House of Horrors: Director's Cut

by LittleLiteratureRSJ

A portal drops a select few of our beloved horror icons into the house of our protagonist, Jennifer Caddie. When she hears strange noises in the night, she realizes fairly quickly she is no longer alone. Confused and afraid, she will have to adjust to her new living situation as she navigates how to live with monsters. Turns out: Living with slashers makes for a killer headache.

43. Backpack, backpack

Chucky could count the number of times he had ever fallen into a toilet trying to take a piss. Could count the number on one hand alone; One finger even. And the finger that kept track of that just so happened to be the middle one.

A single fuck-you reserved to whoever thought he was clumsy enough to let that happen.

He hadn't at all appreciated the meathead's quip of 'Don't fall in.' The whole time he had scowled; Scowled as he climbed up on the toilet seat, scowled during his customary hops to get the last drop, scowled during the clean-up and the flush, scowled all the way down the stairs, and kept on scowling right into the living room.

The doll had only loosened up when he had turned to the bookshelf on his left. With a short survey of the shelf, his eyes had made out the two knobs on either side of what must have been the lowest drawer. Just like Jen had said.

Inside he had found several blankets intended as spares, each one wildly different from the other. Probably personalized throws meant for the rest of her family. There was only one that seemed indifferent in the random themes from the rest, and said blanket was precisely the one he picked. Upon tugging it out, he had shoved the drawer closed and dragged the beige blanket up onto the couch. The next thing that he had dragged along was the backpack that he had left to sit by the tv stand during their stay. Afterwards, he slung the bag up onto the cushions, thankfully not hitting the cenobite a few feet away in the process, and spent the next few minutes making a cozy cocoon for himself.

Now nestled in the soft fabric, he pulled the pack closer and worked to unzip it, but not before giving Pinhead next to him a cursory glance; Just to see if the Hell Priest was minding his business.

He was reading again. Was that all the guy liked to do? Shove nails into his head and read those ugly-ass books? Too uptight to watch some tv? The tv was just right there. It'd been running practically all day. Not that it was on right now, but still. All he'd need to do is just reach over with one of those chains of his to grab the remote. It wouldn't be that hard. But that was the thing about freedom that he could appreciate. If the Hell Priest wanted to read, Hell..Why not let him? The doll appreciated having his own sense of freedom, of being able to do whatever it was that he wanted. It was often said that variety was the spice of life, but simplicity was just as good a dish. Ah Christ..

He was quoting Dr. Lecter now. The fancy pants wacko wasn't even here and yet the doctor still managed to get inside his head. Probably his own fault for letting Hannibal Lecter, of all people, a way to get inside his brain.

The Lakeshore Strangler shook his head to himself and went about unzipping and opening the colorful bag in his lap. The familiar contents of it greeted him, but he checked one by one with his hands just to make sure it was all there: His book dedicated to his social life, the burner phone Ghostface had given him, the leprechaun's summoning trinket from their meeting in Vegas, the camcorder he had scored from Camp Blood, the tin of collective buttons, his wallet, the money he owed, the ring box, and his condoms…Just in case he got lucky. After all, a guy had to be prepared for anything.

Everything felt in place. Nothing amiss. He allowed himself a nod of satisfaction. Digging through the items for an object in particular, he freed his phone from the depths of the bag. Being stuck in Hell for so long, the mobile should have been long dead, and it would've if it had been a normal phone. That was the perk of being buddy-buddy with a guy like Ghostface. Even now, after all these years, it looked almost too perfect and polished in his hands. He supposed 'perfection' was a fitting word, seeing as it had been a perfect, identical copy of the ghost's own cell phone at the time. Admiring the casing and the nearly nostalgic feel of it, he found his first memory of it bloom:

With the phone in his hands, initially he had looked it over, still put-off by the gift from the other slasher. He wasn't the kind of guy used to gifts, even on his own birthday. And back then, accepting a gift from another man would have been considered strange. Tiff had given him gifts, yeah, but usually those gifts were more of a coy, verbal tease from Tiffany Valentine to come into the room because 'she had something for him' and 'oohh, it would be suuch a shame to waste it'. So he'd go in the other room and sometimes the gift was just that, something in a box or a bag, but most times...Most times the 'gift' was her. All wrapped up in some pricey, lacy lingerie that made her body look even more out of this fuckin' world as if that were possible, but somehow it always was. Every time she pulled something like that, she'd look better and better. In some cases she'd be covered in blood, and in others, she'd crawl to him on all fours with those fuck-me shoes on and..

..Fuck. He was getting lost in his memories, while trying to dig through his memories. A mental flash of red lace and dark eyes had heat racing up his neck. He needed to take a breath, because woo, now was not the time to be thinkin' about his ex wife like that. Especially since they weren't on the greatest terms. Least of all sitting next to the pins-and-needles sadist on the sofa beside him.

Taking that much needed breath, he tried again:

'I can't keep this thing runnin'.' He had insisted. 'You won't need to,' Had been the reply. Ghostface had pointed down at the device cradled in his much smaller grasp. 'I made you that from my own. It works just like mine does. Call whoever, there's no bill to run up. Battery life is as good for as long as you're breathing. Or until I decide to cut you off. Think of it as the start of a beautiful friendship.'

Despite the fairly innocuous tone, it had sounded vaguely like a veiled threat too. A gloved finger had been waggled at him to further add; 'Only one rule though. You answer when I call. No exceptions, dolly-anne.' Chucky had ignored the nickname to put pressure on to ask; 'That all?' The answer had been the turn of the other's back and a throw of a hand; 'That's all. Be sure to keep in touch.' And so they had.

When he turned it on in his hands, the screen lit up and all it took was a moment to register what his gaze fell on. He tossed back his head and barked out a laugh. A laugh loud enough to have Pinhead glance in his direction before returning back to the horrible-looking book in front of him.

Oh man...He'd forgotten all about that.

Forgotten all about the group photo they had taken from the boys' trip. It was the same image that looked back at him now, and the very same he had saved to be his background before they had all gotten locked up in Hell. It showed a literal shoulder-to-shoulder line-up of everyone that had been there, himself and the leprechaun included. A flashy billboard above their heads in the dark pronounced exactly where the photo had been taken, and every one of them had their backs to the flash of the camera capturing the moment:

Michael Myers, himself, the fuckin' leprechaun they had met, Freddy Krueger wearing his human glamour, and the Creeper-

All lined up in that order, posing in front of a tall fountain. Standing in the yellow and pink wash of light from the large sign above them, every bright bulb exclaimed; ~The Hideaway~

And vividly showcased in the flash? Amidst the glare of the motel sign they had been staying at? The real jewel of the snapshot? Save for Creeper, was every single one of their bare asses.

Jason Voorhees had been almost out of frame, far too shy and indignant to participate in the wildly inappropriate pose they had agreed to; Keeping his distance from the potential sprays of the fountain and their brazen, intentionally indecent display. The rest of 'em though? Drunk off their balls, the rest of them had been convinced it seemed like the best idea that they had had all night. A memento. Something to capture such an incredibly rare occasion. Thus, the last stop of their night.

Michael's head appeared leaned back at an almost lazy angle, one dark eyehole catching the imaginary photo taker just in time, the hair of his mask hopelessly fucked and ruffled. The majority of his overalls had been pushed under the swell of his ass, with its sleeves tied around his waist.

