Straight Dope Horror Movie Game II: The Return

Cuckoorex couldn’t find his way, up or down, left or right. It wasn’t even “darkness” that prevented him from orientation; as soon as he thought he was upright, equilibrium was upset and he felt unease. He could see what was going on and even feel the pain of the Seeker’s claws, but that wasn’t all; maybe the demon didn’t intend for this to happen, but Cuck managed to glimpse some things that might bring an end to this after all. There were the rituals, and then the final blood sacrifice that He’Tgraava had to make, but there were moments of weakness, vulnerability, during the rituals that could be disrupted.

He’Tgraava had been around for a long, long time. Yet even he was a child compared to his creators. Cuck was able to glimpse a sliver of that prehistory; the entities that He’Tgraava sought to call forth were pre-existant, older than the universe itself, and this wasn’t the first universe that they had infected. Chaos was their drug, chaos was what they sought to bring, and they chose to start at ground level because they found the panic that chaos brought to be addictive.

But there were points of vulnerability, if only Cuck could convey the message…or maybe some of these people knew more than they were letting on…?

He’Tgraava could sense Cuckoorex squirming around, trying to get a clear view. He decided to let Cuck get a front-row seat for this next part.

“Hey, guys?” Cuck seemed to say, “we need to get out of here, right? I mean, I didn’t sign up for some crazy lockdown, I just wanted to work my way through medical school. Why are we still here? Why isn’t help coming? None of this makes sense!”

As He’Tgraava spoke through Cuckoorex, he subtly massaged the minds of the assembled mortals, twisting words and meanings…

Of course, not everyone present was mortal. This caused the dark magic to work in unanticipated ways, each being present experiencing something different, yet related, outside of normal space and time.

**ExTank ** found himself drifting earthward on a parachute, near Arnhem Bridge. The Captain’s bars on his shoulders pulsed with odd mystical energy. Landing with a thump, he rallies his squad and moves into the relative safety of the woods, stopping when he encounters a body, face down, wearing a nazi uniform. He doesn’t want to roll the body over. Doesn’t want to confirm his fears, but he knows he has to do it. With a rough boot, he turns the body onto its back, revealing the porcine features and tusks he knew he’d find.

“Nazi Orcs.”

He’Tgraava miscalculated. The guy with the old rifle is…not what he appears to be. His eyes are glowing, and a bolt of energy leaps from his left hand. LIGHT! Blinding. Burning. Damnable light. PAIN! RAGE! ESCAPE!

**Cuckoorex ** collapses as the Demon flees, the smoky essence of its life force coalescing rapidly into its reptilian form. Scales form, claws lengthen, wings spread, walls crumble, and the Red Dragon takes to the skies, roaring its fury.

Mr. Excellent finds himself wigged and robed, and entering a formal Chamber behind the Judge’s bench. The bailiff announces the case set for trial…The Commonwealth vs John Proctor…Honorable Mr. Excellent, presiding…

Elfkin awakens in a tent, the stench of blood and rotting flesh overwhelming. “Doc, the Rebs are charging Cemetary Ridge. We’re going to be busy.” Oddly, the orderly speaking appeared to be a goblin, wearing Union blue…

Lumpy is sitting on a rock in the desert sun. Staring at reptilian figure wearing a crown of cactus flowers.

Maus Magill appears to be alone with the barely breathing body of Cuckoorex in the ruins of the hospital. At least half the building has collapsed, and the body count is going up like a pinball machine in the bonus feature…

Oak is nowhere in sight.

God-damned Nazi Orcs, **ExTank **thought to himself as he stalked through the woods. Thought we were rid of those bastards back in '89. It was a covert operation, of course; no way the world at large was ready for any of this. ExTank leaned over the body of one of the Nazi Orcs to hear his dying words: “It…it’s not Tuesday…!”

“Not Tuesday?” What the fuck…?

The Nazi Orc morphed into something else, briefly, some sort of strange big cat, then to something resembling a large carp, finally back to the Nazi Orc. There was something about this whole scenario that just wasn’t right…

Lumpy addressed the Lizard King; “I’ve been searching for you for so long,” Lumpy said, “and now that I’ve found you I only want to serve you.”

Lumpy heard the words, but couldn’t say where they were coming from. It was as if the whole scene was being played out on a stage, with the sound piped in from afar.

The Lizard King rose and approached Lumpy. “You’ve done a great service for your King,” he said, “but now I must ask you to serve once more. There are those around you who seek to overthrow me…they must be…removed from our kingdom.” At this the landscape abruptly shifted and Lumpy looked around to see a group of people huddled together in a dark hospital room of some sort. One guy had an old rifle, and seemed to be aiming it at nothing. What the fuck…?

(dammit Cuckoorex, I spent twenty minutes composing the following! Let’s rewind here…)

Lumpy- why was that his name; wasn’t he Joshua Simmons, deputy US marshall?- was sitting in the damned hot desert sun looking at a reptilian figure wearing a crown of cactus flowers. The lizard man spoke:

“Well now Deputy, isn’t this a pretty picture. Just you n’ me, horses dead, fifty miles from water if it’s an inch. You still plannin’ on bringing me in?”

