THIS IS SOME vile, repugnant fucking shit, Curt Olsen thought to himself, as he fought off a fresh wave of nausea. There’s no good reason for this type of thing! Getting Millie’s fine unconscious frame from her house to her car and then from her car into the old Johnson place was easy. Easy enough to actually surprise Curt as to how much bad stuff really does go unnoticed in life. Even stashing her crappy car had proven less then troublesome. However, as easy as the abduction and transportation turned out to be, trying to strap one hundred and thirty pounds of dead weight and appendages into a makeshift sex swing quickly became a mighty difficult chore. Huff and puffing like a fat man running uphill, Curt finally got Millie all trussed up like he was instructed. Then came the part he was dreading to perform—the part he cursed even now as he performed it.
Curt knew this next bit was further punishment for messing up the plan rather than a necessity, but who was he to question the master. Nobody, that’s who, Curt thought as he swallowed back a chunky burp. He couldn’t fathom why Millie’s entire body had to be smeared in dog feces, other than the master had a sick sense of humor, but he would do anything to earn back his precious Roadrunner. Dropping the crap-covered trowel into the bucket, Curt took a moment to admire his work.
“There, I hope that’s satisfactory.” Curt said aloud into the eerie quiet of the old house.
Curt, haggard and bone-weary, trudged down the staircase with his pail of poop in hand. At the bottom of the stairs he encountered an ornate full length mirror, warped and milky from age. Curt approached the mirror hoping to get a look at his harried face. However, it was not his face that met him, but the hideous two-toned countenance of Boogeyman grinning gruesomely that he saw reflected therein. Curt came within a baby’s-breath of smashing the mirror with his stench pail, but the sight of what Boogeyman was doing caught his attention so fully that he dropped his bucket instead. Boogeyman was standing on the other side of the mirror applauding. Curt couldn’t hear a thing, other than his own pounding pulse, but it was unmistakable: The Boogeyman was raucously clapping his claws together in, what seemed to Curt, an approving, congratulatory manner.
“Are you clapping for me?” Curt cautiously asked the warped image of his master.
Boogeyman nodded his massive head positively in acknowledgement.
“Does this mean I’m forgiven, master?” Curt inquired of the monster in the mirror.
Again Boogeyman nodded his positive acknowledgement.
Hoping he wasn’t pushing his luck, Curt asked: “M-master, c-can I have my car back now, please?”
Boogeyman reached down and scooped up the reflection of the pail that Curt had dropped moments before. Taking the hint, Curt retrieved his pail, the contents of which he’d forgotten at the prospect of re-obtaining his car. Standing with his pail before the mirror like Oliver Twist with his porridge bowl, Curt eagerly awaited his master’s appreciation. Almost too swift for Curt’s eye to catch, Boogeyman reached into his warped version of the poop-pail. Wide-eyed and open-mouthed, Curt watched as Boogeyman produced a very familiar set of car keys, then motioned for Curt to follow suit.
Shaking with equal parts fear and anticipation, Curt plunged his hand wrist deep into the foul smelling muck contained within. Wrapping his fingers around the only solid item in the bucket, Curt triumphantly withdrew his hand from the stinking offal. As he uncurled his feces-covered fist, Curt’s sense of triumph turned sour in his throat. In his palm were not the keys to his beloved car, but the keys to some other vehicle altogether. Slowly, Curt turned his confused countenance inquiringly upon Boogeyman’s monstrous mug. To Curt, it appeared that the nefarious fiend was laughing at him.
“Master, whose keys do I have? What are they to?” Curt asked, measuring his tone as he fought to contain the rage bubbling up inside him.
Boogeyman rhythmically and methodically tapped the mirror with the point of one clawed finger. After a few moments fine cracks began to spider-web across the mirror from the claws-point of impact. Like spinning her miraculous opinions of her swine friend, a word began to take shape within the intricacies of the cracking surface. When the tapping ceased, to Curt’s bewildered astonishment, the words HEARSE and GARAGE were quite legible.
“These are to a hearse parked in the garage?” Curt asked, shaking the slimy-slick set of keys.
Boogeyman nodded his massive melon once in reply.
“But master, there’s nothing in the garage, especially not a ride of any kind. I’ve checked,” Curt added hastily.
The next few moments all happened with quiet intent. First, Boogeyman drew back his hood so as to give Curt the full attraction that was his ghoulish two-tone, jester face. Next he reached out and grabbed onto what appeared to be thin air. All of this pantomime would’ve looked quite comical to Curt, if he wasn’t currently having the life strangled out of him. Frustrated with Curt’s flippancy, Boogeyman straight pulled the Darth-Vader card and was unremittingly mind-choking his young apprentice. With a quick, jerking motion of Boogeyman’s gigantic arm, Curt flew forward to slam painfully into his own reflection.
