No own. FYI: The song here is from "Terror in the Aisles," A TOTALLY frito movie
about horror movies. You should seriously go see it. Right now. Go, go! But first-read
this fic.
I copied the song down from the TV, but I'm not sure about a few parts because the lyrics
were muffled by screams. That has no relevance, I just wanted to say: "I'm not sure about
a few parts because the lyrics were muffled by screams." And now: Heeeeeeeeeere's
Johnny!
----
Johnny's nails dug into the thick, steroid-swollen arms, causing blood to pool under his fingernails. The young man's struggles had been difficult to fight at first. But blood loss had made him weak, and his kicks and tugs were comparable to those of a child as Nny dragged him inside. Johnny's thoughts were disjointed and unrelated as adrenaline coursed through his body, which, despite recent efforts, continued to exist. He was giggling like a seven-year-old who had just seen a minimum-wage clown plummet into a shallow tank of water at a carnival, unaware that the clown's injuries and the resulting lawsuit would ensure that no carnival would come through his town again for years.
The man had passed out by now, and his head thunked and cracked on each stair that Nny dragged him down. "Nasty..." Nny muttered, looking at the head wound which was growing bigger. "That'll get gangrene. I HATE gangrene, don't you?" Judging by his expression, he expected an answer. When none came, he simply shrugged and continued dragging the man, allowing the thunks to hit a little harder now. Finally, he reached a room at the end of a hall, and with all his rapidly dissolving strength, hurled the man into the corner of it. Panting, he slumped down beside him. "I'm getting too old for this. I should really carry a dolly around with me." Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the man, winding long, oily chain around his body and affixing it to a pipe extending from the wall. "I wonder how old I AM?" he muttered.
/Fear is scary and murder's vile/
/I don't know what's making me smile/
Not yet willing to begin the long trek up the seemingly infinite flight of stairs, he sat, leaning against the wall. It wouldn't do to overtire himself. If he rested often enough, he'd be able to cheat sleep again for at least a few more weeks. "If I had a calendar, I'd at least be able to keep track of how many years passed." he mused. "Sometimes you can tell by the weather. When it starts snowing again, a year's usually gone by. But how do I know I'm not spending a year or more inside?" He turned to the unconscious man, who could make no reply, which was in his best interests now anyway. "Exactly! I DON'T know it! I don't know why I need to, I suppose. Still, it's the sort of thing that nags at you after a while. Makes you doubt how together you really are. What do you think?"
The man next to him continued to do little but draw flies. "Well, it bothers ME. Not always, just every now and then. But maybe if I kept track of how much time passes, I'd be able to tell when I fall asleep." He looked at the man again. "You know, you're a real good listener. It's a real shame you'll wake up soon and I'll have to torture and kill you. Oh well," he patted the man on the back reassuringly. "Maybe you'll die of blood loss. It's happened before. From what I know, it's a very easy way to go. See you later then." He stood and walked out, clicking the light off casually as he did so. In the dark, the man made a whimpering sound, and was silent.
/The world is sick, I'm used to it/
/Wouldn't you agree?/
He sat on the couch and clicked on the television. A movie was on. Like most movies, he'd seen it before. It was "Carrie," and it happened to be in the few precious seconds of the movie before the title character was humiliated and pushed over the edge. He watched as the bucket of pig's blood teetered and fell, covering the misfit telekinetic. The camera panned in and out, over and around all of the laughing teenagers. Red light flooded the screen, reflecting into the room, onto the walls, over Nny. Dripping with blood, the prom queen looked at each door as they snapped shut violently. A hose came to life, dancing like a charmed snake it spewed water onto everyone, igniting the electrical system. Writhing in thier pretty dresses, Carrie's tormentors burned.
Nny snickered, but was extremely surprised to feel a cool tear run down his face.
/No place to hide, no one to be seen/
/Safe as long as they stay in that screen/
He shuddered and clicked off the television. Wondering about your own thoughts is something you should expect when you're completely fuckin' crazy, and Nny was wondering now. Why had he brought a victim back? He hadn't done that since regaining control of himself. Unless...
His previously relaxed position contracted, his head snapped up and his sticklike body followed. What had Senior Diablo's exact words been? "Who knows when and if you'll become a flusher again?" ...But, it had only been... well, he had no idea how long it had been since he had gone through heaven and hell. It could have been a million years, or a few weeks. Damn. Could they have snared him again? Made him an unwilling container for humanity's shit? But if he was aware of it...
