“Man, we’re in Hell! And he said, ‘Yeah, ain’t it groovy?’”
-MANSON (1973 Documentary)
Friday the 13th
Gnaw Bone, Indiana
The Farmhouse
Tempest sits on the floor, legs criss-crossed underneath him. He is gazing down at his mask, running his fingertips along the patch of Lucy Wylde’s skin sewn into it. His hair is a mess, and he’s wearing a faded and dirty flannel robe. Dusty, stained slippers cover his feet. He sits still, whispering incoherently to himself. He pauses and chuckles, then continues to whisper.
Daylight sneaks in through the windows of the farmhouse, though the day itself is dreary and gray. The floor creaks beneath him as he rocks himself up to his feet.
Tempest: Let the rabbits wear glasses!
He holds the mask up triumphantly.
Pisces: Something against innocent little bunnies, Spider King?
She stands in the doorway, and her voice is soft and somehow inviting. Tempest turns abruptly and takes a step toward her.
Tempest: Yes! I was visited by a ghost last night.
Pisces: Like Ebenezer Scrooge was on Christmas Eve?
The King Freak takes a moment to ponder. It’s a very unusual occasion for Pisces to be so talkative. Typically, she doesn’t speak at all.
Tempest: Yes, I suppose very much like that. Except, this wasn’t a desperate attempt to change my own behavior. This was a revelation, you see. A revelation for me. He chose me. And I didn’t even graduate from fucking high school!
The porcelain faced Creep steps inside the room, intrigued by Tempest’s words.
Pisces: Who is he?
Tempest: On the eve of Friday the thirteenth, who else would you expect but the Crystal Lake Killer himself to visit you in your dreams? Jason Voorhees, of course!
Pisces: Wait, he actually spoke to you?
She seems suddenly interested, brushing past Tempest and sitting on his bed.
Pisces: What did he say?
The Spider King grins a mouthful of gray, crooked teeth.
Twelve hours earlier…
I awoke to the cries of impending doom coming from outside. I spied with my one good eye a dense fog just outside my window. Breaking through the outstretched fingertips of the fog was just who you’re thinking of. Jason himself. Floating there like one of Buffy’s vampires. Or even ‘Salem’s lot. I rushed to throw my robe around me and raced to the window, opening it despite the temperatures outside. As you know, it wasn’t in the negatives like it was several weeks ago. However, it was still brisk.
Rather than entering, he grabbed me by the throat. You know, the way that you enjoy it. As I felt myself losing consciousness, I floated up and out of the window as if entering purgatory or some other dimension between this world and the next. And I knew I was being taken by him, to show me whatever it is he needed to show me. Their cries became louder as we crossed our property.
We rose higher and higher as we floated across Gnaw Bone. And as we descended, the cries grew louder still, and I realized they were coming from the soil below. One thousand–nay, one million–voices full of fear.
Terrified, I turned to the man in the hockey mask, and I begged him to tell me…
Tempest: Mr. Voorhees, on the eve of your special day, please…. I must know, what are these tortured screams!?
I expected silence. I expected him to respond to me in anger, resentment. After all, what the fuck did Jason care about the cries of others?
But he did speak, slowly and deep, like the voice of a god.
Jason: These are the cries… of the carrots.
Tempest: This time of year?
I looked at him in confusion, and that did seem to annoy him. He struck me down and I felt a pain like I’ve never felt before as I landed in the soil amongst a field of buried carrots… right in the middle of winter. Laying on my back, I propped myself up on my elbows and looked around. They whimpered around me. They sniffled. Cried. They begged me to save them. I could only look around bewildered.
Jason: You see… the dead rabbits are coming, and they’re hungry. They’ll be here soon. And for them… this is the holocaust.
Understanding dawned on me then. The man with the machete was bringing me a message… a message for those who would listen. And a warning for those who would not. I knew then what I was being asked to do. They have a life. They have a consciousness. Let the rabbits wear glasses!
