic, whereas she was tall and could trip over a small gust of wind. She always figured he got whatever genes were in Uncle Cal, and she was left with whatever her dad had been stuck with.
The story has been stolen; if detected on Amazon, report the violation.
She adjusted her hat and finished up her eyeliner. Scouring the random piles of clothes on the floor she finally selected a white Mudhoney shirt, passing the sniff test with an arguably generous C+. She grabbed her black zip-up hoodie off her bedpost and layered her Popcorn Video smock over it. She always made sure the green and yellow of her Popcorn Video uniform complimented whatever outfit she had put together, as she tended to wear it outside of work nearly every day. Jonesy stood in front of the mirror and admired the outfit she had put together. She snapped her fingers in inspiration and added a thick chain necklace around her neck, snapping it closed with a small padlock. She gave herself another look, smiled, and then sighed in defeat. She tied her teal Keds and stomped up the stairs, bracing herself for another soul crushing encounter with her family.
It was a fairly typical scene. Her mother was smoking a joint and lounging on the couch in her robe, she was wearing a hot pink sleeping mask, peeking one eye out from under it every so often to watch Bob Ross paint some sort of tree with some sort of whimsically sleepy adjective attached to it. Her father was at the dinner table in the kitchenette reading a back issue of Compute! Magazine, one of many in his collection, absentmindedly eating small spoonfuls of plain oatmeal and drinking a glass of skim milk. Jonesy grimaced at this bleak state of affairs, steeled herself and decided on a bagel for breakfast, heavy on the cream cheese. She put on the kettle and found the jar of instant coffee in the cabinet. It was practically empty, only enough for herself, so she decided to just use the jar as her mug. She poured in the hot water, stirred, added some half & half, stirred, and joined her dad at the table.
“Did you have a chance to look at those college brochures yesterday, Twizzler?” her dad peered over the top of his magazine at his middle child. Ray Jones was a soft spoken man, bookish, and unassuming. He had messy hair for a man with so little of it left. His hair was gray now, it was once as brightly red as hers, but the only indication left of that was the light orange roots. He wore round, wire glasses, and had a shape to his face that made him look perpetually sleepy. Jonesy always thought he kind of looked like Droopy Dog from the old Tex Avery cartoons.
“We had this discussion already, Dad. I’m not going to college.” Jonesy tried not to sound too aggravated by his question. She was nineteen now and was making the effort not to sound like a bratty teenager anymore. Since her decision not to go to college she wanted her parents to see her as a mature adult, now more than ever. Being whiney and petulant was not how anyone earned respect. She took a bite of her bagel.
“You learn a lot in college,” Her dad ignored her very mature response and continued with his thoughts, “There’s a lot of interesting programs these days. You don’t, uh, have to choose a major immediately.”
“You learn a lot about yourself in college, too, Twizzlebug!” Her mom decided it was her turn to offer some sagely advice. “I made so many new friends! A lot of experimentation! Boys, girls, a professor or two! Haha!”
“Jesus, Mom!”
“Oh, don’t be so uptight, sweetie.” Her mom took a deep drag on her joint. “That’s what college is for, going down on random people, booze, and shitty weed.” She blew a large plume of smoke into the air and put her sleeping mask back over her eyes.
“You know, I live here, right? You don’t have to start traumatizing me the minute we see each other. There’s a lot of hours in the day.”
“The early bird catches the worm, honey.” Her dad turned the page of his magazine.
“Whatever, I’m just… I like what I have going on right now, ok?”
“She’s an artist, like me, Ray. She can’t be restrained by the chains of standardized academia!”
Jonesy took a sip of her coffee and choked, the thought of being anything like her mother suddenly sending her into a spiral of existential dread.
“I just, uh, want to make sure she’s considering all her options, Connie.” Her dad played with his oatmeal, his sleepy, expressionless face conveyed not so much concern as it did mild consciousness.
The sound of heels trotted down the hall. Jonesy’s young sister comes out of the bathroom, touching up her pink lip gloss.
“She’s a loser, dad! All she does is jerk off all day. I can hear her in her room, it’s so gross.” Gina grabbed a bowl of grapes from the fridge and a cup of yogurt, smirking at her older sister.
“Fuck off, my room is in the basement, you can’t hear shit!” Jonesy flicked cream cheese at her.
Gina put up her hand in defense of the cream cheese attack, “I can hear you through the vents, it’s like there's a perverted ghost haunting the house. It’s all day and all night, I can’t hear myself think!”
“I forgot it takes every last brain cell you have, working together, to achieve one coherent thought. That must be what all that smoke is coming from your room.”
Gina narrowed her eyes,“That’s not from my brain, stupid, that’s weed.” She tapped her forehead and rolled her eyes. “You’re so fucking clueless sometimes.”
Jonesy laughed with pity. How can I be related to someone so achingly dumb. She thought to herself.
“Who’s smoking weed??” Jonesy and Gina’s mother suddenly sprang back into consciousness.
“No one, mom!” The Jones sisters rolled their eyes and barked in unison.
“They better not be! That’s grown-up stuff, girls!” Their mom took another extended drag of her joint. She lifted one side of her sleeping mask, so she could look at Jonesy with one eye. Through the smoke wafting from her lips, she imparted her belated wisdom, “It’s natural to want to explore your body sexually, Twizzlebug. All your sister is saying is maybe, don’t overdo it, sometimes? Your vagina is a delicate instrument.”
“JESUS, Mom!!” Jonesy blushed hard.
Gina made a fist and started vigorously jamming two fingers into it, making squelchy noises. “You’d think you’d eventually fall asleep or something!”
Jonesy started gathering her things into her backpack, ready to escape this horror show. “You’re such a fucking bitch, you know that VA-Gina? That’s why no one showed up to your birthday party!”
“No one came because it was a holiday weekend! Everyone was traveling! Right, Daddy??” Gina whined.
“Hm?” You’d be forgiven if you didn’t remember their father was still at the table the entire time, he certainly did.
“Whatever! So sue me, I’m concerned my sister’s a chronic masturbator and a loser. I mean, you hang out with that glue sniffer. You two perverts probably go to Victoria’s Secret and sniff all the panties. I saw them do it at the mall, Dad. It’s true.” Gina had realized a long time ago that if she just lied and stuck to her lies most people would believe her, mainly because she was blonde, cute, and loud.
“Oh, drop dead, VA-Gina! At least I didn’t blow the entire football team.” Jonesy stormed out of the house.
Gina gasped in indignation, “That’s a lie!! DAD!!”
“Girls, uh, be nice, ok? It’s friday.” Ray Jones attempted to find his mouth with his spoon of oatmeal, missed, and hit his left nostril instead.