Chucky, as his usual classy self, had elected a classic double middle finger to the camera with a broad sneer to match. The denim overalls had been unbuttoned from the top and left to hang.

Basil, the clover-hating fuck, had gone with widened eyes and a single hand to his mouth; As if to exclaim 'whoops!', while his own pants crowded his striped ankles.

Freddy's arm showed extended, one hand clutched in the fabric of his slacks while the other had his fedora in hand to wave it around like a yee-hawing son of a bitch.

Then as the last of their photogenic group, Creeper had chosen to plant himself off to the far right side of the still. Outside of Jason, he was the only other one without his ass in view. Instead he had elected to crouch behind Freddy with his eyes staring back, somehow managing a grin with an open mouth hovering over the skin of Freddy's right ass cheek as if he were intending on taking a big ol' bite.

He was smiling so hard looking at this goofy shit, his cheeks hurt. Moments like these…Like in this photo, made him glad he had met the other guys. Their uncanny friendship always managed to make him forget all about the Big One. Sure, did they make him wanna 'pull a Pinhead' and take a nail gun and shoot nails into his dick? Of course. While they were often the most annoying friend group in the world, they were also the fuckin' best.

If not for them, he would've been alone. Buried under his anger. Buried under the hurt. Wondering where he had gone wrong. Wasting his time scheming and plotting how to get back at her for ripping his heart out his goddamn chest and stomping on it with her high heel.

It was the reason why he'd got it into his head to send Tiff his severed arm; So as to have her keep some part of him. To ensure that he hadn't totally been left behind.

'Ain't nobody leavin' ME'. He had thought. Eventually, Dr. Lecter had helped him see that that hadn't been right. Not at all okay of him to do, most of all on the day of his kid's birthday. All the petty shit. Like sending them his arm, or changing Tiff's name in his phone to 'CUNTSLUTWHOREBITCH', every vile name he could think of until the max character limit prevented him from adding more invectives, only to delete it all and rename her contact again with other derogatory words. While it had felt good in the moment, all it ended up doing was making a day that had meant to be about his son and daughter, all about him.

But he was better now. Better than he used to be at least. He was still a broken toy; Not all there, not all fixed, all sorts of fucked up. He still had a lot to work on. Letting Tiff and the kids go hadn't at all been easy, and in a lot of ways, he was still holding on. Some days were better than others. The doc had said that was okay. Relapse was sometimes inevitable. It was okay to fall as long as you got back on your feet.

One of their older sessions sprang to mind, like a cassette tape being played inside of his head:

'But what if I take too long to get back up on my feet, doc? What then?'

'You know what they say, Charles. Rome was not built in a day.'

'Thought I told you I didn't want you to call me that.'

'My apologies. I tend to have a few hard habits of my own that are difficult to break.'

'Oh yeah?'

'Yeah.'

'One of 'em happen to be that brunette FBI agent?'

'I seem to recall you being the one to schedule this appointment, Chucky.'

'Right..Well, how long did it take to build the fuckin' thing anyway?'

'Certainly not a day.'

At first when the good doctor had offered his psychological assistance, Chucky had laughed it off. The concept felt goofy. Him, a killer doll, bettering himself by getting mental help? It felt even goofier than the long, absurd tale of how he even came to be in his body: 'Ain't nobody gonna shrink my head, doc. Already shrunken enough as it is.' The older man had chuckled but still kept his offer open.

The doctor had thought him to be quite something after they had first met. How could he not have? He'd been the one to break into the guy's hotel room after all. The guy's overly lavish, hotel room at that. The room in Vegas Chucky and the boys had stayed at later on had been pretty damn sweet, but Hannibal's little slice of Heaven in the Bahamas had made it look like a rathole in comparison. After their interrupted meeting there, the doc had insisted on exchanging numbers. Being the stray that he was, the doll had figured it wouldn't hurt to have friends in high places. Let alone friends at all. Really it was thanks to Dr. Lecter that he had managed to meet the other guys to begin with. He had been the one responsible for putting the idea into his head to have him set out on a venture to find friends and accomplices of his own. The classy cannibal had been his very first, 'friend til' the end'.

In spite of their eventual friendship, he hadn't been interested in the offered therapy-

Until one particularly hard night of dealing with the Big One had had him caving in. Now he and the doc kept in touch, one hour sessions over the phone twice a month. Just to see how he was doin'.

He'd lost out on Tiff and his kids. Lost his family and gained a new one.

The smile had lessened by now. Presently it was more of a sad acceptance, a solemn gratitude as he looked at the tiny, digital idiots grouped together mooning him. He exhaled a hefty breath to murmur; "Good times." When his eyes climbed an inch higher to focus on the apps and widgets of the phone itself, he was reminded that those 'good times' had come with their own set of consequences. Nevermind the winding up in Hell, or the portal, or Jennifer.

He had-

He had to look again because what he saw was simply stupid.

The toy had sixteen unread text messages and three missed calls.

Chucky inhaled just to sigh. He was almost tempted to shut the device back off, to feign ignorance. Maybe under different circumstances he would've, but now he was a toy of some responsibility. Some renown. He'd been through a fair share of his own obstacles, sticking his head out and jumping through hoops to meet and add more fucked up people like himself to the collection. Years had been spent hopping from place to place to maintain it all. Alliances and allies gained, names and stories learned and jotted down in his book. Rome hadn't been built in a day, and neither had his after-divorce social life.

Now it was time to get back to it. Or at least, it was time to see what he had missed. He took a gander at the missed calls first. While much too tired to return them now, he could at least take a peek. He wasn't surprised to see that one had been from Dr. Lecter and the other two, along with that staggering majority of texts had been from Momma Luda. Apparently he'd been gone long enough to miss one of his appointments and to have Momma Luda fuss over his lack of contact. He was fairly certain that Dr. Lecter would be managing fine, but Luda Hewitt? It had always seemed as though the woman liked to worry.

One more day couldn't hurt. He'd give them both a call tomorrow.

As for the texts..

He clicked on the red envelope icon and let his gaze roam over the list of contacts he'd last messaged and vice versa. More than half the list consisted of personally given nicknames. It wasn't like he had forgotten what every one of them actually went by, but it was just a little something to spice up his contacts. His gaze found Ghostface's name and a smile of mischief formed. His fingers made quick work of selecting the name he'd given him, deleting it, and typing in something new.

'Casper the Ugly Bitch' became 'Bitchface'.

Chucky let out a low, almost musical snicker of self-indulgence over the immature gesture as the device saved the new change. He went back to eyeing the list of contacts.

Name after name his eyes passed until he finally got to the most recent moniker. A nickname he had forgotten to dread returned his gaze.

'Chrome Dome'

"Shit." For a split second, he got why Tiff had decided to leave him: Because evidently he was the stupidest fuckin' guy alive to have forgotten all about Jesse Cromeans; AKA, Chrome 'I'll Beat You To a Pulp, Record It, and Sell It' Skull. Of course Jesse had messaged him. He'd never paid up for the suite that the other murderer had been thoughtful enough to provide for the Vegas trip. And it'd been one hell of a room too. A really nice, luxurious gift that all of them had torn up and left without paying for.

