You know… I never wanted any of this. The fame. The glitz. The glamour. The massive armory in my garage. I was content to keep living my life out in that hole-in-the-wall rental store, handing out old copies ofField of Dreamsto 40-somethings who had a free afternoon and a case of beer to drink. I was content to keep attending that dead end community college, get an associate's in liberal arts, or whatever the hell I thought I was getting out of that. I just wanted to coast. Live life day by day, with no regard for anyone else besides myself and those close to me.
Perhaps I'm getting ahead of myself. I started to ramble about how my life sucks, completely without being asked to (although my life does not suck – it just turned out differently than I hoped). Hopefully you have no idea who I am, although you probably do, due to the aforementioned fame. It would be easier if you didn't know who I was, because then you could hear my story before you pass judgment on what type of person I am. Just know I never asked for this, and I dealt with it as best I could.
It started innocently enough. With a debate.
Over horror movies.
"Hey, fuck you, buddy."
The tallish man stood before me, clad in ripped jeans, a red flannel overshirt, and gray undershirt printed with what looked like the words "I don't care about apathy." He looked more or less like a sad attempt at a Kurt Cobain impersonator, minus all the angst.
"No need for profanity, bro. Just making a point." The words oozed out of his face as if he didn't actually say them, but drooled them, like speech made of saliva.
"Yeah. Your point being that horror movies shouldn't count as a genre of cinema," I responded. "Which is false, and quite ignorant."
The man's face began to show what I thought to be offense, but he couldn't generate enough facial articulation to emote.
"Ignorant? I'll tell you what's ignorant: your closed-minded appreciation for simple spooks and frights. I could get the same effect by going to Wal-Mart and spectating the make-up aisle."
A smug, triumphant look washed over my face. "Well, I suggest you go do that, and prepare yourself for the refreshing taste of mace. It's convenient you're going there to get a movie anyways, because you won't get one here. Get out."
"But –"
"Out. Now. Or I'll demonstrate whyHellraiserdoes indeed make for great cinema. Starting with your face."
The guy raised his hands in surrender and turned to leave. "Hey, man. Don't harsh my mellow. You're way too tense." He gently pushed the front door open, and it closed again with a jingle from the bell attached to the top of the door.
I exhaled deeply, plopped back down on my stool, and returned a badly burned copy ofHalf Bakedto its rental case. The data side still looked intact and flat, so I figured it was still safe to rent. It's not like anyone in this backwater town would care anyways. The demographic that the movie appealed to consisted of about seven people, living out of the back of an old bus, with a mermaid riding a unicorn painted across one side of it.
Pulling out my phone, I clicked the screen on to see that I had one text message, and one missed call. The call ended up being from my mom, asking if I'd stop to get cigarettes and milk on the way home from work. The text message was a different story.
The text was from a number I didn't recognize, and simply had the words "the first" at the top of the screen, followed by an attached image of what appeared to be bees, but the image was grainy, so I wasn't completely sure. It was definitely a swarm of something. I saved the message to my phone and put it away.
I went over to the computer, taking the burnt DVD with me, so I could return it back to the system to rent again (as if anybody else would want it). I scanned the DVD, and the name came up Falcon Ortega. Hippie name if I ever heard one, but who was I to judge? The information on the computer showed he still had another movie out,Pineapple Express, and I slapped my forehead. Now I had to call this guy and remind him he still had another rental out.
Picking up the crappy beige multi-line phone at the end of the counter, I punched in Ortega's home number. The phone rang a few times, and then went to voicemail.
"Hey, you reached the Ortega's: Falcon, Sunshine, Paisley, Spirit, and Arthur! Please leave a message, and have an enlightened day!" Then came a monotone beep. I stated, "Hello, this is One Stop Movies. We noticed you still have a copy ofPineapple Express, which was due back on the 18th. Please keep in mind that a 99-cent fee is applied for each day after the due date. Hope to see you soon. Thank you."
I hung up the phone, took a deep breath, and heaved myself off the stool. Looking at the clock, I noticed it was a few minutes till 3:00. Break time. Since I had no supervisor, I decided I could take an early break. I flipped the sign on the front door to "Return in 30 mins" and exited out the back.
Out behind the store, there was a collection of random things cobbled together to make a break room/smoking area: A few crates, an overturned trashcan with an old tape-deck boom box resting on top, and a massive wire spool, tipped on its side to serve as a makeshift table. A Styrofoam cup sat on top of the spool to collect all of the ash and cigarette butts, but as the ground was littered with them, it appears as if no one ever used it. A few wooden transport pallets had been dragged over from the concrete plant stationed behind the store, and stood end-to-end to make a sort of fence, completing the bounds of the break area.
