Took some time off from this story for other purposes (which only HR21 knows, and will not reveal). I will continue this story, though. It may take time, but I will eventually finish the story. Here, we move deeper into Freddy's plan and come to where we ended The Burning Of The Prowler (so go read that).

Dumbass potheads; thinking it was three days before it was Valentine's Day when it was still December. Of course, trying to start a Valentine's Day party was a big no-no for him no matter when it was being arranged. Six people had died twenty five years ago because of that commercialized asinine "holiday." Five years ago, nine more needed to be put in their place; to teach the town of Valentine Bluffs some goddamn respect for those who had perished because of February 14th.

The Miner rubbed his foggy square goggles and stared down into the water. He got to work cleaning his pickaxe. He would need to set aside some time to sharpen it; a good deal of use had really dulled his beloved while down in the mines. Some ugly burnt man had gotten smart, thinking that he could start a fight in his mines and expect to just get away with it. His pickaxe was there to remind the man that even if you were crippled-whether it be through physical tasks, the mind, or your face-you had no business being in his mines.

Except for that man in the military fatigues. Bastard had ripped The Miners pickaxe out as if though it was his and had stolen his killing blow. And yet, he had let the man live. The Miner didn't know why; the only reason that came to mind was that they shared a common enemy (the burnt man). Once he saw the soldier-esque person throw the burnt corpse into the rushing water, he knew that it was time to go. For both of them.

Strapping his pickaxe to his back, he took of his mask and placed his face under the water for ten seconds. No breathing, just letting himself drift through the fresh pond water. Was this what it was like for his victims? When people died? Did they float through a void, no sensation as they left the bindings of a mortal existence?

Peace. Eternity.

He slowly pulled his head out of the pond and placed his helmet back on. Through his goggles, the world was still hazy, small-scale. A nice filter for looking at what he did.

To the far left of the mines, deep in the low-hanging mountains of the forest, there was a lodging area. It was still intact even after years of having been abandoned like the rest of the mines. It took an hour to get there, but it was worth it; the muscles in his feet were burning, clenching and seething, ready to harden and paralyze him.

Once he arrived there, he slowly pushed the door open. With how old it was, an annoying creak echoed through the room. The Miner slowly removed his mask, pickaxe and boots. He kept the knife and nail gun on him; a necessary measure when it came tot eh area, and people like him.

"No! Please, Harry...I, I-we found nothing wrong with the methane levels right before we left! We-!"

The man in the mining gear seemed deaf. He stood above the supervisor, his pickaxe raised. His breath was slow and steady, and as heavy as a boulder. The pickaxe came down...

...and the supervisor caught it.

Underneath the bed, his son's look of terror changed from one of surprise to one of sheer joy in a matter of seconds. His father grabbed the pickaxe as it was about to hit him and pulled the man down onto him. Opening his mouth, the supervisor sank his teeth into the man's shoulder. A muffled, barely human scream came from the man. He was thrown off by the supervisor, who stood up and stomped on the man's stomach several times before picking up his pickaxe.

"Come on, you can do it dad! Kill him! Stop him, dad, beat him down! Kill him now!" his son shouted triumphantly as he left his hiding spot. His father turned to him with a smile on his face-a genuine smile. One that said he was happy to still be alive to be with his son. One that said that he wasn't going to take any of this lying down.

The supervisor raised the pickaxe...

...only for the man to catch it. But it wasn't him at all anymore. It was a twisted mockery of a human being, its flesh cooked and incinerated so the muscle was brown and seemed to have been pulled. On his head was a dusty fedora, and on his upper body was a hideous red-and-green striped sweater. And then he noticed the four-clawed glove on his right hand.

No.

The man caught the pickaxe, stood up, and laughed triumphantly. With a singe slash, he tore through the supervisor's face and then backhanded him with the same gloved hand. Once his body hit the floor, the man looked into the boy's eyes and giggled; no person should have giggled with that borderline demonic voice.

"Even in your dreams, dad is dead!" he shouted before laughing again. What was he laughing at?! This wasn't funny! His father was dead! And he had killed him! He had torn away victory and destroyed it when it was so close, when retaliation was bearing the fruits of its labor...

The boy charged at the man with a cry of anguish. The man just sneered and kicked him down. He leaned over the sobbing boy, whose mouth was becoming filled with blood.

"Come on, get your ass up!" he barked. Any pretenses of happiness and affability had been dropped. He dragged his razors along the boy's throat.

"Stand up, you goddamn brat! If you want to still breathe and speak, I suggest you do as I say and GET UP!"

The boy grabbed the floor and slowly, achingly, pushed himself up onto his feet. With his eyes full of hatred and loss, he stared at the man. He presented the pickaxe to him.

