In 2017, I wrote a story called The Texas Chainsaw Loud House that pitted the Louds against horror movie villain Leatherface and his cannibal family. In short, it stank and I deleted it. The Texas Chainsaw Massacre is one of my favorite horror movies and I felt like my story was a slap in the face. I wanted to do a remake but never thought I would, then, a few weeks back, it occured to me to use the sin kids as the bad guys. I mean, they already fit the bill, being inbred and all. So...that's what I did. I used characters based on myself, AberrantScript, and our friend ValeOfDeviant as cannon fodder...err, I mean protagonists. Hope you enjoy.
The story which you are about to read is an account of the tragedy which befell a trio of twenty-somethings, in particular Abby Script and her boyfriend Flagg1991.
It is all the more tragic in that they were young. But, had they lived very, very long lives, they could not have expected nor would they have wished to see as much of the mad and macabre as they were to see that day.
For them an idyllic summer afternoon drive became a nightmare. The events of that day were to lead to the discovery of one of the most bizarre crimes in the annals of American history: The Texas Chain Saw Loud House.
They were following Route 10 through the arid eastern Texas grasslands when they met the hitcher.
It was mid August and unbearably hot, air dry like sandpaper and the dusty blue sky blazing with the harsh light of a Southwestern sun. The land sloped away from the two lane blacktop, thirsty brown and unbroken save for wire fences, farms, and the occasional clapboard structure withering in the heat. Flagg, a tall man with a strong jaw and a fifties style hairdo, drove with his right hand, his bare left arm bent on the doorframe. Despite the wind blowing through the open window, his white T-shirt was soaked with sweat and the crotch of his jeans too. A cigarette jutted from his thin lips, the cherry snuffed; he settled for restively chewing the filter between his teeth because it kept going out. Abby, a thin woman of medium height, lounged limply in the passenger seat, the cross breeze playing in her short blonde hair. Her white tank-top clung to her supple chest, and Flagg stole a sidelong glance, tracing the swell of her breast struggling to keep from getting hard. In the back, Vale, a wispy black man with soft, delicate features and a pencil line mustache that reminded Flagg of Carlton from The Fresh Prince of Bel-Air, fanned himself with a take out menu he found on the floor.
They were on their way to a video game convention in California and so lost even Jesus couldn't lead them back. Flagg had been navigating by Google Maps, but the cell service crapped out west of Arnette and though they had a road atlas, it did little good; Flagg couldn't read a map to save his life. What is this, 1990 or something? Why learn something you don't have to when you can just have an app do it for you?
"You alive back there, Vale?" Flagg asked into the rearview mirror. The black man's face glistened with sweat and his eyelids drooped like wilting flowers.
Vale sighed. "Barely."
"It's hot," Abby whined. She swiped the back of her hand across her forehead and drew a deep breath.
In addition to the cell service, the A/C was out, leaving the interior of the car as hot the inside of an oven at Auschwitz. A bead of sweat trickled into Flagg's eye and he winced. "It'll be night soon," he assured his companions. Texas nights were sultry, but far cooler than day; the last time Flagg checked his phone, it was 93 degrees. He didn't know if it was simply a hot day or if they were beginning to feel the heat of the desert; either way, he didn't like it.
Flagg changed lanes to pass an old man on a big green tractor and fiddled with the radio, looking for music but finding only static. No cellphones, no House of Hair, Jesus, Texas is a dump. He settled on a station playing a news report, then swung back into the other lane.
"Graverobbing in Texas is this hour's top news story. An informant led officers of the Muerto County Sheriff's Department to a cemetery just outside the small rural Texas community of Newt early this morning. Officers there discovered what appeared to be a grisly work of art."
Ahead, a pick-up truck turned onto the blacktop from a dusty farm road, and Flagg slowed.
"The remains of a badly decomposed body wired to a large monument. A second body was found in a ditch near the perimeter of the cemetery. Subsequent investigation has revealed at least a dozen empty crypts. And it's feared more will turn up as the probe continues. Deputies report that, in some instances, only parts of a corpse had been removed. The head, or in some cases, the extremities removed, the remainder of the corpse left intact."
Abby crinkled her nose, plucked a bottle of water from the console, and twisted off the cap. She took a drink then put it back. "That's awful," she said. Flagg simply grunted, too hot and tired to speak unless he absolutely had to. He watched her from the corner of his eye, and ahe stared down at the radio with soft sympathy, her forehead wrinkled cutely. One of the thingd Flagg loved most about Abby was her kindness. She was the type of woman who always put others before herself and was, as far as Flagg knew, the only person on the face of this earth he could trust, him included. Him especially.
It was no wonder, then, that her heart would go out to the hitchhiker.
"Oh, that poor guy," she said. Flagg looked over and spotted a man trudging through the tall grass running along the shoulder. He was about five-five with curly black hair, and wore a faded red T-shirt and tan pants. An olive green rucksack hung across his back, and as Flagg watched, he stumbled and nearly went to his knees. "We should pick him up."
