Disclaimer: Black Lagoon and its characters © Rei Hiroe
Texas Chainsaw Massacre © New Line Cinema
Chapter 2 - Meet the Sawyers
Revy didn't want to wake up, but someone was shouting. And then the wail of a siren brought her back to heart stopping awareness.
"I swear I wasn't speeding, oh crap," Jasmin was shrieking. Her head was tilted so she could look in the mirror. She pounded the steering wheel. "Oh crap, he came out of nowhere."
Revy sat up and whipped around, the police car was right on their bumper. With the heel of her sneaker she slid the gun and magazine under the seat.
"We aren't going to outrun him in a Gremlin or a Yugo or whatever the hell you got," Revy shouted back. "Pull over, you don't have a choice. Trust me it will get worse if you don't."
Jasmin braked and brought the car to a grinding halt on the side of the road. The police car rolling to a stop close behind. Jasmin rolled down the window. "My insurance and papers are in the glove compartment. Oh god..."
"Calm down, here he comes. Be cool." Revy said trying not to let the other girl's panic overwhelm her. Already she was scanning the early morning landscape. They were in the westernmost part of Texas hill country and the area was mostly a medley of cedar and scrub oak. No other cars were visible on the long stretch of road. A few seconds and she could be lost in the woods. A hand crept to the door handle.
"Little lady," the policeman came to the driver window and bent over. He was a tall, severe faced individual with mirrored sunglasses under a tan felt hat. He wore a light grey shirt with a sheriff's badge on his chest. "Did you know your rear tail light is broken?"
"What?" Jasmin stammered, she held out the papers hesitantly..
The sheriff waved it away. "Probably should write you up, but we'll let it go. Why don't you step out of the car, Miss? I'll show you which one is broken."
"Be right back," grinned Jasmin. Revy tried to smile, but once the two had moved out of sight she exhaled. Slumping down, she closed her eyes in relief and let go of the door handle.
The gunshot immediately propelled her into reflexive motion, the car door flying open and her feet hit the ground in one move. But the second officer, or so he appeared to be, was already standing there by the side with something held in his hands.
"Surprise!" yelled Gunny Tom, and discharged the pepper spray full in Revy's face.
"Aaaagh!" Revy crumpled to her knees clawing at her eyes. Gunny Tom grabbed her by the back of the neck and pitched her forward into the gravel. He spun and drove a knee into her lower back and grabbed a flailing arm. Revy couldn't stop coughing.
"We gotcha China girl," Gunny Tom crowed whipping out a pair of handcuffs. The handcuff clicked shut around her wrist and then the other. "That should keep you. If you whores hadn't turned around and drove right past the roadhouse we would never have caught up with you. Oh, and you didn't fool me with your little hand juggling with that gun. Dumb ass bitch-hog."
"Everything under control there Gunnar?" shouted the sheriff. "This one's not going to be a problem."
Gunny Tom hauled Revy roughly up and guided the stumbling girl towards the police cruiser. Blinded and choking from the pepper spray, Revy would have fallen again if the man hadn't been holding her up.
"In you go!" With a heave he tossed the unprepared Revy in the back seat of the police car. The back seat was covered in plastic sheeting and she came up hard against the far door
'C'mon over here boy, let's get this done," shouted the sheriff. Before Revy could get herself righted, Jasmin was thrown in on top of her. The car door slammed.
"Jas, Jas? I'm sorry, it got worse," Revy gasped. Jasmin was silent, a dead weight, motionless. Revy blinked rapidly, trying to clear the pepper spray out of her eyes, but they were almost completely swollen shut. But she could hear the slow drip of Jasmin's blood on the plastic before the car engine was revved up and taken out of neutral. The sheriff was turning around and heading back east.
"I'll give ol' Gilly a call about towing that whore's car," remarked the sheriff. He turned the cruiser around and headed back up the road.
Using Jasmin as cover, Revy slid the bobby pin out of a back pocket. The metal clip had never graced Revy's hair and had no rubber ends. The cuffs had been ratcheted tight, but she had nothing better to do.
