Saturday, May 07, 2005

Tony Danza's "A Nightmare On Elm Street" Fan Fiction Extravadanza!!!

Watch Your Step by Chris Miller
Over the years they tried burning the bastard, they tried burying him, and they even tried hosing him down with holy water, but nothing kept the much-feared Bastard Son of a Hundred Maniacs from haunting the nightmares of Springwood, Ohio’s young people. Mud and flames could not stop him from killing those very same children and teenagers. Freddy Krueger was, quite simply, unstoppable.

When Steven was residing in Springwood, he was convinced for some reason that he could enter dreamland and escape the Nightmare Man’s frightful death-methods. Steven was in high school around the same time students there started making up a song about him.

One, two, Freddy’s coming for you.
Three, four, better lock your door.
Five, six, grab your crucifix.
Seven, eight, gonna stay up late.
Nine, ten, never sleep again.

There was something to be learned from the song. Of course, Steven was a pretty intelligent guy and he soon realized that neither locking the door nor wearing a crucifix could save a guy from Freddy. The only way to avoid Freddy was, as the closing line of the song suggested, “never sleep again.” The world record for going without sleep was something like 11 days. A guy had to sleep eventually, though.

While something about this song struck him with terror, he soon devised an idea that he figured would protect him from Freddy.

On any given night Steven didn’t sleep much. He stayed up late watching the late night talk shows: Jay Leno, David Letterman, Conan O’Brien, others. When he did fall asleep, he awakened at the slightest sound, such as the floor creaking, the drip-drip of the bathroom sink or a dog barking blocks away. Having this gift for awakening easily, Steven assumed that he was safe from Freddy Krueger.

“As long as I set my alarm, I’m safe,” Steven explained his theory to Monique, his brown-eyed girlfriend.

“What makes you so sure?” asked Monique.

“My alarm is set to go off at regular intervals. If I nod off, and wind up in Freddy’s fucked-up world, all I have to do is outsmart him until the alarm goes off,” said Steven, hypothesizing that by mostly staying awake and having an alarm that sounded every 15 minutes, he could avoid Freddy’s many and varied tortures.

“No one on Elm Street ever escapes Freddy,” said Monique.

“Fuck Elm Street,” said Steven. “Besides, I don’t think Freddy is so scary. He’s no different than other Americans today.”

“How so?”

“There’s something corrupt about him, sure, but where in this country is a guy who isn’t?”

Monique kissed him, ever-so-slight lips on lips and nothing more, not knowing that that this would be their last kiss. “Don’t do anything stupid, Steven.”

“I won’t.” Then, sidling up close, placing his hands around her curvy hips, he said, “Want to stay a bit longer?”

“No, I have to go. My mom’s worried about me staying out late, you know, because of the homicides and all.”

“I understand.”

“If I get the chance, maybe I’ll call you tonight.”

“Either way,” he said, “I guess I won’t be fucking you tonight.”

After Monique went home, Steven set his alarm, went to bed and drifted off to a light, impure sleep…

In his dream Steven was in someplace that appeared to border between a fraternity house and a seedy hotel. No, it was more like a brothel. Steven gazed around in wonder of the graffiti that was scrawled on the hallways, with phrases such as “Nasty whore” and “I banged your sister” splashed in haphazard squiggles of bright paint and black ink. The place gave off an air of wretchedness, not unlike he imagined a sewer would smell, with the odour of feces and dog vomit wafting up all around him. It was very putrid. The atmosphere was sort of dreamy. A tiny black spider skirted by along the floor, crossing his path. Behind closed doorways, Steven heard the sounds of men and women fucking. Some of the doorways were open and Steven peeped inside. He saw college boys drinking tequila shots from between the boobs of licentious women. Every woman had enormous boobs, which was wonderful to behold. The college boys laughed heartily, knowing that nothing beat boobs and booze.

“Tits and tequila…” said Steven, smiling, thrilled by his surroundings.

Finally, at the end of the long hallway was another open doorway, with a beautiful woman standing alone and seductive in its archway, and she wore nothing but a blouse made entirely of whipped cream and a skirt slapped together from assorted lunchmeats. The air was thick with steam, and Steven wiped away the sweat accumulating on his forehead. Amidst the squalor and the perversion of this stinking otherworldly brothel was this one delicious woman. Right away Steven was drawn towards her.

