NEW MEXICO. The nearest outpost of civilization is a good 50 miles away (a “Stuckey’s”). Desert surrounds the house, Murder Manor, on all sides.
MEET THE PLAYERS:
Seapunky
Eight
Cuitlahac
Doibr
krizteen
James
Ken
P.A.S.
Erin
Stacey
Cyd
Spinnwebe
The clock chimed twelve times as Erin held the mattress high, blood trickling down his shirt and pants. It was a new day, a new week.
But it would be the last day Erin would see.
“Fucking CHICKENSHIT!” Erin tossed the mattress aside and leapt on Eight,
wrestling with him, knocking his knife away. He punched Eight in the face one, two, three
times. Eight thrust his open palm under Erin’s jaw, popping it loose.
“It’s called STRATEGY, asshole,” he said; “you should have had one.”
“I do,” said Erin, and head-butted him. Eight snuck his hand down to Erin’s
wound as Erin beat him about the face and neck, stuck his first two fingers in, grabbed the
first squishy thing he felt, and yanked.
“AAAAAGH!” Erin howled and rose up off of Eight, trying to tuck the errant
portion of his small intestine back into his body. “Oh Jesus Jesus Jesus-”
That was all the time Eight needed to find his knife. He rammed it into Erin’s
chest, four times.
“Fucker,” gurgled Erin, and fell over, dead.
Stacey and Spinn, both awakened by Erin’s scream, came running, and were
shocked to see, at the top of the stairs, Eight, holding a bloody knife and Erin’s head.
“What the fuck!” shouted Stacey.
“WA-HEEEE!” Eight waggled the severed head at them.
“Kill,” growled Spinn. He and Stacey ascended the stairs; Eight descended to meet
them halfway.
It was breathtaking. Eight dodged a slice from Spinn, while bonking Stacey on the head with Erin’s. They parried and sparred viciously in that cramped corridor. Eight finally landed a kick to Spinn’s face that sent him sprawling to the bottom of the stairs, unconscious. Stacey continued to fight on.
The fight moved up the rest of the stairway, through Erin’s room, out onto the
balcony. Stacey and Eight were both bleeding and tired, but neither was giving up. Stacey
blocked a swing of Erin’s head from Eight and kicked at his knee. Eight fell to one knee
and sliced at Stacey’s leg, connecting. She grimaced and punched him in the face; he fell
from the second story onto the dirt below.
Stacey shimmied down a drain pipe and approached Eight just as he was regaining
his composure. He slung Erin’s head at her, but she dodged, and it splattered against the
wall behind her. Their fight took them across the patio and toward the lake. Eight caught
Stacey’s poker with his knife in a classic Three Musketeers bind, and hit her over and over
in the face, finally kicking her into the lake. It wasn’t deep, but she disappeared into its
depths. Her poker lay on the beach. Eight kicked it aside and waded in.
Spinn shook his head, clearing some of the cobwebs away. Lord knows, it
probably wasn’t his first head injury. He picked up his pipe and ran up the stairs.
Eight was almost out into the middle of the lake, when Stacey sprung up behind
him, the hose he’d used to breathe through in her hands. She wrapped it tight around his
neck. She quickly roped it off with one arm and used the other to catch Eight’s knife arm,
stabbing at her. Eight couldn’t breath.
Spinn emerged onto the balcony in time to see Eight and Stacey struggling in the
pond. He leapt off with great bravado, almost splinting his shins. He ran toward them as
fast as he could.
Eight had leaned back and submerged Stacey. The second her grip loosened from
the light oxygen, Eight wrenched his knife arm away and stabbed back with it. This time, it
hit. He did it again. And again. And again.
Spinn saw Eight hack away at the water. He saw it turn red. He saw Stacey’s body
float to the top.
“NOOOOOO!” He threw his pipe at Eight and missed. Eight pointed his butcher
knife at Spinn.
“You’re next, bubbles.”
Spinn picked up Stacey’s poker from the beach.
“Talk is cheap.”
Eight waded back to the beach, where he and Spinn resumed fighting, their
instruments of death clanging off of one another. Eight cut Spinn’s arm; the poker went
sailing away. Spinn kicked Eight’s hand; the knife did the same. Now it was a fistfight.
Eight landed a punch to Spinn’s jaw. Spinn landed a blow to Eight’s gut. Eight clocked
Spinn right in the eye. Spinn retaliated with a one-two combo to Eight’s face that sent him
reeling. Spinn braced his weight, and shouted:
“HAI-KEEBA!”
And kicked Eight right in the face. Eight fell over backward, unconscious.
Eight woke up in the backseat of his car. He was tied up with the safety belt.
“The fuck?”
The car was in park, but running. It was facing away from the house, on the front
lawn.
Spinn poked his head in and began tying a rubber hose around the steering wheel
and the gear shift.
“The fuck are you doing?” asked Eight.
“Fiery death,” Spinn replied. He finished his knot, put the car in park, and dropped
a brick onto the accelerator.
There was nothing but desert surrounding the house for many, many miles. Flat
shrubs, cactuses, few if any hazards. Eight didn’t really get worried until he passed the
sign that said “WARNING: FIELD MINE PERIMETER STARTS HERE”.
“Shit on a cricket.”
We're really serious about no one escaping, folks.
Needless to say, the explosion was huge. In a final, rewarding twist, Eight’s
burning, mangled corpse landed at Spinn’s feet.
Spinn smiled and looked to where he thought the camera would be, and winked.
“All in a day’s work, citizen!”
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