--
Gunny Tom hauled Revy out of the backseat and boxed her ears..
"Look at this Uncle Charlie!" he twisted the bobby pin out of Revy's fingers before she could conceal it. "China girl's full of tricks! Boy howdie, won't ol' Chop Top get a kick out of this, he always said them Asian girls were too smart for their own good…"
The sheriff grunted; he was pulling the limp form of Jasmin out the back. The blond haired girl slid to the ground. The front of her jacket was soaked in blood. "Tell you what son, use the plasti-cuffs if you ain't gonna dispose of that one right away."
Revy twisted and spit. "Motherfuckers, I'll kill you, I'll kill you all," she choked out. Gunny Tom laughed and kicked her in the stomach so she curled up retching in the dirt.
The sheriff had parked the car in back lot of the big shabby colonnaded house by a big metal shed, scattering the wandering chickens. Now a diminutive girl sauntered out of the garage door of the shed, the mass of shaggy black hair bouncing up and down with each step.
"Morning, cousin Fred-Fred," greeted Gunny with a whoop. "We got guests for dinner. Neither of these girls go to school with you do they?"
Both the sheriff and Gunny burst into laughter, but the girl they called Fred-Fred showed no emotion. She squatted down on her haunches and dug her fingers into Revy's matted hair. There was a surprising strength in the grip as she bent Revy's head back and examined the new arrival with a clinical dispassion.
Revy could barely focus on the powder white face that swam before her vision, the effects of the pepper spray lingering. Blinking rapidly, she struggled to stare down the sapphire blue eyes and their cool regard. But the girl seemingly lost interest and released her hold. Quickly pulling down her sleeves to cover the fresh scars neatly arrayed on her wrists, the girl turned slowly away and walked towards the back porch of the house.
"Damnit Fred-Fred, one of these days, you'll wish you had talked more," Sheriff Hoyt raised his voice in exasperation. "Well, she's home schooled anyway, haw – she schools herself! We don't want a girl as bright as her associating with the likes of you trash."
--
Footsteps padded against the aged wood of the back porch, the screen door screeching as it opened. A head of messy black hair poked into the house, dark blue eyes scanning the interior for occupants. The coast was clear. The door released another high-pitched wail before a small click was heard, the little girl who was "affectionately" called Fred-Fred calmly shutting it behind her.
Her steps were light, careful not to make the floor creak, her body slightly hunched over in caution, eyes still observing her surroundings. Tattered rugs on top of rotting wooden floors, an occasional cobweb on an odd knick knack or an antique, chipping paint and faded wallpaper peeling off of the walls, dark stains forming blobs and splatters on the worn furniture, menacing meat hooks dangling from the ceiling, several decorative ornaments made from bones, the entire house reeked of mildew and blood.
Little Fred-Fred straightened her posture, pursing her lips together as her eyes took a nonchalant tone. There was nothing out of the ordinary.
She silently tread through the house, wanting to reach the attic without attracting the unwanted attention of the family. It had become something of a habit, sneaking around the homestead. It was a self-taught skill she had acquired in all of the years she lived on the ranch, manifested from an overwhelming desire to isolate herself from her degenerate relatives.
The large staircase came into her view, indicating that she was only half-way away from her intended destination.
Suddenly, a white flash appeared out of nowhere, momentarily blinding the young girl.
"Ha ha! That'll be five bucks, Fred-Fred!" The obnoxious laughter of the offender echoed throughout the hallway as the small girl rubbed her eyes. She opened them by several centimeters, forming an annoyed glare as she looked up at the man who had caused her discomfort. The man had dark, greasy hair, a rough stubble, crooked, yellow teeth, stagnant breath, a green right eye and a white left eye; it was Uncle Alfredo. He held a camera in one hand as he shook a Polaroid picture in the other. He then held the photograph up towards the ceiling and whistled, seemingly impressed with his work.