I brushed a few cigarette butts from the top of the table nearest my crate and sat, pulling a magazine out of my back pocket. Before I could even open the cover, I heard some sort of clatter occur around the corner from my store, near the next store down, a Chinese food place. Curious, I returned the magazine to my back pocket and headed over there to investigate. I figured it must be the cooks throwing out the trash, but I was bored as hell, so if anything, I might just attempt a conversation.
But when I got there, I saw no one, and almost nothing, save a dumpster and one bag of trash on the ground.
"Hello? Anyone there?" I cried. Waiting a moment, I got no reply, so I shrugged and turned to leave. No sooner had I turned than I heard this horrible screeching sound, like someone was ripping steel apart. I wheeled around, and was dumbstruck.
A large man now stood next to the dumpster. The guy had to be over six feet tall, maybe 280 pounds. He was black, wearing a long trenchcoat and black boots and that was where normal looks stopped. His left hand was gone, replaced by the most wicked hook I had ever seen in my life, and that hook was buried in the side of the dumpster, resting in a massive gouge that I swear wasn't there when I looked there before.
During the process of picking my jaw up off the ground, something slowly began to dawn on me. I recognized this guy. No, I'd never met him before, but I definitely had seen him on TV. Using that hook to slaughter people.
It was Candyman.
I managed to regain control of my body from the paralyzing fear that gripped me, and began to inch back away from Candyman, but I never turned away. I couldn't. I was afraid if I did, I would lose sight of him, and that would be the end of me. What a way to go, too. Hook through the chest, dumped in a back alley. Not how I had pictured it, on the few occasions I attempted to.
"You… you're Candyman."
"Yes."
"But how… why… what are you doing here?"
"I must talk to you, not that I want to."
"Wait. I didn't say your name five times. You shouldn't be here. What gives?"
He looked over at the dumpster and tugged on his hook, pulling it free of the gouge, and taking a decent piece of metal out of the side of the dumpster in the process. Inspecting the hook for any damage, and finding none, he looked back at me.
"Like I said. I do not want to be here. But it is necessary. You are important."
"What? Important? To whom?"
For the first time, a smile crept across his face, which sent chills down my back, like a thousand spiders covered in ice. However, his words, ominous as they were, gave me some relief. I wasn't going to die in the next thirty seconds. I allowed myself to relax, and the fight-or-flight compulsion faded, but my adrenaline and attention remained at a maximum. Iwasdealing with Candyman here.
"You will find out. In time."
Candyman took a step towards me, and I responded with a step the same distance backwards. He looked me up and down, as if to inspect me, then rolled his eyes.
"I do not see how you could possibly be capable of the tasks ahead, or why you were chosen for them in the first place."
My mind raced, trying to make sense of his cryptic speech. Tasks? Chosen? I didn't want any part of this, whatever he was talking about. It's the Candyman, for crying out loud! Anything involving a horror movie villain was bad news, no matter how you sliced it (no pun intended).
"Then don't make me do it! Just go away, and forget about it!"
"It is not that simple. You, nor I, have any choice in the matter."
I sighed heavily, and shook my head in frustration. What could I possibly be needed for, not only by Candyman, but someone else who was handing orders down to him? Since when did Candyman answer to anybody? Then I thought, "Who is bad-ass enough to boss Candyman around?" and got really, really scared.
He then began to pace to the right of me, like he was beginning to circle me. He put his hook behind his back, and grabbed it with his other hand.
"You are familiar with the man who just left, yes? Falcon Ortega? Well, that man has something that is very important to somebody. And you will retrieve it. Understand?"
"No."
"What do you not understand?"
"Oh, I understand. I just refuse to do it."
He stopped, turned on a dime, and said, "Yes. You will." I looked up at him, wondering where this flare of defiance in me came from, and decided to ride its wave.
"Make me."
Candyman then leaned in towards me very close, and for the first time, I smelled a strong whiff of honey on the guy. He opened his mouth, and suddenly a dull drone of buzzing hit me in the face, startling me. Then, to my horror, a trickle of bees began to crawl out of his mouth, across his face, and fly closely around him in a tight swarm.
"If I must repeat myself, then no, you will not have to do it. But you will also be dead. So weigh your options."
I backed away from Candyman and his insta-swarm of what have to be very pissed off bees, and regained my composure.
"Fine. I'll do it."
The chilling grin crept back across his face, and he stepped back from me a few paces. The swarm of bees got thicker and angrier, until it engulfed Candyman completely, and after a moment, the bees began to disperse. Candyman was gone. But I heard one last echo of his gravelly voice.
"I knew you would."