Static…
The demons hate—
Click…
Channel 13
A house band plays a spooky intro, Tempest leading the face painted backups, on the keyboard. Cameras pan on him and a green and pink neon sign behind him. It simply reads:
The Tonight Show
The set is what anyone might imagine a late night talk show would look like. A red, carpeted stage with a desk centered on it. Two comfortable looking black leather chairs sit empty next to it. Stepping down from the stage, a shiny and freshly waxed black concrete floor spreads across the rest of the set. Sitting at the desk comfortably is Daedalus, dressed as one would expect a late night host to dress. A backdrop behind him features a beautiful Chicago night skyline.
Tempest and the Late Night Spookshow Band sit patiently stage left, facing Daedalus, their instruments silent. Tempest grins behind a pair of round sunglasses, without a mask for the first time in months. Kosnar sits in the background, saxophone set neatly across his lap. The blonde woman who visited the Creeps a few weeks ago stands in front of a laptop with a soundboard.
The camera zooms in to Daedalus, who smiles a little too broadly. When he talks, he giggles.
“Hello, old friends! Thank you for joining us. We are just about to discuss Tempest’s next match. Unsurprisingly, in the main event.”
He glares into the camera and his voice changes to a bizarre, high-pitched snarl.
“…in a Hang Ten Match!”
Ten bodies fall from the rafters of the set, and come to an abrupt halt as they hang there. The camera zooms in, showing the nooses around their necks. Some of the bodies aren’t familiar, generically dressed mannequins with no face. But a few are very much recognizable.
One, a man in a turquoise sequin suit. Shiny, purple shoes sway back and forth
Back and forth
along with the rest of his body.
Another, who resembles closely Sebastian Everett Bryce the third. He sways back and forth
Side to side
next to the Showman.
Eden Morgan hangs next to Seb, but her wrists and ankles are bound, as well.
Next to her, porcelain skin and blonde hair that’s almost white, Lucy Wylde hangs, but her face has been ripped from her skull like Barbara Maitland in Beetlejuice.
“It’s supposed to be Hard Ten, Dae.”
It’s Tempest, speaking from off screen. The camera shoots back behind him but centers on Daedalus and his sudden look of confusion. By this time, he’s stood from his desk and is beneath the ten hanging mannequins. He looks down at his notecards to verify and sighs. The studio audience laughs, though the studio is empty.
“What’s ‘Hard Ten’?” he asks sharply.
Tempest grins behind his Paul Schaffer sunglasses.
“It’s a point system-based weapons match.”
Daedalus sighs again, throwing his head back, glaring up at the mannequins hanging from their nooses.
“Okay then. Cut ‘em down! We’ll be right back, don’t you dare go anywhere!”
It’s not the cheerful break to commercial that a viewer is accustomed to. He points his finger, almost demanding the viewer to stay tuned. Like something bad is going to happen if he or she doesn’t.
Static…
“Havin’ trouble with the livin’?”
It’s Tempest, dressed in flannel, blue jeans, cowboy boots, and a cowboy hat. He’s wearing aviator sunglasses. Not quite like the original, but he’s close.
A fake cow stands next to him in fake rubber grass. Next to the cow, a statue of a loud-mouthed talent manager in a suit, his face frozen in a shouting gesture. Carved backwards in his head are the letters ‘CBJ.’
“You tired of having your home space being violated?”
The screen flashes an image of an annoyed Sloane Taylor glaring at the back of Seb as he’s arrogantly walking away. Then flashes back to Cowboy Tempest and his used car salesman style commercial. But it seems to fast forward on its own towards the end of it where bold yellow words flash on the screen:
‘Call Now! Call Now!’
‘Astro Creeps! Astro Creeps! Astro Creeps!’
“So say it once, say it twice, three time’s a charm, and remember…”
He begins dancing off to the side. The camera follows him where he dances in front of a headstone that reads ‘Lucy Wylde.’
Dancing on her grave, he begins to sing.
“I’ll creep anyone you want me to creep, and I’ll crawl over the skulls you want me to crawl over.”
He stops dancing.
“So come on down, I’ll… chew on a dog!”
He howls and the commercial cuts out.
Static...
Daedalus sits at his desk as the Late Night Spookshow Band plays their number. A few custodians who look like zombies are cleaning up the mannequins that were cut down. As they carry them off, the one who looks like Eden Morgan almost seems to wiggle in a panic. But mannequins can’t wiggle, can they?
Can they?
The music closes and Daedalus speaks loudly, like a talk show host.
“All right, welcome back! Tonight we’ve got a special guest. He’s a god on some channels. He wakes the dead on drive-in movie screens across the underworld! Please welcome, Mr. Joe Bob Briggs!”
The Late Night Spookshow Band plays the theme for Joe Bob’s Last Drive-In show as Joe Bob makes his way from behind the curtain. He grins and steps onto the carpeted stage where he waves at the empty cheering studio, and shakes the hand of Daedalus. He sits down as the band wraps up his intro.
“Joe Bob, thanks so much for being here. Ah, so you’ve got a new show that’s going to premiere—I don’t think too many people know this, can I say it?”
Joe Bob laughs good-naturedly.
“Sure!”
“It’s going to premiere right here on Channel Thirteen! And when’s it going to premiere? Have you set a date yet?”