"Well, goddamn, Fred-Fred! You look just like a ghost. How about we sell this to the newspapers and make a quick buck? People love that haunted house shit!" Fred-Fred's said nothing in return, her expression remained the same.
"Ah, them fuckers wouldn't take it anyway," Alfredo smirked as he ripped the photo in half, carelessly tossing the pieces behind him, "Nubbins is prob'ly out scrapin' roadkill off the pavement, wants some fresh materials for his artwork. And it was his turn to take photos today. Fuckin' bastard." Unaffected by Fred-Fred's angry stare, Alfredo knelt down on one knee and made eye contact, smiling lewdly as he jiggled the camera up and down.
"How 'bout you come with your ol' uncle Alfredo down to the roadhouse and take some photos? It'll be fun."
Fred-Fred's lip curled in disgust. She stormed past her lecherous uncle and swiftly ran up the stairs, stomping as she did so. Alfredo stood up, his smile widening.
"Hell, Fred-Fred! Yer not gonna get a good grade in photography class if ya don't take no pictures!" The man threw his hands up in the air and cackled madly, spinning in circles, greatly amused at his own joke.
Anger and annoyance prominently displayed on her face, her posture was rigid as she made her way towards the garret, passing by the multiple bedrooms and "storage rooms" on the second floor of the house. She resisted the urge to cringe as uncle Alfredo's laughter echoed throughout the house as he danced wildly in the living room. So much for avoiding unwanted attention.
Her agitation grew as her mind wandered with each step.
Her family frustrated her: Insane, sadistic individuals, asinine in nature and attitude, each and every one them possessing an odd quirk that grated Fred-Fred's senses. Her hippie Uncle Chop Top with his fixation on music, he was prone to Vietnam flashbacks and musing about napalm. Uncle Tech and his utter fascination with technology, he was constantly talking about the almighty "Chrome Machine God" that controlled the universe. Her hitchhiking Uncle Nubbins had an obsession with creating sculptures and the like from corpses. Uncle Drayton had an affinity for cooking, sometimes forcing little Fred-Fred to help him sell his "special chili" and "mystery meat barbecue" at the gas station. Uncle Charlie with his facade as a sheriff, he was a glorified bully. Uncle Alfredo, he was no more than a disgusting lecher with a deliberate speech impediment. The ancient "Grandpa," her great-grandfather, the horribly decrepit man who had spawned the accursed Sawyer family bloodline, he was literally a living corpse, well over one hundred years old; Fred-Fred wouldn't doubt he made a deal with the devil for eternal life. "Mama," her grandmother, wheelchair-bound and delusional, a seemingly kind old woman who greeted every "guest" with a smile, her manner of speaking was eerie, a result of the use of her electronic voice box. Just to name a few members of the family...
Then there was her cousin, Gunnar.
As the door that led to stairs leading to the attic came into her line of vision, little Fred-Fred's nails dug into the palms of her hands. "Gunny Tom" Sawyer, the relative whom she felt the most contempt and utter revulsion towards at the mere mention of his name. Having a poor level of intelligence, a rock had an impressive I.Q. compared to that of Gunny Tom. The most repulsive thing that inhabited the earth, Gunnar was a despicable creature, the epitome of depravity. A nauseating person of the body and spirit, he reeked of cheap booze and decay. The only features that outranked his revolting appearance of stringy black hair and unnaturally sharp facial attributes were the hideous contents of his soul –or whatever passed for a soul. His eyes were always tinted with a perverse glint, wretched, lurid, frightening, utterly unstable and demonic. Fred-Fred's overwhelming hatred of Gunnar was only matched by her fear of him.
Opening the door, Fred-Fred quickly shut it behind her and ran up the final flight of steps. Reaching the top of the staircase and finally standing in the garret, the small girl dashed across the room and dove into the dilapidated mattress sitting on the floor in the corner, burying her head into the pillow. She lay face-down on top of her shabby bed for several seconds, trying to relieve herself of the thoughts of her asinine family and the frustration they caused her.
