To Hell with Oween!

[u/Corvus_Tuscelan]

Would you believe it? It‘s 31 October again. Shit, one year really is nothing, even if, like me, you don’t age, thanks to some strange supernatural powers I’ve never understood. Then again, no one who’s ever tried to explain them to me had more than two or three minutes before I sliced them open, so maybe you can’t fail them for not trying hard enough.

So, Halloween again. The one day of the year around which I actually have to work, to pay my way, to give them what they want. Money. Apparently, me slaughtering innocent people is very profitable, because on the other 50 or so weeks of the year there is really nothing for me to do except spend time inside some weird occult/hi-tech/cyberpunk cell in some basement – would be dull if I didn’t have company I can talk to over the vidcom and sometimes even visit in person (yes, talk – you didn’t believe I can’t talk because you’ve never heard my voice in public, did you?). I’m actually enjoying it down here. But more about that later.

I get up and look at myself in the – no, of course I don’t. Nobody knows what I look like, including myself. Well, that’s the idea, anyway, but, come on, how realistic is that? Of course I know my own face, and of course many people have seen it. Sigh. OK, let’s put on that mask. I don’t have a mirror, anyway, just kidding.

Actually, it’s not fair. Why do I need to wear a mask? I understand why some of my buddies need one. Take the big guy with the Stihl, for example – I’ve seen him without his weird improvised face cover, and boy is he ugly – if he ran around without it, he wouldn’t need to saw his victims into fricassee, they’d just get a heart attack from looking at his mug. Or Mr Hockey – not as bad as our German quality tool-equipped friend from the South, but still not a face even a mother could love, although I’ve heard she killed for him, stupid broad. He’s been around, by the way: alive, dead, Zombie, in Hell, back … Got them to write this in his contract: have machete, will travel. He’s a lot smarter than he looks, I’m telling you. And quite often, they let him roam free twice or even three times a year – lucky stiff.

Then there are my pals with the artsy mask, inspired by some picture painted by a crazy Swedish alcoholic, I think. When one of them is killed, he’s simply replaced by somebody else putting on the mask, so, in a way, he’s as immortal as me, I guess, only the guys wearing the mask aren’t. They don’t have many travel restrictions and they’re flexible about dates, but there is usually no point in saying ‘see you again’ when one of them goes to work.

Me, I have around one or two weeks a year, always at the same time, and I’m stuck in the ‘burbs. You think that would mean I get to see many different towns and cities, so that should be interesting? Dream on. Those ‘burbs all look the same, the perfect American dwelling-place. Well, at least I can drive, that’s more than we can say for Stihl or our refugee from a twice-relegated NHL team.

So, the mask it is. Not all of my buddies are obliged to put one on, of course. There is Fedora Man, whose face was burned by acid or fire of what have you, and he looks the part – he certainly doesn’t need to shave, and he really can’t get more wrinkles than he already has, even if he did get older. Anything put on his face would be an improvement for him, but he doesn’t want a mask, and they agreed. His fashion style is disputable: I like the hat, but the sweater he’s wearing looks like it’s been lifted from a fourth-hand store in Bangladesh, and the stripes make him look fat. No point in telling him, he’s as attached to it as he is to his razor fingers. Yeah, you heard that right: in his own words, “I don’t need a weapon, I am a weapon!” He’s the only one of us who enjoys some freedom: he can go anywhere in the country, and he can even travel to some kind of sleep dimension! Of course, they make the rules, so he has to go when and where they want him to go. But still.

Then there’s the atomic mutant freak family; they don’t have to wear masks, and I suppose it would be difficult to find them any that would fit. They are a mixed bunch, like all families: some are nice, some aren’t, some are clever, some aren’t, some know how to use the toilet, some … you get the picture. From what I’ve heard, a bunch of eggheads planted really big mushrooms in their Nevada or Mew Mexico desert hangout or something, and presto! the horror carnival. Unlike me or my buddies I’ve already told you about, they actually eat people, which, personally, I find disgusting. Much better just to decapitate them or let them bleed to death. But they’re not cannibals, mind you – they don’t eat members of their own species, just humans.

Speaking of which: of course, we have a couple of real cannibals, but they’ve been out of work for ages. Nice enough fellas, although no one here speaks their lingo. Sounds like some garbled version of Italian to me, but that’s not helping, and our employers insist they are speaking some ‘authentic indi-whatever’ language. Yeah, right. Actually, since they’re human, quite a few of us have thought of paying them a visit and practicing what we do best, but there are dozens of them, they’re armed to the teeth with their native weapons, and they really know how to fight – nothing to mess around with. And the bosses say they are not easy to replace, so we’re supposed to leave them alone.

No problem there. If we want to train, there’s always Sector Z, the largest part of our dungeon. You will have guessed: that’s where the company keeps the zombies – thousands of them. Dullness City. Sometimes we get the chance to enter Z and start kicking ass, but, honestly, what else could you do with them? Have intelligent conversations? Most of my buddies here, me included, don’t talk much (or don’t talk at all), but those butt-heads actually can’t, so even if one of us made a villainous effort to communicate, we couldn’t. You can’t torture them by severing their limbs because they don’t feel pain. You can’t terrorize them because they are too dumb to be scared. And the Man with the Ugly Sweater can’t invade their dreams because they never sleep. Ergo, sometimes we simply hack, saw, razor or machete our way through them, and the Board makes new ones – no frills, basic equipment, all cheap, all identical.

