Jeff Strand - Single White Psychopath Seeks Same

The sprinkler went off.

It touched one of the flames.

And Charlotte vanished into a huge inferno.

Roger and I stood there, absolutely stunned.

The ball of fire disappeared as quickly as it had come. And we saw Charlotte pressed tightly against the closed entrance, looking utterly freaked but miraculously devoid of sizzling flesh.

“Fuck both of you!” she shouted.

This appeared to be a fair statement, so we didn’t argue. Charlotte got down on her hands and knees and began shoving away the leaf cover, creating a gap that would let the fires burn themselves out before they reached her.

“What next?” I called out.

“I’m not going anywhere for a few minutes,” Charlotte replied. “You guys might as well go on ahead.”

“You think that’s a good idea?” I asked.

“Obviously I have no clue what’s a good idea in this place. But if the two of you want to check out the next room, that’s sure fine by me. I’ll just hang out here.”

I looked at Roger and he shrugged. “All right,” I called out to Charlotte. “Follow as soon as it’s safe.”

My immediate concern was that another sliding door might seal her off, but that didn’t seem likely since there was a regular door at the end of this tunnel rather than another open entrance.

I opened it. More darkness beyond. Wonderful.

“Enjoy yourselves!” Charlotte said, waving.

With the machete out of front of me, I walked into the next room. Another sprinkler went off, drenching us again. But this time it was ordinary water. Kind of refreshing, actually.

“How considerate,” Roger remarked. “I guess they’re not such bad chaps after all.”

“Yeah, I guess it wouldn’t be much fun if their victims passed out from gas fumes before the really nasty stuff could happen.”

While it would have been nice to take some water back to Charlotte, we certainly had some explosive residue left on us and the risk of running back down the tunnel was too great. So we opened the door and walked into the next room.

As we entered, some lights came on. Bright, colorful lights. Carnival music began to play. The room was huge, and the first thing we saw was a large, multi-colored banner: “Welcome to Deathworld!”

“All the effort he must’ve put into this place, and the guy can’t come up with anything better than Deathworld,” Roger muttered. “What a sad state of affairs.”

Two wooden poles held up the Deathworld banner. Each pole had an artificial corpse tied to it, the arms stretched out like scarecrows, the throats slit and the eye sockets hollow. There was a small yellow Post-It note attached to one of them.

I pulled it off and read it out loud to Roger: “ Replace with the real thing .”

“I don’t think it’s fair to make us beta test this place,” said Roger. “We should file a complaint and ask to be let go.”

“Hey, if we see them around, it’s worth a shot.”

We walked under the banner and into the main part of the carnival. It consisted of one sawdust path, with exhibits on each side of it. In the center of the path stood a life-sized plastic clown with oversized shoes, a purple and pink wig, and a big red nose. The clown was holding a wooden sign that said “Press My Nose!”

“I don’t want to press its nose,” said Roger.

“I think we probably should press its nose,” I remarked. “It’s all part of the game. Otherwise, we won’t be able to get out.”

“Make you a deal,” said Roger. “You press the nose and I’ll tell you what a good job you did.”

There wasn’t time to argue. I pressed the nose.

“Good job,” said Roger, patting me on the back.

The clown’s eyes lit up, and it let out a loud giggle as its head began to turn back and forth. “Hi there, kids!” said the clown in an incredibly annoying, high-pitched voice. “Welcome to Deathworld! I’m sure you’ll have lots of fun if you follow a few simple rules. Rule number one: Don’t litter! If you lose an arm or a leg or a head, pick it up and take it with you…leave Deathworld as beautiful as you found it!”

“I hate clowns,” said Roger.

“Rule number two: No outside food or drink! You don’t want to pass up our brain burgers, esophagus dogs, or blood shakes, now in type A negative! Rule number three: Watch your step, because at any moment you could…” The clown’s head began to spin around three hundred and sixty degrees, and its voice transformed into a low demonic roar. “…DIE DIE DIE DIIIIIE!”

It laughed hysterically for about ten seconds, and then its head stopped spinning and its voice returned to normal. “If you ever want to leave, you’ll have to get the four keys! Win them! Find them! Sniff ‘em out! Have fun! Bleed well!”

The light in the clown’s eyes went out and it stopped moving. I almost chopped its head off with the machete, but gratuitous destruction just seemed wrong. We started down the sawdust path.

To the left, a mechanical skeleton fired at a shooting gallery consisting of mechanical puppies and kittens. If I saw a Post-It on that one, I was going to be seriously outraged.

Suddenly the skeleton swiveled 180 degrees and fired with machine-gun rapidity as Roger and I ducked out of the way. After a moment, the skeleton swiveled back around and resumed shooting at the gallery.

On the other side, there was another artificial-I think-corpse resting in the seat above a dunking booth. A sign read “ Dunk The Stiff And Win A Key! ” But it wasn’t really a dunking booth…rather than water, the aquarium under the corpse was filled with spikes.

I assumed that corpse would be replaced with the real thing, too. And then I had a horrible thought. What if the actual keys weren’t part of the exhibits yet?

Well, not worth worrying about until I found out for sure. Boards covered with needles to discourage cheating surrounded the area ten feet around the target. I picked up a baseball-sized squishy eyeball from the bucket next to the sign, leaving two more inside. “You want to try or should I?” I asked.

“You go first,” said Roger.

I took aim, and then threw the eyeball as hard as I could. It splattered against the aquarium, missing the target by a good three feet.

Roger picked up the second eyeball, spent a ridiculously long moment planning out the perfect angle at which to throw, and then hurled it. It hit almost exactly where mine had.

“Stop distracting me,” said Roger, taking the last one.

He threw the eyeball…and almost hit the target, but not quite. Appalling fake eyeball goo slid down the wooden display.

“Are we allowed to cheat?” asked Roger.

“I don’t see why not.”

He picked up the bucket and threw it, striking the target. The corpse fell onto the spikes and practically exploded into an outrageously disgusting display of reds and yellows that made me think it had been filled with water balloons.

There was a sound like a cash register opening, and then a small golden key dropped into a slot where the bucket had been.

“Wasn’t so hard,” Roger said.

We walked past a slow-moving carousel with a black canopy. Mechanical children were on the fire-breathing horses, their bodies shriveled and covered with cobwebs, and their echoing laughter sounding through a pair of speakers.

Next up was a Test-Your-Strength game. At the top of the pole rested a severed head. Maybe fake. A strong enough hit upon the plate would send a dagger sailing upward into the head’s mouth. On the pole, the mallet hits were ranked as Goner, Dead Meat, Cooked Goose, Shit Out Of Luck, and Potential Survivor (But Probably Not).

“Time to cheat again,” I said. Roger nodded, and on the count of three we both jumped into the air as high as we could and came down upon the metal plate with both feet, sending the dagger all the way to the top and ringing a bell. Another golden key dropped into a slot down by the plate.