He paused to consider this. If he was aware of it, what then? Did he have a chance against it? Was he even looking at the right source? After all, if he had been channeling, rather than containing aggression, why would they have used him again? SOMEthing was compelling him, though. You don't spend so much time as a slave to external and internal forces without getting a feel for the influence. Was there something that wanted him killing more often, like before? And what would it do if he refused?
/If someone's got to go, you know/
/Better them than me!/
This was certainly interesting. Who would want things back to the way they were before? The Doughboys were gone... weren't they? He was sure... but if they hadn't been destroyed, if they weren't just shredded chunks of styrofoam... maybe the wall monster had been captured and contained again. Maybe there was no monster, maybe it had just been an embodiment of the aggression he was forced to trap. Would he get an urge to break out the paintbrushes again? He waited...
...Nothing felt different. He felt as cool and uncontrolled as he had been before. Maybe he was being paranoid. It was only a minor discrepancy in his behavior. But an odd, mildly unsettling one. He considered. The Doughboys were out of the question. Figments of a figment or no, even if some sinister force was back, their styrofoam bodies would have been destroyed when the universe was... erm...
Okay, so maybe the universe still existed. He had to give that much the benefit of the doubt. But the Doughboys were gone, gone, gone, he was sure of that! He could remember, as he lay on the floor bleeding, he could SEE so much. He knew what was happening to the house, to the world. And he could SEE, though it wasn't really seeing, the repainted demons breathe their last as the tendrils of whatever controlled them tightened around their brittle necks.
/On the land or in the skies/
/Try and face it as I close my eyes/
/It dies/
/Tonight, every night it dies/
/It dies/
/It dies/
Of course, just because the things that held them in this world had been destroyed, didn't mean they were gone. If the wall monster had "reclaimed" them, their motivations could and should be very much around. But around where? And in who, or what?
He reminded himself that he might be getting worked up over nothing. After all, he wouldn't have been able to give that prick the slow death he deserved in the crowded parking lot. Not that he was worried about being caught, the police were as unaware of him as they always had been. Still, it was so distracting to have people screaming and vomiting all around him as he set to work. Half the time his subjects couldn't even hear him over the shouts of "Oh my God! He got that man's LIVER!!" And that man DID deserve some attention, to say the least. All Nny had wanted to do was check out "Frank's World" for the eighty-seventh time. He could have been out and back without hurting anyone. But no, some stupid, boozed-up jerk so soaked with testosterone that it was just WAFTING off him had to put an end to his happiness by trying to pick a fight. When Nny didn't fight back, he followed him to his car and banged on the windshield. Nny just couldn't let that slide...
/By the way they treat their pets/
/They deserve just what they get/
He turned the television back on, eager for distraction. The final scene of Carrie was playing. Sue Snell's dream self, bathed in an ethereal light, moved to put flowers on the charred remains of Carrie's house. He didn't even flinch when a bloody hand reached out from the rubble and grabbed her. He shook his head and turned it off again. That was exactly why he COULDN'T have just set the man on fire where he stood. Carrie used entirely the wrong method. Sure, she got her revenge. But not only did she die in the process, she didn't teach anyone anything! The students died in pain and fear, but not remorse! Not once did they see the error of their ways, nor did they fathom the torment they had caused the person who made "victims" out of them. They died raging at their killer, with the assurance that SHE caused this, not them.
Of course, could he say he was any better? He remembered the man he had met in hell. He was just as shallow and aggressive as he had always been, being killed hadn't taught him a damn thing. Capital punishment wasn't a deterrent, because it didn't change the way people thought or acted, just the universe in which they acted it out. After death, he was still insulting others and Nny was still decapitating people. Heh, that was kinda fun, actually...
/Yet when they die, I ought to cry/
/But I just can't/
/I wonder why?/
Wait, no. He shouldn't be thinking about that. That was the first sign, something trying to redirect his thoughts, keep him from focusing on the task at hand. Distracting him, confusing him... Shit. It really was getting like old times. But if the Doughboys, or some incarnation of them was back, that still wouldn't explain it. Mr. Eff had only wanted the creature to remain trapped when he became self-aware. Nny had the feeling that they... it... whatever, wouldn't make the same mistake twice. So what had kept him painting the wall back then? His own fear? Or some external force?