It hadn't been his idea to have the skullmasked-millionare spurge on the room. He had just wanted to let Jesse know he was going to be unavailable for a little bit for the boys' trip, and the richo had wanted to know the whys of it all, so he had spilled it to him, or rather, to his primary assistant: 'The why', 'the where', and 'the when'. What he had received back was a paid-for confirmation for Caesars Palace; One of the priciest places in 'Sin City'. Yet another gift he hadn't been comfortable accepting, and this he had told to that same assistant. You didn't say 'no' to Chromeskull unless you had a death wish, or chrome balls. Las Vegas was already a stretch all on its own, with its own set of issues to sort through. He had insisted a low-key motel would be just fine.

'He won't like that.' She had texted. 'That's tough,' Had been his reply. 'Because that's what we're goin' with, no offense to him.'

The next thing he knew? The motel they had chosen had already been paid for, and the largest space in the building had been reserved solely for them.

It wasn't like they hadn't intended on paying either way. Chucky had the band of 5k sitting in his backpack right here. He figured it would be enough for the damages and the bill left in Jesse's false name. It would have been paid for if Hell hadn't snatched them all up by the balls before they could, but Jesse didn't know that. As far as Jesse was concerned, Chucky and the boys had wrecked the place and made off somewhere else. No thank-you, no goodbye, nothin'. All the hard work to shake hands with the guy and get on a first-name basis…Shit right down the toilet.

Chromeskull wasn't a talkative guy. All of their previous correspondence had always been brief and a lot of it had been made by 'his people'. So to see a whopping five text messages from him? And not from that uppity assistant of his, Spam or whatever her name was? That wasn't a good sign. Against all his instincts telling him not to open the texts, he knew he had to. It was part of that responsibility. The rest of it…To fear.

Chucky the Killer Doll wasn't a bitch.

But Chromeskull wasn't a guy that you fucked around on.

He'd seen the videos. Those home-made tapes the guy made for his clientele. Had even seen a few of 'em happen in real time. The Lakeshore Strangler had seen him in action, seen just how effective he was. Merciless. Calculating. Murder was his business through and through, but it wasn't all sterile or detached. With Chromeskull, business was his pleasure.

And he knew without a doubt, that it would be Chromeskull's pleasure to stomp a mudhole in his ass for not having responded in so long, for having seemingly shit all over the token of good faith their working relationship had been. He actually heard himself swallow. Then he opened the messenger.

Already he could mentally hear that text-to-speech voice that had been ingrained in his brain, silently saying the words to him. It fit that harsh, impersonal tone the other killer carried so much as he took in the gray bubbles of text:

Care to explain why you have oh so kindly forgotten to pay for your motel bill that I left in my name?

There had better be a good reason why you haven't responded, Charles.

Last chance.

I am coming to collect. If you are not dead, you better be by the time I get there.

Not in Vegas anymore? Little rat.

Chucky stared at the messages. He stared so long, the glare of the phone screen seared into his vision. The last two words stared back at him. That was the confirmation. The final nail in the coffin of their partnership. It told him exactly what he needed to know, and exactly what Jesse Cromeans now thought of him. Those two words doubled in volume and became the only thing he could hear. He couldn't even hear Pinhead turning the pages of his book, or the soft clinking of his chains. Over and over, all he heard was; 'Little rat.' For the first time in a long while, he actually felt like a doll. Stiff. Joints frozen. Unable to move. Like how it had felt being in his doll body all that time ago, when he was still getting used to the fact that his joints and limbs didn't flex so easy. A clamminess built on the nape of his neck..

"You're sweating."

His head jerked up as if it'd been submerged under water for too long. A new two words floated around his brain and he raced to make sense of it; "H-Huh?"

They came again, from his right. Cool, calm, and collected…Everything that he hadn't been a second ago; "You're sweating."

Was he? Chucky swiped at the back of his neck and felt the perspiration smear his hand. Damn. How'd the guy notice before he did? His gaze found that of Pinhead's, and the cenobite regarded him with eyes like dark, shiny beetles. The pale line of his brow lifted to casually inquire down to him; "Something wrong?" Damn right something was wrong; Something like Chromeskull coming to find him and dismantle him for spare parts if he ever showed his face again.

He had screwed up and now he needed to make it right.

The toy shook his head to tear his eyes away from Pinhead's. The response was distracted and grumbly, and not really a proper answer for what the cenobite had asked; "Yeah, fine. Peachy," That was enough phone for tonight. His fingers pressed over the button and the screen went dark, before he shoved it back down to the bottom of the bag. He could feel the Hell Priest watching him, so he mumbled just loud enough; "Just the same shit it always is." Always him fucking up in some way or another. Same old, same old. What else was new? He could almost hear Dr. Lecter reprimanding him for the pessimism and the negative self-talk, but he was too rattled to care.

"Being?"

Chucky chewed his lip with a stubborn toss of his head; "Doesn't matter."

It did matter. He just didn't want to talk about it.

He went to lean back against the couch cushion to try and relax when the pillow behind him crinkled with the distinct sound of plastic. His expression furrowed and he turned to look back, a hand pulling away some section of the pillow to look around it. A stash of several empty pudding cups lay squished into a heap against the couch, their shapes dented and bent, their colorful toppings still attached. Lines and smears of chocolate decorated spots at random over the fabric. So that's where Djinn had put those fuckin' things! He had wondered where they had gone.

The night before, when they had scoured the house after the failed search of the home's owners, the genie had made his way to the fridge and rooted through it. Some of them had been hungry, too starved and greedy to wait to properly talk things out. All of them had been bone tired, except for Pinhead, from their overdue stay in the basement down below. Djinn had made the first claim on the contents inside. Him and Michael had waited their turn and once the genie appeared satisfied tearing up the containers and shoveling food in his mouth, he'd gone away. The doll had let Michael get next dibs.

The Boogeyman had just gotten his hands on one of the juice boxes when he had been interrupted. Not even two minutes had managed to pass before the selfish djinn was right back to the fridge, as if he hadn't already eaten more than his fair share. Michael had just taken another juice from one of the inner cabinets and had been about to grab one of the pudding cups, when the bastard djinn had snatched all of the cups before the Shape could.

Michael Myers had been unmovable, but the djinn hadn't cared in the least as he had shoved himself into the Sister Killer's side to steal some more sustenance for himself. Chucky had watched from behind, equally as entertained and amazed by Djinn's audacity. The two had stared each other down like two opposing predators about to fight over food: Michael dangerously close and staring dead-on into his wickedly-colored eyes, and the other's arms filled with a tower of desert items, but ultimately Djinn had spun away to take all of the pudding cups with him to the living room. The scenario had been so silly, that one of the pudding cups had fallen into the floor with his exit. Michael had only stared after him before swiping the pudding from the floor to go sit and eat.

All Chucky had wanted was a beer. As starved himself as he had been, Hell had been a headache and a half. So when he had gone back to the living space with the drink in hand, he'd seen the Djinn scarfing down the pudding and cleaning those fingers of his with his tongue. At the time he hadn't bothered to notice that Djinn had stowed the cups away behind the sofa's pillow like some wacko wishing-squirrel. At least Michael had had the decency to have thrown the discarded mess of his away.

The doll scoffed at the sight and faced forward to bear his weight against the pillow. He let the sounds of plastic crunching and bending go ignored while he shimmied to get comfortable.

The sooner Jennifer got to cleaning the rest of the house, the better. Most of his world view was hindered thanks to his height so there was no telling how much mess there was that he hadn't seen. Hell had been putrid enough. He wasn't about to be like the other guys and settle with livin' in a dump. He and the guys would probably think up a list of what she could do tomorrow. The maidly service she had offered earlier had been a good start. She just needed to get to more of the house, and if Jason could work some magic, expand her cooking skills. Maybe Vegas and Dr. Lecter had heightened his standards, because he was overall just done with living in dumps.