Daedalus bends down and opens something at his feet, before reappearing behind the desk. He hands Joe Bob a bottle of Lone Star beer, one of his trademarks, and when Joe Bob takes it with an appreciative smile, he leans back in his chair, satisfied with himself.
“Well, yes,” Joe Bob says, “later this year, but we haven’t set an exact date yet. The show is called Creepy Coalition, and it’s going to feature all of your favorite uhh… victims of the Coalition, if you know what I mean, and I think you do.”
He eyes the camera and loud applause greets his catchphrase enthusiastically. As if Montague Cervantes had just performed a magic trick. Once the applause dies down, he continues.
“Anyway, it’s going to feature all of them in ways that no one has ever seen them before. You’ll see more Fu than you’ve ever seen before, I promise you that.”
“Nice! And will Darcy the Mail Girl be accompanying you?”
The camera changes to the blonde DJ, the newest, nameless Astro Creep, who frowns with disapproval. Kosnar makes a wah-wah-wah sound with his saxophone and the camera switches back to Joe Bob and Dae.
“Yes, she will be there with me, of course.”
“And what kinds of things can we expect from you guys whenever this show premieres?”
“Well, heads will roll! We’re talking, your favorite Global Coalition superstars cast as some of the most famous victims in all of the horror genre, ok? I don’t want to give out any spoilers, but just imagine Jigsaw’s face coming up on the screen, and you hear the thing, you know he says, the ‘I want to play a game,’ and then you see Konrad Raab with a chain around his ankle. And the only way he can escape is by cuttin’ his own foot off. And then he dies anyway!”
He and Daedalus share a chuckle and Daedalus, knowing how long-winded Joe Bob can be, cuts the interview short, pointing to the camera.
“Up next, we’ll have our Top Ten, and I think you’ll all love it. Joe Bob, thanks again for the visit. We’ll be seeing you soon on Channel Thirteen, and we can’t wait!”
Joe Bob thanks him and the screen fades.
Static…
A runway model steps away from the camera, her hair bouncing with each step.
And that ain’t the only thing bouncing, mama!
She’s in a baby blue sleeveless dress. Her hair is winter fire. January embers.
You stop that trash. That doesn’t belong on this channel! Goddamn you! Go back to Derry! We don’t want you here!
Her hair is auburn and silky. She turns.
No.
Her head turns. Like Reagan.
All the way, one hundred eighty degrees. But not her body. Her neck snaps and pops as it turns out of place. Her smile is that of a rotted corpse. And her eyes are dead stars.
She fades. A bottle of shampoo takes her place. But no one knows the brand. They’re haunted by the woman. Those eyes. That smile. The sound of her neck popping unnaturally as the bones give.
Static…
The Late Night Spookshow Band plays a number, but without Tempest there to lead them. Daedalus is standing next to the desk with his note cards in hand. The band quiets.
“Thank you, thank you. We’ve got one more treat for you ghouls and boils, as Dr. Wolfenstein would say. Tonight’s Top Ten list is a good one! This one’s for you, Lucy Wylde! It’s Tempest’s Top Ten things he wants to do to you, in a perfect world!”
The camera cuts to Tempest. He stands alone, in front of a brick wall near the back of the studio. The backdrop of the Chicago skyline isn’t there. Just Tempest. And his fixed glare. The sound of a drum beats ominously from the Spookshow Band.
“Number Ten,” he growls.
“First… I’m going to wrap a zip tie around your throat, and zip it close… I want to watch your lips turn blue, and your eyes bulge from their sockets. I want you to start out gazing upon the face of death… while it breathes fire on your neck…”
“Number Nine!” Daedalus shouts cheerfully.
“And just before you lose consciousness, I cut the tie with a dulling razor, blading your skin. I want to drag you across the ground as you swim back into reality… just in time to feel me slicing your skin, and your soul, in pieces.”
“Number Eight!” Daedalus shouts.
“And then I’ll sing… you a lullaby, as I tie you up, bound and helpless. And shatter your tibias… with a croquet mallet.”
“Number Seven!”
“And stomp the heel of my boot into your belly… as I break your face with fluorescent light tubes… and watch the shards of glass work their way into your gums and your nose and your eyes, like little… glittering… bugs.”
“Number Six!”
“And watch you bleed…”
He grins maniacally.
“And watch your skin peel from your skull…”
“I said Six!” Daedalus yells impatiently.
“I want to pierce your hands, with a nail gun.”
“Number Five!”
“And burn your fingers, removing your identity… your hope… and your will.”
“Number Four!”
“I will lay you back, onto a bed of barbed wire, glass, and C-4… and watch the explosion engulf you in the fingertips of the flames.”
“Burn, baby, burn! Number Three!”
“And drag you out of bed… and floss your teeth… with razor wire… and wash your mouth with liquid nitrogen.”
“Number Two!”
“…and crawl across your skull… as you wish for death… only to be pulled back in for one more… savage… aggressive… act.”
“Number One!” Daedalus snarls. Tempest whispers the final countdown, as he stares in a trance.
“I lift the wooden club as you try desperately to scurry away… and I bring it down, as it splinters… across… your back. You fall flat… and you know, as I smile into your lifeless eyes… that I… am the shadow of your demise. And you will never, want to challenge my throne, ever… again.”
He glares into the camera, intensity practically boiling off of his flushed cheeks and forehead. It fades like that, with him staring into the screen. No static. No click. Just Tempest. In his true form.