Curt landed on the floor in a crumpled heap, throat burning, gasping for precious oxygen. He still firmly gripped the keys he retrieved from the pail in one crap-covered hand. The mirror was gone, vanished into the ether, but the instructions Curt received while his master unmercifully asphyxiated him still burned brightly on the forefront of his purpose. When Curt closed his eyes it was like he could see Boogeyman’s words etched on the back of his eyelids.
Convey JJ here now, be perverse.
Do not dilly-dally, use my hearse.
“As you wish, master,” Curt said aloud as he struggled to regain his feet. “But first I think a bath is in order. That is, if you don’t object, master.”
Curt took the eerie silence as all the permission he needed and hurriedly took his exit to go enact the next stage of his master’s scheme, after a nice hot shower, of course. In the old Johnson house, up in a second floor bedroom containing a bound, unconscious, beautiful woman—a full-length mirror sat regally in a corner. Slowly, the mirror swiveled on its hinge to afford it’s inhabitant a better view of his pretty prisoner. Fiendishly, Boogeyman licked his cracked lips with a bifurcated tongue, causing the woman to shudder in her unconsciousness.
When Millie Slam finally came to, she found herself completely nude; painfully cinched spread-eagle into a horribly, coarse hammock-style sex sling; and entirely slathered in what smelled like dog feces. Why she was covered in poop, she was clueless. However, having had an adventurous and slightly kinky boyfriend in college, Millie knew a sex swing when she was strapped into one. She tried to scream but the ball gag wedged between her teeth forbade more than a high-pitched squeak. What the hell have you gotten yourself into, Michelle? Debra Slam’s chastising voice echoed through her daughter’s terrified brain. Focus Millie, focus, she thought, trying to calm her frantic and frightened mind.
Millie looked around at her environment and was surprised to see that her surroundings consisted of a vaguely familiar bedroom, dilapidated by time and the elements. Faded and peeling wallpaper, a warped bare-wood floor, one boarded-over window, two doors—one presumably a closet door. Other then the swing, the only other object in the room was an intricately-carved, antique, and extremely creepy full-length mirror. That’s not odd or anything, Millie thought, as she struggled feebly at her bonds, only to find them as unyielding as they felt. Remorselessly they dug into her flesh. Again, Millie tried to calm her mind and gather her wits as a fresh wave of panic-laced terror washed over her senses. Think Millie, think! What’s the last thing you can remember? She reasoned with herself, to stave off the flood of fear.
Millie began to rack her brain for clues as to her current predicament. Try as she might, she couldn’t seem to recall much after leaving JJ’s house. She remembers the short trip home and thinking of JJ the whole drive, clearly enough. She can plainly recall fumbling with her house keys and finally getting her front door open, then…nothing. Cut to: Bound and gagged in a sex swing. Damn it Millie! There has to be something after the front door! She pleaded with her brain to remember. When a memory did finally float to the surface of her mind to fill in the gap, Millie wanted nothing more than to evacuate the contents of her stomach.
“The B-Man’s got something special planned for you bitch…something extra fun.”
Curtis Olsen’s voice! She distinctly remembers Curt’s raspy voice, whispering crude sexual innuendos into her ear as he choked the life from her body. Was she dead then? She didn’t feel dead. She was in too much pain and experiencing way too much terror to be dead, but she didn’t feel like this was all truly real. Sure the pain and fear were real enough but the whole room, the whole of the ‘reality’ she found herself confined to, was bleary and thin around the edges. As if she was in a dream. That thought didn’t bring her any comfort.
If her mind was bound and gagged in the realm of the subconscious, what was transpiring with her physical body in the conscious world? Again, no comfort was found in the answers to this enigma flowing through her confused and terrified grey-matter. Silly, stupid little thoughts of no consequence began to flit across her mind like a swarm of butterflies across a field of daisies.
They better not serve Arctic Sun Faygo at the Repast… I wonder if any of my old beaux will show up to the service… I hope they dress me in my favorite black and red dress for the funeral; JJ would like that dress… Oh JJ... They better let JJ sit vigil over my corpse at the wake… Wake. Wake? Wake!
That’s it! If she was sleeping, and this really was a dream then she could always just wake up. Suddenly a wave of relief and confidence replaced the fear and doubt so completely, that she bit down painfully on the ball gag in triumph. Damn, that didn’t work, she thought, knowing it probably wouldn’t do the trick, what with all the pain she was already experiencing.
WAKE UP, MILLIE! She screamed at herself straining every muscle in her body against her bonds. Panting around the gag, she tried to relax and concentrate on taking control of her subconscious. If she could accomplish a measure of control over her subconscious mind, she could then touch her conscious mind and wake herself. Easier said than done, however, considering her current situation. Relax Millie; you can do this, she thought earnestly, focusing on her center. I can do this—turning the four simple words into a powerful mantra, she began to calm herself.
I can do this, I can do this, I can do this…