With the shit he'd been through? Hell, he could do with a little servicing..

His track of thought winded down as he peered around the room. With the tv off, there wasn't anything to distract himself with. His focus doubled back to the backpack on his lap. Suddenly, the pack didn't seem too inviting. Unease still remained. And from the current silence, he made the assumption that Pinhead had resumed his reading. His head took a few tries to look over at the pallid being next to him, to make some attempt at conversation so his nerves could settle; "What do uh, what do you got planned once this is all over?"

The Hell Priest shifted his head in his direction to lend a listening ear.

The doll restated, as if under the impression that the cenobite hadn't heard him and not for the fact that Pinhead was merely juggling unheard voices; "When we're all outta this house, what're you gonna do?"

There was no contemplation. The answer was given as swiftly as if it had been decided long ago; "I will return to the Labyrinth." Chucky's eyebrows bounced at how simple the response had been. It wasn't enough for him, so with a glance at the book he delved deeper; "Well whaddya gonna do when you get there?"

This time Pinhead actually looked at him. One steady hand descended onto one of the pages of the tome hovering over his lap, a single finger pressing against the lips of a deformed mouth as if to tell it to hush. Chucky frowned at the strange action.

"I will reunite with my Order. Continue to perform my duties. Reacquaint myself with my cenobium. Meet again with my brothers and sisters," The lids of his soulless eyes lowered momentarily in thought. His already deep voice sunk an octave, perhaps in a rare shade of vulnerability. "All will be as it should."

So the guy wanted to leave so he could dive headfirst into work? He had nothing else better to do than be a leather-wearing, workaholic? What was so great about the Labyrinth anyway? Slaving away for a floating rock in the sky? He knew little of what the cenobites got up to and of the shit they had going on. He had only known about the giant sky-diamond because he had personally seen it. Only a glimpse of it; Back when he had first laid eyes on Pinhead. The view had been purely accidental, nothing meant for his eyes and of that he had been told personally by Pinhead's lackeys at the time.

The first meeting had been an unlikely favor done. One of their tortured souls had gotten away and he had been the Good Guy to help them find it. The toy had boldly insisted that in doing such a thing, him just so happening to be there and able to help, that they owed him a debt. Pinhead, with some amusement and curiosity, had obliged. Then the group of cenobites had left through a gap in the wall that had been created by their arrival. That exit point had allowed him that view, that stolen glimpse of their world. And now that debt had been paid in full, with the gloomy priest now stuck on a couch in Georgia. He had to admit it was funny.

For the way the cenobites looked, Chucky doubted there were benefits to a job like theirs. Something like what they did, seemed to take far more than it seemed to give. He didn't get the appeal. What was the reward for all the soul-rending work they did? He doubted anyone so pale enjoyed vacation days. Money had no meaning for them. So unless 'The Labyrinth' was a pseudonym for the biggest, raunchiest strip club possible...It didn't make sense. What was the point? Honestly, he was starting to think that he had done the Hell Priest a favor by unintentionally trapping him here.

He raised a palm up to say; "You know, you might be able to relax if you took some of those outta your head." Black eyes went to the toy's hand to watch it linger, indicating the various pins jutting from his skull.

A corner of Pinhead's mouth crept up before quickly sinking down. He faced forward with his gaze to the dried skins of the book, as if to resume his literature. Instead of continuing the prose, he replied; "I am the most relaxed when working."

"Ehh. You're just sayin' that because you've never had a beer before."

The cenobite's lips bloomed into a subtle smile. It quickly receded, as if the owner of said smile had thought better of emoting at all. Unbeknownst to Chucky, it made him intimately reflective. Ever since his stay, Pinhead had begun to notice a disconcerting trend. Smiles and unwarranted lip movement were starting to become more frequent to his face, and the bulk of it he found, were largely out of his control. The time it took for him to take back the power of his facial muscles was fairly swift, but he cared not for how little time it took to do so.

The movements of his features unmade by him...As if something else inside possessed it to happen. Almost as if he had a tic. He took no pleasure in knowing why. An inkling; A diminutive worm of certainly wove deep within. Deeper than that of the pins that adorned his head. Unspoken for yet known. It had to have been him who was responsible. The other version he had buried so far below the surface..

Perhaps more meditation was needed. Perhaps the setting was at fault, too. This homely, man-made habitat that he did not belong in. It was appealing to the other him, appealing to his..

He would not say the word.

Humanity. The inner voice. The thought. Unprovoked, said it for him.

Oh yes, it would seem more discipline was in order.

It became entirely dismissed when Creeper marched into the space. The creature came to a stop just as suddenly, as though he hadn't expected to reach his destination so soon. Their heads turned to him, both slashers letting their eyes roam for different reasons. It was Chucky that asked; "You goin' out tonight?"

Creeper huffed noisily. A tooth or two was revealed in an assertive shake of his head. He appeared bothered by his own answer. His fists clenched and opened like an agitated twitch.

Chucky continued to study him. "Huh. That's odd. You're usually out doin' stuff by now."

He had barely managed to finish the sentence when the other murderer made a gesture. Both of his green hands clapped together into a press, as if to pray. Palms together, his hands leaned at an angle and his head leaned with them. His always watchful gaze swept into an expression of peace. His eyes popped back open and his hands dropped. Quickly afterwards, he gave a sideways rear of his head.

Hardly able to believe what he guessed that meant, the doll quizzically retorted; "You're off to sleep?"

The Creeper squinted and gave a slow nod.

The events of Vegas and the portal and the house hadn't left any time to remember the twenty-three year slumber that the Creeper had to succumb to. Back then it had been his last day of awareness. The whole boys' trip had been created with it in mind, worked around to schedule it all in. Back at Camp Crystal Lake, they'd all been told about his predicament. So had come the idea to give the bat a way to go out with a bang:

Las Vegas.

Not only had it been a fun idea, it had been a gift to the winged-beast. As bonded as they had all been, they had needed something more. The shared killing sprees they had gone on had been great, just as their own get-togethers had, but there was a whole world to see! And Chucky had been bummed to know that almost all of the guys had never seen it themselves, evidently too used to squatting in falling-apart huts to care otherwise.

Somehow they had managed to squeeze it all in before Creeper's time was up, but now it appeared as though his deadline was here. The seriousness had the toy blinking and turning to see him better on the couch; "Shit. Uh, hey you don't gotta worry 'bout nothin'. We'll take good care of your body, okay? Can probably get you back to Camp Blood when this is all over."

While secretly surprised and appreciative of this, the Creeper shook his head and waved a swaying hand to have him stop.

"What? You don't wanna go back to Camp Blood?"

He gave him a look as if he were waiting for the toy to cease speaking. Once the doll went silent, he proceeded to gesticulate. His index and thumb jutted with a small gap between the digits and again he mimed the motions of sleep. He did both of these motions twice to really get his non-vocal point across.

"He will have a small rest." Pinhead was the one to figure it out. Creeper's hand swiped up into an acknowledging point.