"I dunno," Flagg grumbled. He wasn't keen on the idea of letting a stranger into his car. The world was a fucked place full of fucked up people, and too many times he'd seen acts of kindness lead to damnation.
In the back, Vale craned his neck to get a better look. "He's gonna asphyxiate out there," he worried. "Pull over."
Flagg pursed his lips in thought. They were right, it was far too hot to leave someone on foot, especially when the nearest town was ten miles back. "Alright," Flagg relented, "fine, call me Eddie McDowell, cuz here's my good deed for the day.". He slowed, spun the wheel, and came to a rolling stop. The hitcher, a Hispanic boy about nineteen with freckles and brown eyes, looked over, saw them, and grinned stupidly, his lips peeling back from yellow, crooked teeth.
There's a saying: You can't judge a book by its cover. Flagg disagreed, you could, and before the boy had even taken two steps, Flagg judged him to be simple. His dumb, lopsided grin, his wide, hazy gaze, and the bounce in his step betrayed him as mildly retarded.
Opening the back door, the boy inserted himself into the car, the stench of sour sweat, unwashed body, and dirty feet following him like a cloud of poison gas. Flagg crinkled his nose. "I-It sure is h-h-h-hot out there," the boy stammered. Flagg was surprised by his thick southern accent.
"Yeah it is," Flagg said and put the stick in drive. He waited for a tractor trailer to blast by, then guided the car back onto the road. "I'm Flagg, that's Abby, and that's Vale."
The boy turned to Vale, and Vale nodded politely. "M-M-My name's Bobby J-Jr. I was n-named after my uncle, n-not my pappy. He died before I was born. M-My uncle did."
"Hey, man, I'm sorry to hear that," Flagg said. He had Bobby Jr. pegged as a talker, one of those sorts who won't shut up once they get started. They went on and on and on until you either begged off or told them to can it.
Bobby Jr. slipped the bag off his lap and sat it between his feet. "I-I-It's okay, I-I-I have a big family. A real big family. And we're really close too. What did you say your n-n-name was again?"
"Flagg," Flagg repeated.
The Hispanic's tongue darted out like a pink worm and licked his chapped lips. Flagg couldn't help thinking the gesture obscene. "M-My name's B-Bobby Jr. I-I-I was named after my uncle. H-He died before I was born."
"I'm sorry to hear that," Flagg said, then mentally added again. "Where are you headed?" He watched Abby from the corner of his eye, the gentle curve of her neck begging to be kissed, and the sweat standing out on her skin to be sucked off. They'd been together nearly three years and she still excited him as much as she did in the beginning. Then, it was purely physical, but after all they'd been through, it was spiritual now as well. He loved her deeply and would do anything for her...and to her, wink wink.
"H-Home," Bobby Jr. said. "I-I live up the road apiece. M-My name's Bobby Jr. I-I was named after my uncle not my daddy."
Flagg forced a chuckle. "You don't have to shill yourself, kid," he said, "we know who you are."
Bobby Jr. ignored him. "Y'all can stay for dinner if you want. My sister makes real g-good sausage." He turned to Vale and leaned in. "D-Do you like sausage?"
Vale shrugged one shoulder. "Yeah, I like it."
"My sister makes it real good," Bobby said, and giggled. There was a mad quality to it that disturbed Flagg. "M-My sister...she's...she's real good at a lot of things." His eye twinkled and one corner of his mouth pulled higher than the other.
Abby turned and met Flagg's gaze. Last goddamn hitchhiker I ever pick up, he mouthed.
She offered a slow, lazy smile, reached out, and patted his cheek.
"..."M-My sister's real pretty," Bobby was saying, a hazy inflection in his voice. Flagg lifted an eyebrow and stole a quick look over his shoulder. Bobby Jr. leered at an awkward Vale, his uneven teeth nibbling his bottom lip. "H-Her name's L-Loli and she...she's real pretty." He giggled and ran the tip of his tongue over his teeth. "My other sister L-Lyra is real pretty too. S-S-She's a C-Christian."
Just his luck, Flagg thought, he went against his better judgement and picked up a gigantic weirdo. Lovely. No good deed goes unpunished. Eddie McDowell? More like Eddie Dumbass.
"...and then sometimes, I-I-I help her get undressed."
Wait, what?
In the rearview mirror, Vale offered a strained smile. "Oh," he said bemusedly. Bobby leaned in until their noses were almost touching, and Vale scooted uncomfortably away, pinned now against the door. Bobby Jr.'s smile took on a dark, malicious cast, and his eyes swirled with wicked delight.
"Yessir," he said, "a-and then we g-g-get in bed and t-t-t-t-touch each other."
Alright, that was it. "Hey, man," Flagg said into the mirror, "that's a little too much information."
The Hispanic ignored him. "You ever been knuckles deep inside your sister? I have, and when I fuck her, she calls my wee-wee the r-r-r-rocket. "
Abby's face wrinkled in disgust. "Ew."