His hands began shaking, he was so awake. Maybe he should go for a walk, clear his head as best he could. Yes, a walk sounded good. He stretched and strode out.
The night air calmed his nerves, and he lapsed into quiet speculation. External force... trapped aggression... evil walls... there was some connection, some unifying thread here. But what? Maybe he should shoot himself in the head, that worked last time. No, no, that probably wasn't an all-purpose solution. Besides, he wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of visiting Hell again. Even though he liked that coat. Man, that was a great coat. He had looked in ever store he could find for a replacement, but it was all for naught. He had even gone so far as to venture to the MALL for it, but...
Damn, damn, DAMN! He was doing it again! He clenched his fists and stamped his feet. "Arrrgh!" he cried. Even here, away from his house he was being distracted! How was he supposed to accomplish anything like this? How-
His thoughts were interrupted by an empty beer can hitting the back of his head. He had just drawn up one leg to stamp his feet again, and was easily knocked off balance. He plummeted to the ground. "Bullseye! Haw, haw!" he heard several phlegm-choked voices cackle, and he looked at the gaggle of retreating shitholes on the sidewalk, yards away. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, which he spit out violently. He clenched his eyelids shut, and when he opened them, they were gone.
*Hey!* Johnny realized, *I didn't kill them! Neato!* He got up and brushed himself off, his wide grin only slightly manic. *I am really getting better at not giving in to impulses* he thought, mentally patting himself on the back. This thought cheered him considerably, and he whistled merrily as he walked down the sidewalk.
/Tonight/
/I'll rest all right/
/My mind/
/Is cool and free/
/No fly's gonna get the best of me!/
He banged hard into a flustered looking woman. "Sorry," she muttered politely. "That's okay! I'm not going to kill you!" Johnny said with a wide grin. This didn't seem to relax her as much as he had hoped, but he was unfazed. He strode home confidently, he was ready to face down whatever was causing this now. In fact, this whole encounter had given him a good idea of what it was...
--------
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd cut! That's all for now, kiddies, tune in next chapter for more of Johnny, head voices, and lots and lots of cheese fizz.
about horror movies. You should seriously go see it. Right now. Go, go! But first-read
this fic.
I copied the song down from the TV, but I'm not sure about a few parts because the lyrics
were muffled by screams. That has no relevance, I just wanted to say: "I'm not sure about
a few parts because the lyrics were muffled by screams." And now: Heeeeeeeeeere's
Johnny!
----
Johnny's nails dug into the thick, steroid-swollen arms, causing blood to pool under his fingernails. The young man's struggles had been difficult to fight at first. But blood loss had made him weak, and his kicks and tugs were comparable to those of a child as Nny dragged him inside. Johnny's thoughts were disjointed and unrelated as adrenaline coursed through his body, which, despite recent efforts, continued to exist. He was giggling like a seven-year-old who had just seen a minimum-wage clown plummet into a shallow tank of water at a carnival, unaware that the clown's injuries and the resulting lawsuit would ensure that no carnival would come through his town again for years.
The man had passed out by now, and his head thunked and cracked on each stair that Nny dragged him down. "Nasty..." Nny muttered, looking at the head wound which was growing bigger. "That'll get gangrene. I HATE gangrene, don't you?" Judging by his expression, he expected an answer. When none came, he simply shrugged and continued dragging the man, allowing the thunks to hit a little harder now. Finally, he reached a room at the end of a hall, and with all his rapidly dissolving strength, hurled the man into the corner of it. Panting, he slumped down beside him. "I'm getting too old for this. I should really carry a dolly around with me." Reluctantly, he returned his attention to the man, winding long, oily chain around his body and affixing it to a pipe extending from the wall. "I wonder how old I AM?" he muttered.
/Fear is scary and murder's vile/
/I don't know what's making me smile/
Not yet willing to begin the long trek up the seemingly infinite flight of stairs, he sat, leaning against the wall. It wouldn't do to overtire himself. If he rested often enough, he'd be able to cheat sleep again for at least a few more weeks. "If I had a calendar, I'd at least be able to keep track of how many years passed." he mused. "Sometimes you can tell by the weather. When it starts snowing again, a year's usually gone by. But how do I know I'm not spending a year or more inside?" He turned to the unconscious man, who could make no reply, which was in his best interests now anyway. "Exactly! I DON'T know it! I don't know why I need to, I suppose. Still, it's the sort of thing that nags at you after a while. Makes you doubt how together you really are. What do you think?"