"Oh," It was said in such a way that those in the room knew the doll felt embarrassed at having shown so much concern for another of their group. This assumption only proved correct when the doll turned away to face the tv, his pillow crinkling strangely, as if to enjoy whatever played from the screen. However, the screen was dark and silent, and it made the plaything's abashed feelings more pronounced; "Well, whatever. Have a good sleep." His attention went back straight ahead; A lame façade of acting like he didn't care as much as he just showed he had.

Creeper chuffed at him with a slight leer, an unspoken tease, before going to leave-

Pinhead stood; A hand waving aside the presentation of literature to the side. The chains suspending the book floated easily away to clear his path as he parted from his place on the couch; "Allow me to accompany you."

Promptly stopping, the creature gave the Hell Priest a shrewd expression. His chat in the kitchen hadn't done much to lower his guard. What would the pinned-killer want with him? Tension tightened the grip of his empty hands.

"Why, you gonna tuck him in?" As if the thought of getting rest was infectious, Chucky stretched and yawned. His words were warped by the slow exhale of air to say; "The guy's got wings, he can tuck himself in." But Pinhead did not spare the doll a glance. His dark eyes were for the creature alone.

Curiosity and the want to discourage a possible dispute drowned out his suspicion. So after a heartbeat of hesitation, the Creeper consented with a nod. He only moved when the cenobite did. Book and chains sinking into a display of blue light, it was Creeper that outpaced the paler icon. Though the Hell Priest had no issue with this. His stride was even and unhindered until he came to the entrance of the living area. "Goodnight, Pin." The doll's own two words had been the thing to have him stop in place.

Pinhead ceased his even stride at the entrance to permit a glance his way. A studious moment went by, before returning words were uttered; "Pleasant dreams." With that, the cenobite was out of his line of sight to follow after the Creeper. The cascade of foyer light had fallen upon the both of them. Even still, the creature seemingly had no intention of waiting up for Pinhead. He briskly made his way up the first set of stairs, a green hand sliding along the rail while his duster swished behind him. The cenobite watched him in his busy gait. He would not feel rushed. They would meet in the highest room. They had plenty of time.

He halted in the middle of the foyer, and rotated to see the sun room. His peripheral vision had not tricked him.

He had in fact spotted the shape of Michael Myers walking his way into view from around the side of the house.

Continuing to watch, the Haddonfield Slasher came to a halt in what appeared to be the center of the back yard. The world outside remained dark. The moon's light had shifted to other areas. If not for his excellent vision, he would have missed the Sister Killer entirely. But if one could see the other, the other could see too. It was the well-lit room that allowed Michael the view of Pinhead watching him. Otherwise, it would have almost seemed as though the masked murderer had sensed the cenobite's eyes.

The two traded stares.

Then Michael turned away. Pinhead simply stayed put to see Michael slowly sit himself in the grass, and gradually go to lay down. Completely on his back, Michael Myers rested to look ahead at the sky. Whether star-gazing or intending to sleep, the Hell Priest could not say.

A short, almost animalistic snuffle caught his attention from above. His pale head slowly elevated to see the Creeper peering down at him from over the railing. It seemed the beast had waited for him after all-

Leaving Charles Lee Ray alone with the shameful burn of failure. His gaze had nowhere else to travel over the mundane living space except for the bag on his lap. Air blew out from his lips and his head stubbornly reclined back to study the walls and ceiling, as if hadn't already given them a scan. The next immediate moments were occupied with an awkward patting of his hands to his legs. He nodded and patted the worn denim with an aimless, trying-to-ignore-his-problems beat.

What could he do? A lot of the guys had gone to bed or gone away to do their own thing. Jennifer had done the same, so it wasn't like he could chat her up either. Food would have to wait until tomorrow...How many of them were still awake? Was he going to be the last one up? Burning the midnight oil?

The possibility had him exhale through his nose and drum on his thighs some more. Then, abruptly, he threw those baby-blues of his to the remote control across from him. There it sat on the edge of the tv stand. Farther away than he would have preferred. Chucky's body slumped and his pillow crunched.

Christ, where was that damn string bean when somebody actually needed him? He was antsy, but too comfy to move; Yet not quite ready to hit the sack either. The blanket nest he'd made for himself was too warm, too cozy to break away from. The tv, while usually a good distraction, now had no guarantees that it would be. Not only that, the background noise it could offer was just going to remind him that he was trying to ignore something he didn't want to think about. Why couldn't the house had had a pool table instead?

His head again did another visual lap around the room, but ultimately, sank down to the sight of his backpack. The consequences inside had somehow made the thing feel even heavier sitting on his lap.

"Fiine," He sighed. "You win." So much for restraint.

The doll undid the metal teeth and shuffled through the objects inside, hoping that any of them might be the one to keep his attention for the rest of the night until he fell asleep. There was a brief, half smile as he shook the rectangular, metal tin filled with buttons. His fingertips traced and slid over the lid, all along the pin-up figure that one of the Sinclair boys had done for him.

Ambrose had been an accident, but luckily he hadn't been alone for the misadventure. Mike had gone with him. It had been a few weeks out on the road since convincing the Shape to leave and originally, traveling with the stoic and often grumpy slasher had been burdensome in many ways. Thanks to his height, Michael had to be the one to drive. And it had taken a month before Michael let him listen to anything on the radio, but so far down south, it was excusable. All the radio stations had been a Groundhog's Day of few choices: Either you sit and listen to evangelists workin' up a sweat as they screamed about the debauchery of their sinners, or about one hundred different flavors of the same smoke-and-whiskey voice crooning about the same shit they always seemed to be going on about; Whether it be beer, women, or heartbreak. Or even all three.

Mikey never liked talking about himself, but it had been one of the easiest things to learn about Michael Myers.

That, and the fact that Michael Myers hated country music.

They'd wrestled with a paper map only a handful of times before they both had given up, and mutually came to an agreement that boosting a car with an actual GPS in it was the better plan. Better to rely on sweet, sweet technology than argue and get lost.

You wanna know what the funny thing about that shit was? The GPS hadn't kept them from getting lost at all. In fact, it had been the sole reason that they had ended up in Ambrose. All those backroads had ensured the result, and voila~ Before they knew it, there was a whole town in the way of where they had actually wanted to go.

Something had been up about it from the very start. Creepy, run-down, empty town? Woodlands? Not a soul in sight? The shit hadn't been his first rodeo. The place screamed of something unnatural, and with all the psychos he had met beforehand that he now called 'friends' and 'co-workers', Chucky had smelled opportunity. So naturally, he had Mike wait up in the car while he boldly walked around. Sending himself first to make introductions was a technique he had learned early-on.

He had plenty of gripes with his size and his toy body sometimes, but that wasn't to say it didn't come with its own benefits. He'd be less intimidating than lanky, bean-pole Mike Myers. His stature and colorful appearance made his enemies underestimate him, and that was key.

It had almost gone sideways though. He had thanked Damballa countless times that day for having brought Mike along. Exchanging words with the three brothers had felt like a Mexican-standoff, although it had been two of them at first. Clearly, they hadn't appreciated his unannounced arrival or his trespassing on their home turf. Some marveling had been done at the look of him, but other than that, it hadn't played out in his favor.

'I think Vincent'll like him!' One of them, who he later learned had been Lester, had chuckled. The more clean and put-together of the sibling pair, Bo, had briskly eyeballed him and conceded; 'Y'know what, Les. I think you're right. I'm sure Vincent'll make a mighty fine piece outta you. What'cha think?' All the while, a double-barrel shotgun had been making love-eyes at him by the time Mikey had come around, and for once? Chucky hadn't been able to talk his way out.