Calming down, she turned over onto her back and gazed at the wooden rafters on the ceiling, now clutching the pillow to her chest. Fred-Fred's sapphire blue eyes wandered about the garret. The window was covered with a thick layer of dirt and dust, nearly blocking all of the sunlight from entering, tinting the attic a dreary gray-ish blue. Stray skulls, ribs, femurs, vertebra, bones of every kind were scattered all over the floor, several of Uncle Nubbin's "sculptures" adorning much of the area. The preserved corpse of Fred-Fred's great-grandmother rested peacefully in an old rocking chair, staring at her from across the room. The diminutive girl closed her eyes and exhaled. Yes, she felt at ease here.
The shabby garret was her home away from home, a private reprieve from her severely demented family. Often, she would retreat to the confines of the attic whenever her twisted relatives indulged in butchering their "guests," easily tuning out the blood-curdling screams and idiotic laughter below. Death and dismemberment didn't bother her in the slightest, but frankly, the moronic behavior of her family just made the entire event boring and tasteless. Fred-Fred couldn't stand monotony.
She lifted the upper half of her body, holding her legs to her chest, resting her head atop her knees in thought. Speaking of monotony, her day was turning out to be uneventful. Fred-Fred had spent the entire morning butchering chickens and she had hoped that Uncle Charlie had at least brought in something that would put an end to her boredom. Instead, she was greeted with her idiot cousin, Gunnar, and the all-too-familiar sight of unwilling victims. The moment she had stared into the Chinese girl's eyes, the urge to retreat to the attic was almost instant; she knew another routine murder was going to take place. It was nothing new to her.
Feeling a dull pang of weariness, Fred-Fred directed her attention towards the small bookcase next to her mattress. Perhaps a little bit of reading would take her mind off of the monotonous events. Her hand drifted along the spines of the books, absentmindedly browsing her personal library. Most, if not all, of the books were "gifts" from the unwilling guests that had been brought into the homestead, items Fred-Fred had harvested from discarded bags and the seats of damaged vehicles. The contents of her library varied. It was a mix of novels, biographies, guides, manuals, textbooks, pamphlets, brochures, atlases, dictionaries, an encyclopedia or two; everything ranged from astrology, divination and witchcraft to several versions of the Holy Bible, biographies on historical figures to the written works of philosophers such as Sartre, Nietzsche, Dostoevsky and others, stories of fairy tales and folklore to novels of romance and horror. Her personal favorites in the self-made library were the stories of Gothic fiction, heavily engrossed in dark details that twisted the story with a tainted, almost ethereal feeling, a fine balance of horror and sophistication. Fred-Fred was also rather fond of the detailed anatomy textbook she had acquired several weeks ago, as well.
Her pale hand floating along the articles, it came to an abrupt stop as Fred-Fred noticed a particular book. It was hardcover book with slightly dented corners, no more than 100 pages worth of information, most of it containing photographs and illustrations; it was a travel guide of sorts. Tilting her head to the side, lips slightly parted, she slowly pulled out the book and reclined on the ratty mattress, opening the guide. She browsed through it, images ranging from ancient castles and busy cities to fields of flowers and exotic rainforests.
She stopped flipping through the pages as a specific picture caught her attention. It wasn't very much to behold compared to the other images in the book, but it was a photograph that had entranced the precocious child ever since she had obtained the guide.
It was a tropical setting in a city, a single palm tree silhouetted against a couple of thin cables and small buildings in the distance, various shades of orange, yellow, and red painted across the sky as the sun set on the horizon. A pale finger lightly traced down the page, dark blue eyes becoming half-lidded and clouded, a subtle sense of longing within them.
Fred-Fred reflected on the land she inhabited. A rural area filled with an abundance of dirt and shrubs, it was literally the middle of nowhere. Ever since she could remember, she always had a desire to leave. Leave her family, leave the ranch, leave this dull and empty atmosphere... She never truly felt like she belonged there, as though there was some other place in the world calling out for her, waiting for her arrival.