"Dude, really," Flagg said sternly, "we don't wanna hear that shit."
Vale swallowed and looked at Flagg as if for help. Bobby Jr. stayed where he was for a moment, then sat back, a sullen expression on his face. He crossed his arms and glared down at his feet like an overgrown child. Vale didn't move, was probably afraid to. Flagg let up on the gas and studied the boy in the mirror, ware for signs of danger. Suddenly, Bobby Jr. perked up. He bent over, opened his bag, and rummaged around inside. "Y'all wanna see something really c-c-cool? I-I got this from the g-graveyard." He pulled something out and tossed it into Vale's lap. Vale looked down, and issued a high, girlish scream.
A rotting hand, bluish gray tatters of flesh hanging from its skeletal frame, lay on his crotch, the fingers curled against the palm like the legs of a dead spider. Abby turned in her seat, and went pale. Bobby Jr. giggled dementedly and clapped his palms together like a cymbal banging monkey. Vale held his fists to his chest and shook his head back and forth as if in denial of the macabre gift even now sliding out of his lap. Suddenly, Bobby Jr. had something in his grasp; shooting his arm out, he grabbed Vale by the wrist and slashed his arm with a straight razor. Vale let out a blood curdling wail. A hateful sneer rippled across Bobby Jr.'s features, and in that moment, he no longer looked simple.
He looked evil.
Abby screamed, and Flagg came alive. He slammed his foot on the brake, and the car came to a jolting halt; Vale hit the back of the driver's seat and Bobby Jr. hit the passenger's. The knife flew from his hand and landed in the center console, its red slicked blade pointing up at the ceiling like a cold, metallic finger. Flagg leaned over, opened the glovebox, and grabbed the .38 he kept there. He twisted around just as Bobby Jr. sat up straight and jabbed it at his head. The madman's face drained of color and his jaw fell open in a perfect O of surprise. He lifted his hands, palms facing out, and trembled. "H-H-Hey, i-i-it was just a joke. I-I-I was only playing."
"Get the fuck out of my car."
Vale whimpered, and Bobby Jr. swallowed thickly. "C-C-Come on, I-I didn't mean nothing b-by it."
Flagg cocked the hammer.
"Alright! Alright!" Bobby fumbled the door open and stumbled out, then snatched his bag from the floor. No sooner than he had it, Flagg hit the gas; the car rocketed forward, and the door slammed closed.
Bobby Jr. jumped back, then his face darkened. Throwing the bag to the ground, he ran after them, his arms waving crazily in the air. "He's following us!" Abby cried.
In the back, Vale held his bloody arm and moaned. "He cut me...that crazy bastard cut me."
Bobby Jr.'s fell rapidly behind, the waning light of the sun bathing him in crimson glow like hellfire. His mouth formed silent oaths that Flagg couldn't hear, though he managed to read motherfuckers.
When the psychopath was a blip on the horizon, Flagg eased up on the gas. His heart throbbed sickly against his ribs and he realized he was shaking with nerves. Beside him, Abby stared worriedly back at Vale. "How bad is it?" she asked.
"Not deep," Vale panted, "but it hurts."
Flagg raked his fingers through his hair and checked the rearview mirror. Bobby Jr. was miles back, but somehow he expected the psycho to there, running after them with impossible speed, his teeth bared and his knife raised.
He remembered that it landed in the console and looked at it; the dull gray blade glinted in a stray shaft of sunlight, and a shiver raced up his spine. Being very careful not to cut himself, he pinched it between his thumb and forefinger, winced at the slimy sensation of Vale's blood, and chucked it out the window.
"Here," Abby said, "let me see."
Vale held out his arm and Abby examined the wound with a perturbed frown. "Pick him up, Flagg," Flagg said wryly, "it's really hot outside, Flagg, he's gonna die, Flagg."
"Shut up," Abby snapped, annoyed. "Do we have any Band-Aids?"
"Nope," Flagg said.
"Alcohol? Peroxide? Anything? God knows what kind of germs are on that knife." She tensed when she remembered something. "I-Is that...hand still back there?"
"Yes," Vale moaned and flicked his eyes to it. It lay on the floor, palm facing up.
Abby shivered. "God, you think he really got that from a cemetery?"
"He probably killed someone," Vale said.
"Should we call the cops?"
Flagg broke, whipped out a lighter, and lit the business end of his cigarette. "I'm not calling the cops over this. He's gone and all that's gonna happen is they hold us up. Might even arrest us. Fuck that."
"Well, can we stop?" Abby asked tightly. "Vale needs alcohol and we have to get rid of...that." She nodded to the hand.
Nodding, Flagg said, "Yeah, we'll stop. Just as soon as there's somewhere to stop."
He took a drag of his cigarette and exhaled through his nose.
See what he meant? The world's crazy.
At least it was over.
Unbeknownst to him, however, the worst was yet to come.