And to think, he was so good at it too.

In short? Not the best way his meetings had gone. Surprisingly, it had been one of the few occasions he had been threatened. 'I reckon you best do some talkin' before I go sprayin' yer brains around the place. I won't be too cut up 'bout it though. From the look of ya, don't look like it'll take me too long to get it all up.'

It had been all thanks to Michael that the tension had shifted and he was able to get more dialogue out. Chaos had been kept at bay, but not by much. He could recall just how rigid Michael had become at the scene of him held up at gunpoint. For a second, he thought all Hell would have broken loose and that one of the siblings would have been impaled on that double-barrel. Nope. They'd gotten to talking and was provided a proper tour of the place after, before finally being able to meet the third brother. The rest of it had gone over much smoother. Smooth enough to get to know them a bit more and to ask an artistic favor.

Nothin' too fancy. Just a little something he had asked for, but it hadn't been free either. Chucky hadn't at all minded paying for the art on the metal tin. Although when he had given Vincent the money for it, you'd think from the way Bo Sinclair had snatched it out of his hand, that he had demanded the fuckin' thing be painted and not asked for it to be painted. 'My brother ain't a damn show-horse. You want work done, you pay for it. You'd do well to remember that.'

It wasn't like he had asked for The Mona Lisa for anything. Although, she might as well have been just that. All he had wanted was a pin-up of Tiff, from the blonde bun to that tattoo over her right breast and all. And he had to give it to the guy: She looked good, but that was Tiff for you. Tiff always looked good.

He let the tin be pushed aside in favor of the camcorder, but then decided against it. No matter how golden the footage of that night had to be, Vegas was exactly what he was trying not to think about right now. Same went for his book of notes. The notebook meant more work, and the socializing he was bound to do was for tomorrow. Tonight he didn't want to think about it. He cast aside the array of condoms, then swiped away Basil's doo-dad as well. Truthfully, the only item within that begged his attention happened to be his wallet. He plucked it from the interior and let both hands work to open it up. Out something fluttered and he retrieved what fell.

His expression softened and the name that left his mouth neared a sigh; "Glen."

His boy. Or...His daughter. Or whoever his kid had wanted to be. A small photograph peered back at him from the palm of his hand. An image of him, his kid, and the victim between 'em: That no-good photographer that had snagged those shots of him 'givin' himself a hand'. How long had it been? Admiring the snapshot now, he could still remember it like it was yesterday. Pride warmed him further, though the more and more he scrutinized the picture, the more...Guilty, he felt.

There he was, just as proud in the image as he was now, beaming at the camera he had set up on the guy's desk, and there was his kid. Head down. Eyes closed. Ashamed. Like the kid didn't wanna see what he'd just done. No smile. No 'cheese!'. Only thing remotely cheesy about the photo was the fucker's half melted, stringy face in the red light.

He didn't like how it made him feel.

He'd taken the time to boast to the doc about his kid and how proud of him he was. He'd shown Dr. Lecter some of the photos he had taken with that small, silver camera. The ones of them all grouped together around Hollywood. All picturesque and smiling, cruising in the limo, and cooling themselves in shades of palm trees, the three of them looking like a real, happy family. Those photos he still had of course. They were the primary reason as to why his wallet wasn't empty.

This one though; This one he had kept for himself. It wasn't for anybody else to gawk at. It was all for him, him and his boy. One of the few times he had gotten to hang out with his kiddo.

But lookin' at it now? It had him realize maybe the biggest reason, the real reason as to why he hadn't shared it with the cannibal. That if he had showed it, that Dr. Lecter would have immediately picked up on his child's body language, and that would have been a talk that he hadn't been ready for. To take accountability for that photo he'd taken. The memory of Glen's voice had his chest tighten: 'No..I didn't-' His eyes closed. 'But..He, hit the shelf..And-'

Christ, he hadn't even let the kid finish talking.

Maybe it was bad of him to say, but..

Hell, it was still his favorite photo. The only photo of them both together, father and..

Sighing deeply, he let the hand holding the picture drop. Maybe he had a lot more shit to work through with the doc than he realiz-

"Who is the boy?"

Chucky jumped, not high at all, but he felt he had at least jumped a fuckin' foot off the sofa with Djinn's voice practically in his ear. The pillow voiced its own alarm with him as he shouted; "OAHH! DAMBALLA'S DICK!"

He half turned, seeing the djinn hunched over the back of the couch, those eyes almost glowing with its imaginary radiance. What disturbed him in addition was seeing the two head-tentacles of his squirming inquisitively. "FUCKIN', yeesh! The Hell're you doin' sneakin' up on people?!" When his stare did not lessen or break away from the image, Chucky whipped it out of his view to plant the photograph against his own chest, as though to hide it away. Miffed from being intruded upon in such a soft moment, he almost snapped; "He ain't a bo.." He stopped short, his face contorting with how to explain this to the other being.

"She's my...It's...Er, look...It's complicated. All you gotta know is that that's my kid, alright?" Gently stuffing the picture back into his wallet, he exhaled the tension out of his body from the scare. The gravelly, dual-voice had another inquiry; "And who was the corpse?"

The Lakeshore Strangler shrugged, putting his wallet away; "Somebody that got what was comin' to him." He felt, rather than saw, the djinn returning to his full height and making his way around the sofa. Out of the corner of his right eye, in unison with him zipping his backpack back up, he spied Djinn stepping into view and approaching the tv stand. The Wishmaster rid the remote control from its place and settled himself comfortably near the toy. Irritation still loomed in the plaything and it did not escape the tone of his voice; "Next time, don't go pokin' your nose in other people's business. That was some personal shit you just saw, and if you go doin' that again, I can't promise you won't lose an eye if that happens a second time."

The bastard genie gave no suggestion of care or concern as he marveled over the device in his clawed hands. Tipping the long shape of the remote one way, and then flipping it the other, he muttered to the doll mindlessly; "I did not intend to scare you, only to see better your.." Then he paused, giving the small killer a curious glance. "..Child."

"Well how 'bout ask next time, instead'a gettin' your germs in my ear."

The Wishmaster growled and hummed in lazy acknowledgement as he proceeded turning and studying the remote. Meanwhile Chucky had slouched in defeat, the bag mentally heavier than ever pressed against him. Once again he was right back at square one with wondering how to pass the time and forget his concerns about Chromeskull. At least now he wasn't alone. A sleepy surge of drowsiness passed through him and he fought off a yawn. Blinking over at his companion, he waited for the magical jackass to turn the tv on.

Only the magical jackass didn't turn the tv on.

He was instead..Just...Touching and looking at the remote. Over and over. Deadpanned, Chucky watched. It went up in those green hands, then down. Tilted at an angle to the left, and then canted at a different angle to the right. It was hoisted high and Djinn's face went below it, scanning it from underneath. Before it dropped down and Djinn's face lifted above it, pressing his chin inwards to eyeball the thing some more. The thing was then rolled along the expanse of both hands, and it was at that point, that the doll couldn't take it anymore:

"What the Hell are you doin'?"