“You’re not getting away again Bates” Lumpy said with a calmness that might have been exhaustion as much as sureness.

“You figure?” the lizard man grinned. (God, Bates was one ugly son of a bitch thought Lumpy). “You know what the Navajo say about this here stretch of desert? They say that before there were any people in the world there was a race of snake men. They say there’s still a buried city somewhere out here, and them snake men are there still, just waitin’ for the time to be right to come out again and take back the world”.

“I don’t care about old injun superstitions” growled Lumpy.

“Maybe you should” said Bates the lizard man. “The conquistadors, they sent men out here looking for El Dorado and none of 'em ever came back. Prospectors been out here looking for gold, never came back. My point being, here you are now, and you think you’re coming back?”

“I think” said Deputy Lumpy cocking his revolver and pointing it at that ugly-enough-to-be-a-snake-hisself Bates “that I’ve never seen anyone who didn’t die when they got a bullet through their head. And if I die out here in this goddamn desert and go to Hell, I’ll make sure you get there five minutes before me. Now start walking!”

Meanwhile, in the hills of Eastern Tennessee, a circle of dark robed figures bind a sacrificial victim to a pyre, and music fills the scene…

Girl ya gotta love your man
Girl ya gotta love your man
Take him by the hand
Make him understand
The world on you depends
Our life will never end
Gotta love your man, yeah*

A Dragon’s roar pierces the night, and the robed figures are blasted into eternity by bolts of lightning. The Gold Dragon lands, slices her bonds with a nimble claw, and flies off into the night. She stumbles through the carnage, then kneels, to pick something up. A spent rifle shell…

Aruvqan from her vantage point behind the group of survivors hears a slight padding sound, tweaks her chair around and lets fly at the sneaking shapes in the dark.

“Guys - heads up, they got around behind us” she says sharply noticing the pause in action.

Scoring direct hits on two more of the hellcats, causing them to scream and their tentacles to writhe, the can of gas sputters out. Tossing the can aside, she swears and rolls backwards into the crowd of people.

Lumpy! I need that suture kit, now!” Maus looked up from his patient. Where was Lumpy? Where was every one? It was getting darker; he looked back to Cuckoorex’ leg where he was applying pressure. There was too much blood.

Why wouldn’t the bleeding stop?

Lumpy -or whoever he was- tried to reorientate himself. He had the peculiar feeling that while standing up with his eyes open he had dreamed two dreams at the same time: one felt oddly false, like something outside of him had tried to impose it’s vision on him. The other, seemed less like a dream and more like a memory. It had reminded him of his core self; whatever his name was or wherever he found himself, he was sure of one thing: that certain evil sons of bitches needed shooting. Speaking of which… he suddenly was aware that monsters were within a hair of killing them. He fired upon one but was not as lucky as previously; it took six precious shots before it went down.

The bleeding was worse now.

There was a roar, and something kicked Maus’ arm. It hurt like hell. And the blood. There was too much blood for a simple laceration. Why was it all over him?

Five more roars. Maus’ legs and gut exploded in pain. He fell back facing the gurney. His vision cleared. He could see the others, but they all were looking in different directions, like they couldn’t see each other at all. Except Lumpy, who was pointing something at him.

Maus tried to get up, but his legs wouldn’t work at all. He looked at the gurney. Cuckoorex was sitting up and smiling at him. There were… things on either side of him.

They leaped at Maus.

For the last time, Maus really wanted a cigarette.

“Oh, shit,” Bananapants whispered before looking up at Elfkin. Maus’ blood dotted the boy’s pajama pants. “You’ve got to do something for him!”

She looked at the horrible wounds Maus had suffered along his legs, one arm, and belly before promptly bursting into tears.

“Doc?” the teenager asked uncertainly. “Are you okay?”

“No!” Elfkin yelled back. “I’m a coroner! I’m not supposed to be touching living patients, nevermind having to cope with fixing injuries like this! I just knew something like this was going to happen when I gave into my parents’ pressure to go to med school. I just knew it. Alll I wanted to do was go to the cafeteria to spy on the cute doctor from peds and get some pudding, but I’m here, and I don’t know what to do!”

“Jesus christ,” Aruvqan snapped. “What you have to do is get your shit together now. None of us planned for this to happen, do you think you’re the only who feels out of their element?”

“No,” she said meekly.

“Owww,” Maus groaned. “It’s bad, right? It feels bad.”

“You’re going to be fine,” Bananapants said entirely too cheerfully.

“Uh huh. Who’s got a cigarette?” the injured doctor asked.

Aruvqan pulls out a crumpled pack of Marlboros from her backpack and tosses it over.

“Normally I would point out that smoking can kill you, but somehow I don’t think it matters right now.” Aruvqan sighed, “I hope the kid I confiscated these off left the place before this shit started up.”

Like a jarring off-key note in the middle of a symphony, ExTank thought, Nazi Orcs?

Someone was pulling a mind-job.