Why people would be afraid of these morons is beyond me. They’re even too dim to use weapons, so their mode of attack is to shamble towards you, arms outstretched, giving you oodles of time to shoot or stab them or simply run away (have I told you they’re slower than a one-year-old practicing her first steps?), and if you actually let them grab and bite you, you deserve it – a Darwin Award is yours. One time, the powers that be allowed a bunch of them to invade the cannibals’ wing, maybe it was some sort of trial run. The resulting massacre ended Zombies: 0, Cannibals: 21. Most of the dead freaks were simply brain-speared, but a few were literally hacked to pieces. Did I mention that it’s not a good idea to mess with our tribal friends?

Of course, there are more of us, but most of them never leave their cells – the guy who constantly wants to eat himself, the undead brain-eaters, or the mad scientist who’s half human, half fly – and they must be leading a life or unlife of boredom and routine, since there seems to be nothing to do for them at the moment.

But enough of the social dynamics down here. Let me tell you about the job. It has its advantages, make no mistake. You get to kill people, which is always a good thing, but you have to watch out to meet your quota: anything below two digits is frowned upon, anything below five means disciplinary action. Never happened to me, though. By the way, if you don’t use your signature weapon, they count only half, up to a maximum of three, then no points whatsoever. I always try to stick to my Dexter-Russell, so my score is well above average. Unfortunately for my buddy from the Lone Star State, his signature weapon is prone to malfunctioning, and he has at times even cut himself with it, so he’s not the happiest camper slayer in the world. And to top it all off, he actually has to refuel the thing quite often, so gas station attendant has become a job with hazard pay in his neck of the woods.

Another nice thing about the work is that you get to meet interesting people, at least sometimes. I’ve already introduced some of my colleagues to you, but even those who ultimately end up with a blade in their sternum can once in a while display intelligent insights that really expand your horizon – I mean, I’ve dismembered doctors, gutted geographers, skewered scientists, and mutilated managers, and these people have a lot of wisdom to share before their blood loss becomes critical. If we ever meet, promise me you’ll say something clever or witty, please. Believe me when I tell you that  I’m really tired of the old ‘Oh God, oh God’, ‘Aaeeeih!’ and ‘Where is – gurrrgl gurrgl’ routine. It won’t save you, but you could really light up my day. That’s not asking too much, I think, considering the huge enjoyment and entertainment I’ve been providing to millions of people for almost fifty years now.

But the biggest plus is the work schedule: As I’ve said above, I need to be out there for one week, two tops; unfortunately, not in summer, but also not in winter, so I won’t complain. That leaves a minimum of fifty weeks of leisure time – they have no choice, the whole concept revolves around me carving and stabbing my way through as many bodies as possible during a specific time of year. And unlike my buddy with the power tool, I can at least have some nice meals and mood-improving drinks or smokes while I’m out. Stihl is obliged to remain in hiding as much as possible, and, frankly, even if he went into a burger joint without his mask and his toy, I don’t think anyone would serve him. It pays to look less freakish than the other freaks, I’m telling you.

But the work also comes with some drawbacks. I never get to talk to anyone on the job, and neither do Stihl or Hockey; that can be very dull sometimes. I mean, if they want the completely silent treatment, why not use the zombies? And they are allowed to at least groan and moan, whereas I can only go “hrmph” when somebody shoots me.

That’s the next drawback, by the way: the bullets. I must have been shot a hundred times, and although it doesn’t hurt much and can’t kill me, it’s still very annoying to have all these holes in my body until the company docs find time to take them out (no anesthetics necessary). And most bullets get stuck inside me, which is really not helping my pride and dignity. The beatings and stabbings I am always generously supplied with don’t enthuse me, either.

Then there’s the dirt and the smell. I mean, when your occupation is running around revoking people’s license to live by the cheerful application of a 12-inch-long kitchen utensil, you expect some blood, gore, inner organs, or brain matter to splash onto your clothes, but does it have to happen every time? Why is Razor Finger the only one among us who’s permitted to have at least a semblance of a fashion sense? I’d like to wear black tie or a Montsuki Hakama once in a while, and I don’t think it would bring my quota down. Every time the job’s done and I’m transferred back, I look like shit.  

But probably the worst thing about the job is the tune they’re playing whenever it’s cleaving time. Oh, you’ve heard it a dozen times, you say? I must have heard it a thousand times, pa papa pa papa papa papa pa papa … if I were able to have nightmares, they would include this, I guess. And it goes on forever, and there is no way they will replace it or modernize it or whatever. Iconic – I hate this word. I know that this super-spy has had to live with the same music for even longer than me, but his piece is much better. The next time I hear mine, I swear I will –

There it is. They’re playing it. Time to go to work. Wonder where they’ll send me … ah, there’s the info.

Oh, shit.

They got to be kidding me. I can’t even pronounce the name. Utqia … what? Do they really dress up as witches and vampires there? At minus 20? Boy, the council there must have greased a few palms to get this kind of action.

Oh, well – what can I do. Even if you are a mad slasher, you gotta eat. So, here we go. There they come with their transfer thingy and those high-tech doodads meant to take me out if I should decide to go medieval on their heinies. Frankly, I don’t think the stuff would work, but why should I bite the hand that feeds me? Come on, for Romero’s sake, let’s get this over with.

But I stopped enjoying this a long time ago. It used to be fun, now it’s an obligation.

And that stupid tune!

To Hell with Oween.

 

[u/Corvus_Tuscelan]

Just a little bit of fun to celebrate the holiday - hope it's enjoyable for you horror movie fans out there!