Djinn quickly, out of nowhere, swept his arm out towards the dark tv. The remote stuck out, backwards, in his hand. A second, less graceful stab in the tv's direction was made. The gestures would have been considered dramatic if the guy wasn't taking it so seriously. Only after a third poke in the air did he get a growled reply; "I am attempting to work the wand." Chucky's head dropped forward incredulously, as if too heavy to keep upright. "The wand?" Djinn's head faced his, the remote control in his hand returning to his lap. The toy exasperatedly asked again, with so much disbelief that his tongue overly enunciated the 'd' in the word; "Waannd?" Christ and crackers. Did the oversized green bean also call cars 'chariots', too?

"Remote!" He would have shouted it, but was too tired to do so. "Remote control!" He passionately corrected again.

The djinn gave him a momentary glower, but his fascination for the 'wand' overpowered the offense he had taken; "Very well," With his gaze back on the tv, he said it himself hastily with that lingering, eccentric accent of his. "Remotee..ehh.." Chucky rolled his eyes. This fucking guy.

And again he watched the absurd show the other murderer was putting on, waving and sweeping the control through the air in front of him to make it do something. "Did you miss the part where the remote's got buttons?" He asked impatiently.

This fucking guy could not be serious. Did he really not know how to turn the thing on? Just how old was he? "Buttons?" Groused the djinn. "Yeah, the pictures. The symbols on it. Use your eyes. They work, don't they?" Djinn bared his teeth at the obnoxious child's thing. "I did not know. I thought they were sigils." SIGILS? He wanted to scream. YOU THOUGHT-

Oh fuckin' boy.

"Well they ain't sigils! They're buttons! You press 'em, and presto! You got television!" He waved an arm at the tv as if to demonstrate.

Warily looking over these 'buttons', Djinn gestured the remote at the scre-

"You got it backwards, you ding-dong!"

The Wishmaster swung his upper body to glare at him and hiss like a fiery-eyed serpent; "I did not ASSSK!" The pair glared at one another, and the djinn reprimanded him with a tone like fire; "If I need you to loosen your tongue, I will ask you for it." Blue eyes hopped to his, and then to the remote in his clawed hands. The toy shrugged and crossed his arms, bouncing to get comfy on his talkative pillow as it crunched and crinkled; "Fine, but don't go cryin' to me if you can't figure it out."

Those sharp, double-edged teeth clenched while he redirected his focus back to the picture box; "Fine! But I will not be the one shedding tears."

Chucky couldn't refrain; "Lemme just ask one thing."

"No."

"One question! One! Please, 'cause I gotta know."

It was said with great reluctance and a wary eye was cast his way; "Speak, toy."

"How was Christ? You met him, right? How was he?"

His answer was growled and unmistakably in another language-

Chucky the Killer Doll would not get his answer to his immature, silly question. However, Xipe Totec was intrigued to find out if the Creeper would have a response of some kind for his.

Blood and rot, flesh and decay..

Death: It was a word universally known in every language. No matter the culture, or the dwelling, or the belief. The end of life had been conveyed in every way imaginable, all across the globe, from one soul to another. Screaming and weeping the harp of its warning. Sung sorrowful like a church bell, rejected vehemently by every living being. Every breath a stinging, forceful rejection to ward it away. Revered like it was a god. Alike to another divine being he knew so well.

Esteemed sense aside, it was why Pinhead knew that someone lay dead inside the house.

He had had so much experience in knowing its many scents. So much like a flower with many fragrances. Furthermore, it had been a growing suspicion throughout his stay. One that had intensified every time he went near the second floor hallway. For him, it had been a puzzle with few pieces; The largest piece being that of the news channel he had been present for, much, much earlier in the day. He supposed, the only piece now, lay with the beast he followed. His initial interest with the other characters upon meeting them had been fleeting. Fleeting, because many of them were overly easy to decipher and learn.

The Creeper had not been.

Every time his eyes had come upon the winged-man, fascination and skepticism had tangled into a stimulating dance of sensation. These two emotions as equal to the other in their pairing. And every time, Basilisk and Chidna would race to mind. The two, serpentine dancers gracefully harmonizing in sinful symmetry, deep in the center of the Labyrinth. He could not venture any assumption as to how long it had been since he had last laid eyes on their performance; The stunning display of their long tails coiling and flowing with the other, their humanoid-upper halves dressed in scales and healed wounds. Their endless tryst a microcosm of Leviathan's structured discipline: Of blasphemous balance.

You're homesick. Informed the voice.

Yes. He supposed that was the proper term for it.

But the sway of the creature directly ahead, leading the way up the enclosed space, brought him out of his homeward reverie..

Back to the pull of curiosity and of the knowledge that he did not know very much at all about Creeper. Not human. Maybe once he had been...Maybe was not good enough. Even his time in Balberith's archive could not give him confidence of what the creature could be. Many Hells, many demons. Surely not one of Baphomet's 'Nightbreed'?

Lord Leviathan had expressed many an occasion his own frustrations with not being able to locate the other god's dwelling. 'A fallen pretender to a celestial throne.' Had been one of countless exclaims that seemed to shake his mind, body, and sinew when Leviathan spoke. Thanks to those many clandestine chats, he knew of the name of this hidden-away location: Midian, 'the city of monsters'. The geography of the name, as much as a spectacle it had become being murmured from one cenobium to another, had never been determined.

Was that what the creature was in front of him? Was he 'Nightbreed'? If he were, how would 'Hell's Favorite Son' know?

Every step up to the attic assured him more. The smell was most pleasant. Familiar. Rightfully, familiar. The Hell Priest inhaled it in with a most welcome flare of his nostrils and enjoyed it long enough to leave him standing by the entrance. Its odor turned out to be so delightful, he had only realized his eyes had closed when he had to open them to view the room. The creature had stood to study him, but now with his follower alert again, the Creeper went away deeper into the attic. The manner in which he embarked ahead left the cenobite under the impression that a tour was not on the immediate agenda. He had been left at the door while the winged-beast picked his way through clutter, seemingly in the start of organization. Sounds of fabric dropping and cardboard sliding replaced any possibility for conversation.

Pinhead took a few steps deeper in and faced the source of the odor.

The missing adolescent, Joshua Nickels, sat in the corner to his left like a pale, discolored ragdoll. He drank in the view of death, especially taking note of the large hole in the chest of his shirt. Where a gaping wound had been left behind.

Right where his heart should have been.

"A curious choice,"

The organization at the opposite side of the room silenced. A slow stepping of feet made their way over. Glass and lesser recognizable items crunched. His breathing announced him first, rasped and deep. Vocal chords straining amidst their usage. A rather healthy-sounding heart beating in a broad, green chest. The creature standing so close to him now, he noted a lapse of sounds that normally would have emitted from other living things. Namely, the course of blood in a body.

This, he found he could not hear. However interesting that was, he could not help the feeling of disappointment at how crudely the body had been treated. It could be this 'House of Pain' he had yearned to know more about, would hold no mastery at all. Without looking at him, he asked; "Do you not find it wasteful?"

Naturally, there was no verbal answer. His ears picked up other things: Rufflings of fabric. The brushing of skin.

Then a hand being thrust into his view. Not close enough to be rude, but close enough to be a sure-enough reply. He let his focus be drawn to the object the other held; What appeared to be a shuriken, or throwing star met his gaze. All four points of the handheld weapon were undoubtedly made of bone, sharpened to their finest. Snippets of black twine coiled neatly at each intersection, just before the bone spikes could spire outwards. In the middle awaited the most prized detail. Unique. Arguably, one of a kind. Inventive. Now this, he did harbor awe for.