“What’s your name, cowboy?” said the woman with pastrami and pepper-loaf dangling from her genitalia, as Steven came within a few feet.

“The better question is, what kind of idiot do you think I am?” he asked.

“First class,” she said.

Steven eyed her fleshy breasts where pointy nipples poked out from the whipped cream. He knew full well that this was only a dream because no real-life woman could look this tasty. He wanted to fuck her but, being in Freddy’s domain, he also sensed the potential dangers. However, he ignored the dangers and surrendered to his temptations. Clothed in lunchmeat, this woman was too appetizing to ignore.
Opening his mouth, his stuck-out tongue made the movements of a skilled gymnast, as he crouched on the floor and tongued the whipped cream from the enticing woman’s navel, which caused her to respond with a pleasured sigh and a slight spasm of delight. Not unlike a teenage girl, she had a small, round, compact ass, like a pair of soft pillows. Tilting his head, he licked a piece of salami that dangled from the crack of her ass. His mouth was all over her body. Next, he nibbled at the baloney along her thigh. The meat tasted good, and he took a chomp of mouth-watering bratwurst that clung to her bare hamstring.

He felt the heat of this place more than ever, and a thick mist covered the two of them. Down on his knees, something — a slice of roast beef perhaps — hung down, tickling his cheek. He looked up and saw that what tickled his cheek was not roast beef at all, but a few loose threads hanging from a green-and-red striped sweater. The figure, no longer a beautiful woman, now wore black workpants. Steven looked up. Now the woman had the hideously burned face of a man, his skin wilted and dried, and he realized that this man must be the infamous Freddy Krueger. Atop his head was a tattered old hat.

“Enjoying your midnight snack?” asked Freddy, deep-voiced, with a menacing smile on his face as he raised his glove, which was comprised of deadly sharp knives for fingers.

Steven tried getting up, struggling. Freddy had him by the shirt collar. Covered by shadow and mist, Freddy grinned, evil and broad, his teeth rotten and crooked.

“I was enjoying your little smorgasbord,” said Steven, impudent as ever in spite of his fear.

Chuckling under his breath, in a mocking voice Freddy said, “The meat market’s closed!”

Steven felt a unanticipated pain shoot through his left shoulder, and he cried out in agony while he looked over and saw Freddy’s razor-sharp knife fingers stabbed through his shoulder, blood gushing from the deep, deep wound.
An alarm went off — loudly.

“Huh?” said Freddy.

Glancing up at the skinny man with the burned face, Steven said, “See you later, fuck-face!”

Steven was, literally, saved by the bell. He woke up, safe in his own bed again. Blood spurted from his shoulder and onto the blankets. Freddy’s knife-fingers had skewered all the way through. The pain was bearable, but Steven knew that he would require medical attention or risk dying there. Immediately he phoned Monique for help.

“Monique, I did it! I met Freddy face to face and I survived!”

“Fuck, are you serious?”

“But I’m injured,” said Steven. “Think you could drive me to the hospital?”

“What about an ambulance?”

“Fuck that — it’s too expensive. Just come get me.”

Monique agreed, and promised that she’d be at Steven’s house as soon as possible and she could transport him to the hospital before he bled to death.
After hanging up the phone, Steven got out of bed with the intention of going to the washroom down the hall and cleaning the wound with a damp washcloth. He never made it that far, though. Instead, he tripped over a copy of Hustler magazine (the issue with Jessica Jaymes on the front cover) discarded on the bedroom floor, fell backwards, and whacked his head on the hard wooden bedpost. He was a klutz.
That’s exactly how Monique found him when she arrived at Steven’s house: on the bedroom floor, head bent in an awkward manner, blood oozing from his gaping shoulder-wound, while the bedside clock’s alarm kept buzzing, almost earsplitting. Monique screamed. The alarm and the screams could not save Steven. Lifeless, nothing could wake him now.

-Chris Miller is a regular contributor to Down Supremacy and Thieves Jargon. Please check out the book he edited which is available at Lulu.


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