The man next to him continued to do little but draw flies. "Well, it bothers ME. Not always, just every now and then. But maybe if I kept track of how much time passes, I'd be able to tell when I fall asleep." He looked at the man again. "You know, you're a real good listener. It's a real shame you'll wake up soon and I'll have to torture and kill you. Oh well," he patted the man on the back reassuringly. "Maybe you'll die of blood loss. It's happened before. From what I know, it's a very easy way to go. See you later then." He stood and walked out, clicking the light off casually as he did so. In the dark, the man made a whimpering sound, and was silent.
/The world is sick, I'm used to it/
/Wouldn't you agree?/
He sat on the couch and clicked on the television. A movie was on. Like most movies, he'd seen it before. It was "Carrie," and it happened to be in the few precious seconds of the movie before the title character was humiliated and pushed over the edge. He watched as the bucket of pig's blood teetered and fell, covering the misfit telekinetic. The camera panned in and out, over and around all of the laughing teenagers. Red light flooded the screen, reflecting into the room, onto the walls, over Nny. Dripping with blood, the prom queen looked at each door as they snapped shut violently. A hose came to life, dancing like a charmed snake it spewed water onto everyone, igniting the electrical system. Writhing in thier pretty dresses, Carrie's tormentors burned.
Nny snickered, but was extremely surprised to feel a cool tear run down his face.
/No place to hide, no one to be seen/
/Safe as long as they stay in that screen/
He shuddered and clicked off the television. Wondering about your own thoughts is something you should expect when you're completely fuckin' crazy, and Nny was wondering now. Why had he brought a victim back? He hadn't done that since regaining control of himself. Unless...
His previously relaxed position contracted, his head snapped up and his sticklike body followed. What had Senior Diablo's exact words been? "Who knows when and if you'll become a flusher again?" ...But, it had only been... well, he had no idea how long it had been since he had gone through heaven and hell. It could have been a million years, or a few weeks. Damn. Could they have snared him again? Made him an unwilling container for humanity's shit? But if he was aware of it...
He paused to consider this. If he was aware of it, what then? Did he have a chance against it? Was he even looking at the right source? After all, if he had been channeling, rather than containing aggression, why would they have used him again? SOMEthing was compelling him, though. You don't spend so much time as a slave to external and internal forces without getting a feel for the influence. Was there something that wanted him killing more often, like before? And what would it do if he refused?
/If someone's got to go, you know/
/Better them than me!/
This was certainly interesting. Who would want things back to the way they were before? The Doughboys were gone... weren't they? He was sure... but if they hadn't been destroyed, if they weren't just shredded chunks of styrofoam... maybe the wall monster had been captured and contained again. Maybe there was no monster, maybe it had just been an embodiment of the aggression he was forced to trap. Would he get an urge to break out the paintbrushes again? He waited...
...Nothing felt different. He felt as cool and uncontrolled as he had been before. Maybe he was being paranoid. It was only a minor discrepancy in his behavior. But an odd, mildly unsettling one. He considered. The Doughboys were out of the question. Figments of a figment or no, even if some sinister force was back, their styrofoam bodies would have been destroyed when the universe was... erm...
Okay, so maybe the universe still existed. He had to give that much the benefit of the doubt. But the Doughboys were gone, gone, gone, he was sure of that! He could remember, as he lay on the floor bleeding, he could SEE so much. He knew what was happening to the house, to the world. And he could SEE, though it wasn't really seeing, the repainted demons breathe their last as the tendrils of whatever controlled them tightened around their brittle necks.
/On the land or in the skies/
/Try and face it as I close my eyes/
/It dies/
/Tonight, every night it dies/
/It dies/
/It dies/
Of course, just because the things that held them in this world had been destroyed, didn't mean they were gone. If the wall monster had "reclaimed" them, their motivations could and should be very much around. But around where? And in who, or what?