"Take it, you moron!"

The boy grabbed the mining tool and clenched the handle. The man let go and stepped back. His grim came back to life, more wicked and crude than before, and he let loose another inhuman laugh.

He was taller now; heavier, thanks to the equipment on him. His breathing was much heavier and raspier. The boy was no longer a boy, but society wouldn't call him a man either. He was what they feared, hated and sneered at. He was The Miner.

"Look at you, trying to dream of being normal! As if though this somehow wasn't your real skin! Your real breath" the man mocked. "You and me, we're the same thing. The exact same blood runs through our veins. Don't deny what you are!"

The Miner glared at him through the goggles. Who was this man to say that they were alike? He knew who this man was, and he had learned what he had done. Compared to that, The Miner's own murders were like petty vandalism.

"Oh come on, what are you just standing there and staring at me for? You know who I am, right?" the man asked out of annoyance. The Miner nodded.

"Damn right you do" he laughed for the hundredth time. The Miner's nerves were getting fed up with that brutish noise.

"And to think that a fucking normie like McVeigh was considered the deadliest criminal in the history of Okie City. But that's how history is made. You have to surpass others to reach your goals; to set records. And me? Why, I now have the highest body count amongst all domestic terror-"

The Miner had had enough of his disgusting bragging and punched him in the jaw. The man's fedora flew off as his head twisted to the side and he loudly fell. But this was the dream world. The man immediately got back up and slammed him to the wall without even laying a finger on him.

"Now, you listen to me, you trunk-faced piece of emotional shit!" the man snarled, slowly inching closer to The Miner, his razor claws menacingly outstretched. Although The Miner was able to move and struggle, it was utterly useless; this was the man's world, and if he wanted him to be bound to the wall itself, then he could do it.

"I have a job for you down in America" he continued. "You Canadians probably know who Jason Voorhees is. Big, retarded manchild down at Crystal Lake. Wears a hockey mask. And do you know what I want? I want him killed. By you. You are going to rip that son of a bitch's head clean off his shoulders, and you will present it before me."

"Now, you're probably thinking, "Well what's in it for me?" Because I know how selfish people like you are. Always trying to fix mistakes. But if you kill Jason Voorhees, you will be able to fix one big mistake. Kill him, and you get the power to bring your old man back to life. And I'll make sure it doesn't stop there. If you want it, I'll give both of you the ability to destroy the holiday of Valentine's. Crush it. Annihilate it. Any man, woman, or child that tries to celebrate the damned day will suffer a..."broken heart.""

The man laughed again.

"So now I'm gonna ask you-what do you say?"

The Miner was released and fell to the floor. His body trembling and aching, he looked up and stared at the man. He didn't like him one bit, and he certainly wasn't going to be anyone's pawn. But if he could control the whole world of dreams, then what stopped him from sharing such power?

He hated himself for doing it for this animal...but slowly, surely, The Miner nodded his head.

"Terrific!" the man shouted as he clapped his hands together. "Simply terrific! You know where to go-Camp Crystal Lake, down in New Jersey. It'll be a long way down there, but the reward will greatly exceed the cost. Consider it this way-when you kill Voorhees, you take his power. With your father at your side, you will be a god among men. The whole Earth will realize this, and they'll have no other option but to prostrate themselves before you. But alas, I must go now. Come back when you have a hockey mask in tow!"

And with that, The Mine woke up. He looked down at his mask.

It was time to show up for work again.

00000000000000000

Even a desolate camp could look beautiful with its unmolested foliage and the sun beaming down. Even something that had been long abandoned could retain a certain magnificence; it was the exodus of humanity that inspired art. Nature's reclamation could surpass even the greatest monuments and skyscrapers at it's finest.

For Cropsy, facing Jason Voorhees at an abandoned campground wasn't really that beautiful. It was more along the lines of pants-shittingly terrifying. Here he was, some burnt nobody against a man with a body count in excess of one hundred fifty. And more than a foot taller than him, to boot. He had hedge trimmers, Voorhees had not just a machete, but anything he could get his bare hands on. And the bare hands, too.

And Voorhees was undead.

With surprising speed and unsurprising ferocity, Jason Voorhees charged right at him. Cropsy could only pray that the trimmers were able to penetrate a hockey mask.

Short? Why yes it is. Still, at least I've managed to publish this on Halloween. Hopefully, none of you have been gutted, beheaded, skinned, bludgeoned, immolated, or neck-snapped by a hulking lunatic in a William Shatner mask. If you have, then the mask better be white. If it's a regular William Shatner mask...then that dude's doing it wrong.