Baxter Peters
Considering Writing Again
Staff member
Moderator
Dungeon Master
Inner Sanctum Nobility
- Local time
- Today 1:17 AM
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- 2,809
- Pronouns
- He/Him
"I'm glad you guys are here. Sorry, you… folks? Don't mean to be sexist. Not my jam, I'm just a bit country, you know?" The speaker was a sweaty thirty something whom, at first glance, seemed straightforward enough. Nondescript, if big, balding white guy in overalls and flannel. He smelled like the barn they were walking through.
They being the film crew, of course.
"No one really appreciates the work, the painstaking preparation that come with what we do. I mean, anyone can kill a bunch of folks. Just look at our schools. Some joker with a gun can slaughter dozens of people before getting stopped, but where's the artistry? What's the fucking point? Boo hoo, I had a fight with my Ex so I'll drive through a Christmas parade. Sure, it's shocking, but so's a flasher in a daycare." He gesticulated broadly, sweeping his hands through the air. "WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT!" His scream startled some birds nesting in the barn's loft who began fluttering about the space excitedly.
"There's not one. No higher purpose. No rhyme, no reason. Just sad, misguided fools trying to fill a void in their souls with blood." He licked his chapped lips, "Not me though. Not me. I have a purpose. A noble one. You see, I entertain. I hand craft custom, artisanal experiences that you just can't find anywhere else. Carnage with creativity." His hand waved across the sky, as if showing off a advertisement only he could see.
"Sure, I follow a bit of a script. Attractive 20 year olds who could plausibly pass for younger, remote location, sex and violence, but that's the point. That formula just works. People want to see those people butchered. Me, I'd like to filet a billionaire, but what can you do? People want what they want." He shrugged with a sigh as the farmhouse's front steps creaked under his weight.
After leading them inside, he stopped in the kitchen. "Alright. Sealed beers. I like glass bottles. Feels classic and people don't try to drink 'em funny and spray beer everywhere. These, I cracked earlier, dosed with a clever little benzo cocktail and resealed with my own bottle press. Won't knock 'em out, but makes 'em way more emotional. Rage, fear, lust. Whatever's there will come on out. Ever wonder why the victims of these massacres make such stupid decisions? Nobody thinks straight with their hearts in charge. Promise you that. Also helps with the hunt. Every little bit if resentment or suspicion? It all just bubbles out. They naturally divide themselves up, rather than sticking together."
"Why don't they just call the cops? I installed a cell scrambler about a half mile from here, between the cabin and the only good tower. Leave it off most of the time. Just fire it up when I need it. Why don't they just drive off? Trickier. Normally, I can sabotage the cars without them noticing. One time a guy had one of those new silver ones? Tesla or some shit? Couldn't figure out the car, so killed that prick first and tossed the keys in the lake before the rest knew what was…"
"Huh? Wazzat?" He'd been interrupted by a question from the director. "Oh yeah. You gotta be handy. Not like you can hire contractors to install peepholes into the showers or rechain a saw after the belt popped loose cutting through a femur. Small engine repair, carpentry, mechanics, first aid. There's a lot of just fundamental skills you need to learn outside the physical training. That's why I wanted you here. Why I wanted you to see. Being a slasher isn't the same as some mass shooting loser. This is an art form. A noble, ancient art of blood and screams. One killer creating a story, from the sinner's initial transgressions to the final girl circuit. It matters. It all matters."
"Now, come on. I'll show you the riggings I use to quickly hang the bodies so the swing down and jump scare the final girl later. I used to string 'em up by hand, but my back did not like that shit. Let me tell you." Turning, he began heading upstairs, beckoning for them to follow. "Come on, come on. Don't worry. Not like I'm going to kill you before the documentary is done. That'd be crazy."
They being the film crew, of course.
"No one really appreciates the work, the painstaking preparation that come with what we do. I mean, anyone can kill a bunch of folks. Just look at our schools. Some joker with a gun can slaughter dozens of people before getting stopped, but where's the artistry? What's the fucking point? Boo hoo, I had a fight with my Ex so I'll drive through a Christmas parade. Sure, it's shocking, but so's a flasher in a daycare." He gesticulated broadly, sweeping his hands through the air. "WHAT IS THE FUCKING POINT!" His scream startled some birds nesting in the barn's loft who began fluttering about the space excitedly.
"There's not one. No higher purpose. No rhyme, no reason. Just sad, misguided fools trying to fill a void in their souls with blood." He licked his chapped lips, "Not me though. Not me. I have a purpose. A noble one. You see, I entertain. I hand craft custom, artisanal experiences that you just can't find anywhere else. Carnage with creativity." His hand waved across the sky, as if showing off a advertisement only he could see.
"Sure, I follow a bit of a script. Attractive 20 year olds who could plausibly pass for younger, remote location, sex and violence, but that's the point. That formula just works. People want to see those people butchered. Me, I'd like to filet a billionaire, but what can you do? People want what they want." He shrugged with a sigh as the farmhouse's front steps creaked under his weight.
After leading them inside, he stopped in the kitchen. "Alright. Sealed beers. I like glass bottles. Feels classic and people don't try to drink 'em funny and spray beer everywhere. These, I cracked earlier, dosed with a clever little benzo cocktail and resealed with my own bottle press. Won't knock 'em out, but makes 'em way more emotional. Rage, fear, lust. Whatever's there will come on out. Ever wonder why the victims of these massacres make such stupid decisions? Nobody thinks straight with their hearts in charge. Promise you that. Also helps with the hunt. Every little bit if resentment or suspicion? It all just bubbles out. They naturally divide themselves up, rather than sticking together."
"Why don't they just call the cops? I installed a cell scrambler about a half mile from here, between the cabin and the only good tower. Leave it off most of the time. Just fire it up when I need it. Why don't they just drive off? Trickier. Normally, I can sabotage the cars without them noticing. One time a guy had one of those new silver ones? Tesla or some shit? Couldn't figure out the car, so killed that prick first and tossed the keys in the lake before the rest knew what was…"
"Huh? Wazzat?" He'd been interrupted by a question from the director. "Oh yeah. You gotta be handy. Not like you can hire contractors to install peepholes into the showers or rechain a saw after the belt popped loose cutting through a femur. Small engine repair, carpentry, mechanics, first aid. There's a lot of just fundamental skills you need to learn outside the physical training. That's why I wanted you here. Why I wanted you to see. Being a slasher isn't the same as some mass shooting loser. This is an art form. A noble, ancient art of blood and screams. One killer creating a story, from the sinner's initial transgressions to the final girl circuit. It matters. It all matters."
"Now, come on. I'll show you the riggings I use to quickly hang the bodies so the swing down and jump scare the final girl later. I used to string 'em up by hand, but my back did not like that shit. Let me tell you." Turning, he began heading upstairs, beckoning for them to follow. "Come on, come on. Don't worry. Not like I'm going to kill you before the documentary is done. That'd be crazy."