DISCLAIMER: I do not in any way own any part of the movies House of 1000 Corpses or The Devil's Rejects. I do not own most of these characters. They are the property of Rob Zombie, Liongate films, and whoever else holds a commercial or property license over them. This is fan fiction, intended for the sole purpose of entertainment. No one has been paid to write or host this story. No one is paid or will have to pay to read it.
This story contains excessive swearing and other mature themes.
Paving The Road
Chapter
One
Death
Ain't Pretty.
There were very few things Otis B. Driftwood was afraid of. Death was not one of them. Death was all around him, all his life, and most of it caused by his hands. Or the hands of some member of his family. Death wasn't scary. Death was actually one of the more interesting things around in this whole stupid world.
Being dead didn't matter any more than being born. After all, the moment you were born you started on the road to dying. For some it was a long road, for others, particularly anyone who crossed his path, a short one. But in the end, wasn't life just a way station on your way to becoming worm food?
What matter in his eyes was how you died. Did God Almighty whack you with the Cancer stick and send you down, choking on your own blood, disgusting everyone around you, as you slowly withered away in some hospital room? Did you live to be 90, then jump into the sack with some 15 year old professional dick sucker and pop the ticker giving her the business? Slip away quietly in the night, of old age? Did you die begging for mercy, like anyone really gave a shit about your miserable life in the first place? Or, did you go down with a fight?
Nope, Otis didn't really care that he was dying, only that he was putting up the good fight. No old age or disease for Otis, no sirree. No giving up and begging quietly for the right to live, either. No "I'm sorry officer, I'll keep my hands where you can see them, and lie on the floor like a good little dog while you tie me up." No asking for mercy from a jury of fucking peers. (As if he could really have any peers. As far as Otis knew, it was damed unlikely there were a group of twelve necrophiliac serial killers running around waiting to do their civic duty.) No death by lethal injection either, that was a pretty pussy way to die too. Otis was going out in a blaze of glory. With his sister, someone he always had a feeling he'd die around. And Spaulding, who was a jackass for the most part, but not a bad person to die with push come to shove. Both of them knew the score and were just as willing as he was to keep fighting until the bitter end.
The final roadblock in life and for the remainder of the Firefly gang literally was a roadblock. Otis would have almost found this last bit of black irony amusing, had he more time to think about it. Eh, that's the way it was. Time to do or die as the saying went. Or, in their case, do and die.
It was funny, how much pain you could block out when you were determined to do something. And how far you could keep going when you really wanted to make your point. Pedal to the metal, guns blazing, Otis almost made it up to the row of state troopers alive, almost got the chance to watch himself bang some of them down like human bowling pins, as well as plug them with gun holes Sadly, he proved to be a bit too mortal. He was dead before they hit the barricade
He would have been pleased to know that even though he was dead, the car kept rolling and managed to take out three officers, wound two others, and destroy two police cruisers. Yup, that was a mess the taxpayers of would be paying off for years to come.
To Baby, the most surprising thing about this whole situation was how unsurprised she was. They had been really lucky so far, getting away from situations where they should have died, it would be too easy to start to think she, her father and her half brother were immortal. But, the moment she woke up and saw that road block ahead, she knew, like they all did, this was the end of the line. She wasn't surprised and she wasn't even upset. After all the running, after being the victim of Wydell's crazy little games last night, she was just too tired to keep going. At least in death, you could get some damned rest, right?
Her mother was dead, RJ was dead, and Tiny was dead. Her dad and Otis would soon be dead as well. What was there to live for anyway? Might as well stop worrying about staying alive and instead look forward to the big old family reunion that would soon be taking place in Hell.
Still, that didn't mean she would go down easily. She was a fighter like the rest of her family. Death was aiming for them, death was in the barrel of every gun the troopers in front her had aimed in their direction. Death was unavoidable, but she would be dipped in pig shit if she was just going to die without taking some of those assholes with her.
Even though every inch she moved felt like she was tearing herself apart, she forced herself to rise up in the old convertible. Even though her arms felt like someone had wrenched them out of their sockets, she steadied her gun as best she could and started shooting.
As the spray of bullets began finding their way into her body, she was surprised to find they didn't hurt nearly as bad as they should have. The shot in her leg from Wydell had felt much worse than this, that had been white heat, sering into her, almost blinding her with the pain. This barrage of bullets felt no more annoying than the sting of a few horseflies.
Mama, don't you worry, she thought as she continued to fire. Your little angel will be with you real soon.