And Now…
Pisces: Let me piece this together like I did my face several months ago and see if I understand this… Jason Voorhees came to you in your slumber… he brought you to fields which have already been harvested months ago, and yet, haven’t been… and he basically assigned you the unequivocal responsibility to save a field of carrots from a society of zombie rabbits coming to eat them. Is that right?
Tempest: Can I get an amen?
He has his arms lifted in the air.
Pisces: No.
Somewhere, a herd of sheep seem to directly respond to him in their own language. Perhaps it was a coincidence.
Tempest: Can I get a hallelujah?
The porcelain faced Creep looks around with uncertainty.
Pisces: N-no. You can’t.
The sheep baaa outside. But they have to be coming from a neighbor, Pisces thinks. There are no sheep on their farm. She turns and looks out the window with impatience. Sure enough, across the property, on the other side, a pen houses a herd of sheep. And they’re all bunched up on the side nearest the farmhouse. Staring. Baa-ing. Praising their new lord: the Spider King.
Later that evening…
The Astro Creeps sit at the table for dinner. Daedalus and Kosnar sit on one side, while Tempest and Pisces sit across from them. Their “guest” sits at the head of the table, still and, essentially, dead. Daedalus smirks as he slurps his soup, turning towards the corpse of the salesman.
Daedalus: Forgive us, Mr. Wetzel. Tempest has suddenly changed his diet and the rest of us are making our best effort to honor and support that by sort of… joining in on his journey to a healthier lifestyle.
The salesman doesn’t respond. Tempest chuckles behind his mask. It can’t be seen, but the back of the salesman’s head has been caved in.
Daedalus: Oh, I know. I’ve never heard of a pot roast with no carrots in it either. But, it’s good just the same, is it not? Actually, I personally think it tastes better the way it is now.
Again, no response from Mr. Wetzel’s corpse. His blood drips from the back of his head down his neck and back. His eyes bulge out unnaturally. His suit has been ruined, stained with blood and dirt. Chunks of his skull litter the floor.
Tempest: It must be the rabbit meat.
Daedalus: I agree. It has a certain kick to it.
Tempest: The secret is to let the corpse marinade in the soil of where the carrots grow, you see.
The dinner table becomes awkwardly silent. Tempest winks at Mr. Wetzel between chewing.
Daedalus: After dinner, Kosnar, why don’t you show Mr. Wetzel to his room downstairs. I think you’re going to like it, Mr. Wetzel. It’s a room designed specifically for the bad salesman coming to the wrong door. We understand you’ve been representing a company who is attempting to capitalize on the inflation in this country.
The salesman twitches at the mouth and Daedalus smiles.
Daedalus: Oh, yes. I know. Many companies are doing the same. It’s the American way, after all. Choke the life out of the middle class. It didn’t quite work out that way in this case, though… did it Mr. Wetzel? In the short time we knew you, I instantly couldn’t endure the nasally sound of your voice. Even in your last moments, when you bawled and begged for your life… in those moments, I often find myself feeling a measure of guilt. Not today, though. You’re the type of people who cannot be trusted. You pathetic WORM!!!
He hurls the remainder of his bowl at Mr. Wetzel and it connects with his forehead, splashing its contents across the front of his suit. His gelled dark hair catches some of the rabbit meat, potatoes, and broth, and it runs down the front of his face. His expression remains vacant.
Daedalus: Kosnar, take this filthy little man down to his room, where the maggots and worms can feast.
Without a word, Kosnar stands from his chair and steps over to the corpse. He lifts him onto one shoulder and carries him out of the dining room and towards the basement stairs. Daedalus sits with his head down, perhaps a little embarrassed of his sudden outburst.
Daedalus: I think the moral of the story on this Friday the thirteenth is…
Tempest: Dead rabbit meat is the secret ingredient that all pot roasts deserve!
Pisces and Daedalus look at Tempest with expressions as vacant as the corpse that had joined them. Outside, the herd of sheep give their versions of “Amen” and “Hallelujah” and Daedalus finally smirks.
Daedalus: Yes… yes, I suppose that’s the one.