He reminded himself that he might be getting worked up over nothing. After all, he wouldn't have been able to give that prick the slow death he deserved in the crowded parking lot. Not that he was worried about being caught, the police were as unaware of him as they always had been. Still, it was so distracting to have people screaming and vomiting all around him as he set to work. Half the time his subjects couldn't even hear him over the shouts of "Oh my God! He got that man's LIVER!!" And that man DID deserve some attention, to say the least. All Nny had wanted to do was check out "Frank's World" for the eighty-seventh time. He could have been out and back without hurting anyone. But no, some stupid, boozed-up jerk so soaked with testosterone that it was just WAFTING off him had to put an end to his happiness by trying to pick a fight. When Nny didn't fight back, he followed him to his car and banged on the windshield. Nny just couldn't let that slide...
/By the way they treat their pets/
/They deserve just what they get/
He turned the television back on, eager for distraction. The final scene of Carrie was playing. Sue Snell's dream self, bathed in an ethereal light, moved to put flowers on the charred remains of Carrie's house. He didn't even flinch when a bloody hand reached out from the rubble and grabbed her. He shook his head and turned it off again. That was exactly why he COULDN'T have just set the man on fire where he stood. Carrie used entirely the wrong method. Sure, she got her revenge. But not only did she die in the process, she didn't teach anyone anything! The students died in pain and fear, but not remorse! Not once did they see the error of their ways, nor did they fathom the torment they had caused the person who made "victims" out of them. They died raging at their killer, with the assurance that SHE caused this, not them.
Of course, could he say he was any better? He remembered the man he had met in hell. He was just as shallow and aggressive as he had always been, being killed hadn't taught him a damn thing. Capital punishment wasn't a deterrent, because it didn't change the way people thought or acted, just the universe in which they acted it out. After death, he was still insulting others and Nny was still decapitating people. Heh, that was kinda fun, actually...
/Yet when they die, I ought to cry/
/But I just can't/
/I wonder why?/
Wait, no. He shouldn't be thinking about that. That was the first sign, something trying to redirect his thoughts, keep him from focusing on the task at hand. Distracting him, confusing him... Shit. It really was getting like old times. But if the Doughboys, or some incarnation of them was back, that still wouldn't explain it. Mr. Eff had only wanted the creature to remain trapped when he became self-aware. Nny had the feeling that they... it... whatever, wouldn't make the same mistake twice. So what had kept him painting the wall back then? His own fear? Or some external force?
His hands began shaking, he was so awake. Maybe he should go for a walk, clear his head as best he could. Yes, a walk sounded good. He stretched and strode out.
The night air calmed his nerves, and he lapsed into quiet speculation. External force... trapped aggression... evil walls... there was some connection, some unifying thread here. But what? Maybe he should shoot himself in the head, that worked last time. No, no, that probably wasn't an all-purpose solution. Besides, he wasn't exactly thrilled with the idea of visiting Hell again. Even though he liked that coat. Man, that was a great coat. He had looked in ever store he could find for a replacement, but it was all for naught. He had even gone so far as to venture to the MALL for it, but...
Damn, damn, DAMN! He was doing it again! He clenched his fists and stamped his feet. "Arrrgh!" he cried. Even here, away from his house he was being distracted! How was he supposed to accomplish anything like this? How-
His thoughts were interrupted by an empty beer can hitting the back of his head. He had just drawn up one leg to stamp his feet again, and was easily knocked off balance. He plummeted to the ground. "Bullseye! Haw, haw!" he heard several phlegm-choked voices cackle, and he looked at the gaggle of retreating shitholes on the sidewalk, yards away. He bit his lip until he tasted blood, which he spit out violently. He clenched his eyelids shut, and when he opened them, they were gone.
*Hey!* Johnny realized, *I didn't kill them! Neato!* He got up and brushed himself off, his wide grin only slightly manic. *I am really getting better at not giving in to impulses* he thought, mentally patting himself on the back. This thought cheered him considerably, and he whistled merrily as he walked down the sidewalk.
/Tonight/
/I'll rest all right/
/My mind/
/Is cool and free/
/No fly's gonna get the best of me!/
He banged hard into a flustered looking woman. "Sorry," she muttered politely. "That's okay! I'm not going to kill you!" Johnny said with a wide grin. This didn't seem to relax her as much as he had hoped, but he was unfazed. He strode home confidently, he was ready to face down whatever was causing this now. In fact, this whole encounter had given him a good idea of what it was...
--------
Annnnnnnnnnnnnnd cut! That's all for now, kiddies, tune in next chapter for more of Johnny, head voices, and lots and lots of cheese fizz.