Fictional Short Story – The Moribund Show!
Photo credit: dieraecherin from morguefile.com
Note: This is an excerpt, to be placed into the grander story of Everyman. Look at it like a prelude or a prologue.
Slater Morrison, also well renowned as his satanic nom de plume: “Slayer Moribund,” was readying himself for his close up, for his on camera performance as Host of his own On-Line Reality Occult show. The warehouse / seudo-film studio was dimly lit and overtly decorated in the gothic, to the point where its cliché’s find not the frightening but the hilarity, which is kept under the breaths of his tech crew. The three college classmates and one fanatic first cousin as Make-up artist made up this skeleton crew. His tech and camera men, also doubling as sound and grip-boys, were all in Slater’s Acting for Film Class at the local city college. They dreaded these Fridays/Saturday mornings, but they argued with themselves that it was well worth it for the experience, plus the star was compensating them with twenty dollars gas money for each vehicle and an ounce of Weed. The guys behind the scenes were obviously non-occultists but neither were they pious religious, heavy church going types. The latter part Slayer made certain by back ground checks, and they were as ordinary and as atheist as any sheep. The digital high mounted wall clock burned 1:05 am in a red glow, this signaled the eminent commencement.
“Thirty seconds people,” a baritone called from the off stage gloom.
The crew counted down and Slayer Moribund took his seat on a tacky purple velvet armchair. A black hand belonging to a black young man invaded the space in front of his paper white face, counting down, fingering “4 ” then “3” and lastly a “2” with index and pinky fingers, as the Host had instructed, then that dark hand faded into the ironic.
“It’s six past the Eleventh Hour,” the vampire looking twenty something began speaking in a seductive voice, striking a match to light the thick flesh colored candle near him on the side table, then carrying that match flame to the iron cast candle holder shaped as horns of something assumed as demonic. The added illumination blossomed to expose the extent of the macabre theatre which was his own bloody show. “And for all of you, my loyal insomniac viewers, loyal to the Dark Lord…” he spoke the last words with a deep timbre, deeper in a throaty lustful way like he were gargling his own tongue. Then softly with puckered red lips, blowing out the match, he continued with a sudden start–full facial close up, all wide eyes and open mouth, a weird and horrific caricature of a gothic Ronald McDonald with fangs!
He shrieked with a frightening volume and insanity leading to the announcement of his devilish public broadcast, “It’s Time! –for the Moribund Show!”
The crew jumped at being startled, one snickering in the shadows, and the corpse bride of a cousin was finger clapping stage left. The other crew members began to laugh inwardly to themselves just to shake away the Heeby Jeebies that goose-fleshed down their necks from being out right scared straight, from being startled. His loud gut wrenching scream came out of nowhere and was as bad enough of a replacement of a shotgun saying “Boo!”–the barrel in the face more frighteningly real as any ghost.
This ghost who was the host, now glaring and extending out his tongue and snarling into the camera, was without a doubt as psycho nuts as any real psychiatric patient and strangely made the air of the studio uncomfortably thick with a slimy chill out of the ordinary for a mid June evening. Least to say the crew in the studio, save for the fanfic of an undead Moribund groupie, were becoming uncomfortable in the close proximity of a probably ready to snap serial murderer who bows at the hooves of some beastly evil. He had without a shadow of doubt, pun intended, came out of Halloween closet –obvious with his occult sh#t.
The three city college Techy dudes look all at once to each other and silently mouth “WTF?!” their eyes sudden wide and awake, and kind of freaking out.
The faces of stone masks and various tiny gargoyles that littered the scenery seemed to come to life as the candle flames stretched and cavorted, creating the illusion of stone faces emoting with the flickering. Far from the flattery of imitation, wanting to pay an homage to his favorite child-hood hero: Elvira the Queen of the Dark, the set was staged to “recreate the essence and the mood of a decades old classic,” he had said by way of instruction for its construction.
“Tonight, my followers of Pitch and servants of mayhem, we have a treat,” young Mr. Moribund calmed his face and tongue as he crept slowly stage right, beginning the tale of tonight’s show. “A killing spree has been reported in the south state of Missus Pee, in some swamp hole of a town, that claimed the lives of over a hundred…”
“People?” the same baritone from the shadows off stage had whispered out loud his shocked query. Slater squinted his eyes in irritation, quivering left eyelid a possible sign of hysteria. He would later identified the bellowing low husky voice belonging to the bear cub from Acting for film class, Milo. Slater had almost forgotten his name, since they responded to “Dude!”
“Over a hundred sacrifices, my fellow fiends…”
“Of people…?” a different whisper prodded.
“Of Cats!” Mr. Moribund blurted loudly as three gasps followed, then died in the rictus that stretched his mouth –the trench coated host enjoying the new found torture of his mundane crew, giggling to himself.
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