Getting out of a mind-job was easy. Well, not easy, as such, but not too terribly difficult. The first thing that needed to be done, and this was the hardest part, was to realize that you were in a mind-job. After that, you just had to concentrate on something, like singing the words to your favorite song, or doing math in your head.

ExTank closed his eyes and thought back to one of the most amazing, life-changing things he’d ever been told.

*Most people didn’t realize that most of the beings humanity has called God or The Gods throughtout our history are real. The Organization calls them Eternals, because, well, that’s what they are. When this iteration of the universe collapses back into a singularity untold billions of years from now, and undergoes another Great Space Kablooey to form an entirely new universe, the Eternals will be there, and watching.

Most Eternals ignore us Lesser Forms, but every now and again, we manage to catch the attention of one of them, who sees something in us. Maybe they’ll give us a genetic “nudge” toward sapience, maybe they’ll try to give us some guidance, like, “Do Not Kill, Do Not Steal, etc., etc.,” and so on. The Organization is fairly sure both have happened to humanity.

The problem is that the Eternals live in essentially “God Time,” in which ten thousand Earth-years is less than eye blink, and so direct communications between Eternals and Lesser Forms is problematic at best, and the message is often garbled by our own preconceptions and cultural baggage. Which accounts for the usually bizarre and often contradictory nature of humanity’s various organized religions.

The communications problem is solved by Avatars, in which an Eternal basically imbues a chunk of himself (herself? itself?) into a Lesser Form and sends it forth amongst us Lesser Forms to deliver an important message (at least it’s important from the point-of-view of the Eternal in question).

There are over a billion people on Earth who would have a screaming shit-hemorrhage if they ever found out Jesus of Nazareth is alive and well, and is the assistant manager of a Kinko’s in Tempe, Arizona, under the alias of Jesus Navare. He doesn’t remember much of his time “back then,” unless you press him on the issue, which is officially discouraged as it may cause Bad Things To Happen. For the most part, he just comes across as a kind of pleasant, hippy-dippy stoner.

The Organization is content to let him remain that way, but keeps him under close surveillance at all times.

The problem humanity is currently contending with is what some call a “War of the Gods.” One small faction of Eternals doesn’t care for us Lesser Forms that have been “meddled with;” they see it as a form of cheating, of cutting to the head of the line over those Lesser Forms who have, or will, evolved naturally. The Organization calls them Malefactors, and contrary to popular opinion, or the implications of their given title by The Organization, they don’t actually hate us.

They just look at us the same way a home owner looks at a termite infestation.*

And just like that, ExTank was standing back in the lobby of the hospital.

Standing still, he slowly scanned the lobby, noting several people who were still off in la-la land in their own private Idahos. The real beauty of a mind-job is that the victims supply most of the illusion themselves, once the dream-state is induced.

What he was looking for couldn’t be seen, or heard, smelled, touched, or tasted. It was sensed, though, in a manner unlike finding the sun by closing your eyes and feeling its heat on your face, but that’s about the closest ExTank had ever been able to come to explaining it. And since there were several people being mind-jobbed right here in the lobby, his target had to be close, very, very close…

Slowly and carefully loosening the tactical sling on the shotgun, and panning his head slowly back-and-forth, as though scanning a distant horizon, ExTank sought The Emmisary, the earthly Avatar (or its Possession) of whichever Malefactor was gunning for humanity this time around…

He’Tgraava was pleased; even though there was another Elder involved, things wouldn’t change much. Only a few rituals were left to complete, and at this point he didn’t even need Cuckoorex…

Cuck snapped to full attention; “What…where…? Holy SHIT!” he screamed. He had vital information, and he had to get it to the right people, right NOW.

He’Tgraava, on the other hand, had other plans. He recognized (at the last minute) the threat of the other immortal who was present and had started to implement counters to him/her/it. The most immediate was simple but entirely confusing; a total and immediate switch in gender identity. He’Tgraava was feeling especially mean tonight; he decided to make ExTank into a pregnant Jehovah’s Witness. Let them figure THAT out.

Martin wandered about outside the hospital, waiting for Lauren to show up. She finally arrived just in time for two Seekers to tear them both into Tender Vittles. Inside the hospital, Cuckoorex felt a surge of hope.

“No, this is all just wrong,” thought Dick Bresnick. “My editor will tear this to shreds.” He looked down on the pages he had written; it had started off with some level of focus and intent, and now he was inserting characters at random and constantly employing various deus ex machinas? What was going on? He couldn’t even decide if ExTank or Oakminster or Elfkin or anyone else was the main protag…and this business of the “Elder Gods?” He was sure that somewhere, H.P. Lovecraft and R.E Howard were doing cartwheels in their graves. “I need to focus, dammit…it’s like there’s more than a half dozen different voices writing this story.”

Dick started a new Word document just as he heard someone pound on his door, someone with an extreme sense of urgency…

I am completely unable to post until it is decided whether or not Lumpy the security guard became Cuckoorex’s mind controlled slave and shot Maus Magill.

Yes, Lumpy shot first.