The sapphire spheres suddenly displayed a mixed expression of wrath and anguish, a loud snapping noise reverberating throughout the garret as Fred-Fred angrily shut the book closed and threw it against the wall, curling her small body into a ball. What was she thinking? It'd take a damned miracle to break free. She was bound, trapped in this miserable place. She was never going to leave.
--
Flies buzzed around Jasmin. The girl lay crumpled near the side workbench, by a pile of garden tools: shovels, pitchforks and such. Revy knelt not far away, her hands restrained behind a metal post, close by an old tractor. Her eyesight had almost recovered from the effects of the pepper spray. She desperately wanted to pee, but wasn't ready to give her captors the satisfaction.
Shoving her back against the post, she twisted her elbows to the side and pulled her hands into view. The two interlocking nylon strips had been cinched tight, cutting into the wrists; she was starting to lose feeling in both hands. Unfamiliar with the plasti-cuffs, she was at a loss on how to get them removed. And the bobby pin had been taken away.
A gust blew in through the open garage door. Revy had a clear view, intentional no doubt, of the back porch. Chains jingled overhead and Revy craned her head up, shivering from the morning cold and looked up towards the ceiling at the row of rusty meat hooks hanging down. Behind, a smaller room was built into the building, the door open to show a metal table and an array of saws and knives. Revy felt a wave of sweat drench her skin. She wanted to howl. The morning sun was shining outside, but midnight was here now.
Jasmin groaned. The girl's eyes blinked. An outstretched hand curled, fingernails scratching on the concrete through the oil and dirt stains.
"Jas, Jas! Over here! I'm over here!" Revy lurched as far as she could, straining towards Jasmin. With an effort she tried not to shout. "I'm here, please look at me."
"I want my Mom," said Jasmin clearly. She didn't move.
"Jas, please, please," Revy babbled. Suddenly she was deathly afraid of the house, she didn't want to see the back porch door open. "They're going to kill us. We're so totally fucked. Please you gotta help me, get me free and I promise I'll get us out of here. I so totally promise I'll make it better."
"I think I'm gonna die," said Jasmin. Her eyes closed.
"NO! No, no, you're not dead," Revy held back on the scream welling up inside, the tears coursing down her cheeks weren't from the pepper spray. "Get up, please get up. Goddammit, get up, get up! You gotta fight."
Jasmin rose, her entire body shaking. On her hands and knees she began to crawl slowly towards Revy.
The screen door opened. Gunny Tom stepped out and then paused on the step. He turned and shouted something back into the bowels of the house.
"Oh shit!" Revy twisted frantically. "Jas, I got it, I got it! The lighter. Get the lighter in your jacket pocket. Get it out, get it out now. C'mon you can do it."
The screen door slammed shut with a bang. Gunny Tom was walking slowly towards the shed. His hair blew in the wind.
Jasmin stopped. Painfully she pulled her legs beneath so she was kneeling facing Revy. Only her sharp little nose showed through the long blond hair obscuring her face. Each labored breath left a cloud of condensation around her head in the cold air. Slowly she fumbled inside her coat, pulled out the pack of cigarettes. She dropped the cigarettes after a moment's dazed inspection and fumbled for the yellow bic lighter.
"Throw it to me please," begged Revy. With a tight constricted flick of the wrist, a motion that almost upset the stricken Jasmin, she sent the lighter spinning towards Revy.
The lighter rolled by and came up against the metal post. Revy's hand groped for and found the plastic tube.
Gunny Tom came in the garage door; a black silhouette with the rising sun behind him. He stooped and picked up a shovel leaning against the door-frame.
"Look at me Jasmin," shrieked Revy, trying to throw herself forward, the post cutting into her restrained forearms. "Look at me, just at me, don't look back."
"It's your fault," murmured Jasmin.
"You're supposed to be dead," said Gunny Tom. He swung the shovel over his head and with a twist of his hips swung the flat of the blade down. He straddled Jasmin and used the edge. "Stay dead."