According to all of the movies and the one book Spaulding had read, when you were about to die, your life was supposed to flash before your eyes. Every single event, from birth to this very moment was supposed to rush past you, lightning quick, so you could review the whole thing. Why this was supposed to happen, he didn't know, but he'd heard it, been told it, so many times that he seriously believed.
Since it was inevitable now that he was going to die, he almost looked forward to the rerun of his life. Yeah, lately life had been a total bitch, but all things considering, life had been pretty fucking sweet to him, seeing it all over again would be a nice reward for having survived as long as he had. Sadly, the whole "Life before your eyes" thing turned out to be total bullshit. His entire life didn't flash before his eyes, damn it, only one incident decided to replay itself. An incident from less than a week ago, and not exactly one of the highlights of his life.
He'd been hurrying to get to his daughter and Otis. (Figures, Otis, that candy ass motherfucker had to be one of the ones who survived. If he could have chosen, it would have been Rufus. Strong guy, not overly chatty and not trying all the time to play god damned leader of the motherfucking pack.) Because fate always had to stick her nose into everything, the day everything had to up and go to hell on them, would have to be the day he was going to gas up the truck when he got to his station.
In the panic of running away, he'd forgotten about the nearly empty gas tank until the truck had sputtered and started dying. Luck though, seemed to be with him, because he was near enough to a convenient store where a woman and a young boy were getting into their car.
He'd tried real nice to get the woman to give him the car, told her all good and friendly that he needed it, yet also made sure to temper his voice with enough seriousness that she'd understand if she didn't give him the car, he would have to get pissed and do the Seriously-Fuck-You-Up dance on her. Sad for him, this woman was about as sharp as a marshmallow, because she thought he was joking. A little bit of persuasion, in the form of a good strong smack upside the head changed her mind pretty quick as she found herself taking an instant, unplanned dust nap.
Caught up in the delicate negotiations of getting the car from the dumb bitch, Cutter had clean forgot about the kid, till he climbed into the car and saw the little crotch rat sitting shotgun, terror written all over his disgustingly cute little mug. He figured it was terror that kept the kid glued to the seat, or else the kid was as gray mater gifted as his mom had been. Cutter hoped it was terror. The world really didn't need more stupid people.
He hadn't wanted to kill the kid. Killing adults never bothered him, he rather enjoyed it, but killing kids was another matter. Kids just died too easily, it was much better to wait until they were old enough to be a challenge. But, he wanted to get the kid out of the car.
Since his mother had been such a drag, Spaulding felt it was his right to have a little fun with the little ankle biter
"Whatsa matter kid?" he'd hollered. "Don't you like clowns?" When the brat had shook his head, indicating that clowns were far from his favorite thing, Spaulding really let the abuse fly. "Aww, don't we make you laugh? Aren't we fuckin' funny?"
He ended up telling the kid that someday he would return and if the kid couldn't give him a good reason for not liking clowns, he (Spaulding) would kill him and his whole family. The kid had gone flying from the car, scared for his life. Yet, much to Spaulding's amusement, he noticed that he remembered to shut the door. Kid's mother was so stupid she'd argue with a killer clown over taking her car, yet she managed to drill into the kid's head that when he left the car, no matter what was going on, he'd better close the door behind him.
As Spaulding speed off, he figured that kid would never find clowns funny again. But now, as the bullets were flying, and he was dying, he wondered what the kid would do if he saw this?
As if God was answering some weird prayer, suddenly the kid really was there, standing in the middle of the road, less than 100 feet from the car. Same blond hair, same stupid blue shirt. He was holding something in his hands, that looked to Spaulding like one of those brightly colored plastic squirt guns. "You were right, Captain Spaulding!" the kid yelled, his voice carrying over the the rest of the noise. "Clowns are funny and right now, you're a fucking riot." As he yelled out his retraction and appreciation for Spaulding's latest entertainment abilities, he started firing off the squirt gun, shooting Spaulding with stream after stream of warm water.
Then, the road seemed to shimmer, as roads can do on hot summer days, when the sun bakes the tar. As it waved and rippled, the squirt gun begin changing from snot green colored plastic to dark green, then finally to gray metal. The kid himself began to change too, getting taller, his clothes turning from blue jeans and blue shirt, to brown pants and shirt. His hair went from blond to black and his eyes began disappearing behind orange lensed sunglasses.
The only thing that didn't seem to change was what the gun was shooting. Spaulding could still feel streams of warm, well, almost hot water, rolling running over him, down his face, down his chest, everywhere. Puzzled, he looked down at himself. That was when he realized that the gun was shooting bullets. The streams of warm water were really blood.
Jesus, Mary, and Motherfucking Joseph, this death stuff rots motherfucking ass.