In its very center, boasted a shapely rose tattoo on a swath of skin. His profound study of anatomy promised to him that what he happened to be seeing, was a stolen slab of a human navel.

Therefore implying that the Creeper did not intend to be wasteful.

The hand holding the macabre item languidly rotated and twisted in an appraising show to display it better for his audience. Thanks to the movement, Pinhead spied a series of neat switching along the sides of the object. Needlework had been performed throughout the skin with a loop of black thread. Impeccable.

After having given the Pinhead an eyeful, the weapon swiftly went out of his sight to be put away. Feeling the creature's gaze, the cenobite allowed his own to travel back to the dead boy; "Will he be a part its construction?" He motioned to the body with a directing of his crowded head. Not wanting the winged-beast to mistake him, he clarified; "Your...'House of Pain'?"

One step from Creeper was all it took to have them be somewhat eye-to-eye, and it was accomplished no sooner than the phrase had been spoken. Pinhead helped this along by moving to face him. Creeper tilted his head and narrowed his eyes, silently asking. With only one 'tongue' between them, a quid-pro-quo would be unachievable. The creature was not the only one with questions. Until there was to be a development, Pinhead felt certain he could use their stay to become better educated on the humanoid being...And whether or not he belonged to Baphomet and his monsters.

"The toy has said many things, and I cannot help but overhear."

He surprised the Creeper by putting his leather-clad back to him and moving away entirely.

"I will not take up anymore of your time. My only true intention was to inform you," Once at the attic's entry, he gave the creature an appreciative eye. "That the sight of its completion, is one I crave to see." Then as an afterthought, he mused through a barely discernable smile with an expression aimed at the corpse; "Curiosity does have its merits."

The Creeper smiled at him in return-

Meanwhile, there were no shared smiles down in the living room below them.

After what felt like an eternity of moments, a drawn-out montage of Djinn pressing the damn buttons all at once and at random, growling and murmuring in his extinct language to no doubt swear and throw obscenities, lighting the both of them in a mirage of different colors of various different menu screens and selections to obstruct the view, he had at last given up on his pride. There were just so many infernal 'buttons'. So many different symbols. Soo maanny different shapes and colorings. How was he to possibly determine what was what from such a large selection?

The remote sat in his dejected grasp. Chancing a glimpse at the doll, he saw that the doll was not even looking at him. Apparently content to watch him fail. He almost considered retrying his hand at working the device, solely out of spite, but this battle could not be won by him alone..

Begrudgingly, he spoke; "You've no longer a need to hold your tongue. I require...Assistance."

"I dunno," Mused Chucky sarcastically. "Looks to me like you've got it all figured out."

"Nothing has been figured out!" He snarled.

"What'd I tell you?"

"I will not cry." He said petulantly.

Chucky snorted and beckoned him with an open palm; "Gimme."

The remote was not given. It was held away, as if the genie expected the toy to try and take it from him. He said childishly; "I want to know how to work the picture box."

Picture what? Holy.. "And you will know, just give it over. Let me fix all this shit you did," 'This shit' referred to the boxes and options clouding the screen in front of them. "Then I'll teach you how to work the...The picture box." Squinting suspiciously, Djinn handed the remote to him. Chucky shook his head to himself and his fingers naturally aligned into place along the rectangular shape of the device. Djinn, noticing this, fixed the plastic fingers with concentration. In only a matter of moments, and a pressed combination of buttons, the screen was clear. The previous doubt stepped closer to genuine attention.

"Alright. First thing's first," Chucky held the remote control up between them vertically. "This button up at the top in the far corner, here?" His freehand motioned to the distinctly colored button and tapped near it. "This is ON and OFF. You want the tv on? You press it. You want the tv off? You press it. Got it?"

Djinn's eyes honed in on him; "Got it."

"Now these," The hand adjusted to lower towards the lower half of its shape.

"What of the other buttons?" Asked Djinn accusingly. "You skipped so many of them."

"Nevermind those. I'm gonna be straight with you. You ain't gonna need most of these," His fingers gestured specifically in a few places. "The only buttons you're gonna need to know is: ON/OFF. The volume. And the ones to change the channels. That's it."

"Then why are there so many buttons?" His tone of voice and current expression heavily insinuated that the Lakeshore Strangler was lying to him in some way, like he fully expected to have a wool pulled over his eyes at any moment. As if he truly believed that the toy was trying to keep the secret of the buttons all to himself. "It's a lot to explain and if I try and explain it to you in a way you're gonna understand, we're gonna be here all night. And I dunno 'bout you, but I don't wanna do that. I know it ain't easy and bear with me, it's gonna be a wild fuckin' concept, I know, but.."

Djinn stared at him and Chucky nodded almost condescendingly; "You're just gonna have to trust me, okay?"

Replaying what had been said, a visual of the both of them sitting on the couch took over the forefront of his mind. Imagining them arguing and questioning one another until the sun rose...Did not sit well with the djinn.

"Okay."

With that, they both settled down enough to amicably take on the role of 'teacher and student'. Chucky took great care to point out the most important buttons and their corresponding symbols, and Djinn leaned himself close to view and listen to what functions they served. As Chucky had said, the arrow-shapes of the volume buttons indeed seemed to make the picture box's noises rise and fall. And additionally, the large curved arrows of the channel-changing ones did exactly that. During this intense lesson, Chucky had been the one to operate the remote control to showcase the full power that the device had over the tv.

But now..

Now it was his turn to wield that power.

There existed only a split second to doubt the toy's help before the weight of his pointed thumb came down over the button of the change-channel-one, and a perfectly working tv channel came to life before them. Finally, finally the tv could perform its duty as intended, and it broadcasted one of practically endless streams of what the humans referred to as 'commercials'. He gnashed his teeth, feeling the smug look his little companion gave him.

"Well?"

It was akin to gargling piss and the Wishmaster suffered through it's utterance; "Thank..You."

"See? Ain't that hard."

Still reeling from the brunt his ego had taken, the djinn could not resist griping; "It was not as 'peasy-easy' as you mortals have made me believe."

An expression of intrigue froze on Chucky's face right then. A broad grin, just about wide smile arrived next but was rapidly refused. Suddenly the toy shifted forward, looking the djinn over as an idea sprouted in his brain.

"Say uh...You have a hard time tryna' say all those phrases and stuff. Why don't I, help you out?"

The djinn cut him an almost distrustful side-eye, or maybe the expression had more to do with him not wanting to look away from the screen after what had felt like an eternity of trying to get it to work. "Help me out?" He nearly sounded insulted.

Chucky couldn't help the snicker, but still managed well enough with the reply; "Yeah. Y'know, get you more used to 'em. I can let you know when you get 'em wrong or whatever."

"You would do that?"

"Yeah! Don't see why not. You say somethin', and I'll uh, give you a thumps up if you get it right. How's that sound?"

Djinn hummed and considered this. The two met each other's eyes. "Sounds...Helpful."

Snickering to himself, the killer toy relaxed deeper into the folds of the blanket surrounding him. An arm was freed to show off the red letters on the overall's torso pocket with a flourish of a hand; "Well that's me. Good Guy! I'm a reeal helpful kinda guy," His laughter continued, low and somewhat suppressed. "Hidey-Ho!" He laughed on, as though enjoying a secret joke that the genie was not in on.

And as the djinn turned away from him, he could not shake the feeling that, in some way, he was the 'joke of the butt'.