"Revenge of the Slasher Film Archetypes" by John A. Tures
- roifaineantarchive
- 49 minutes ago
- 14 min read
This story was originally published by Free Spirit “Speak of the Devil” Anthology.
The casting director guided the girl with glasses in the wheelchair down the hallway of Cavern Studios. “You’ll want to get a snack and a coffee in the breakroom, where you meet the other actors,” he insisted. “Filming for the next slasher movie begins in fifteen minutes.”
The girl with thick glasses reached out to get the door, but a gangly kid with a wild mop of black hair held it open. “Hi,” he said with a voice cracking. “I’m Guy Hopkins. Welcome to our only interlude from dying today.”
###
The girl in the wheelchair looked around the room to see an ivory refrigerator covered with death notices. There was a messy microwave, a coffeemaker that looked like it hadn’t been cleaned since the days of Juan Valdez, and a half-consumed jar of peanut butter. There was also an oven and stovetop covered with a few kernels of popcorn. A dull fluorescent light above gave the room the look of a creepy sanitarium.
To her left, a guy with too much gel slicking back his brown hair gave her a thumbs up. He was wearing a letterman jacket from the local college. Next to him, a cheerleader in the same school colors had her head buried in an issue of the National Enquirer. She gave a wave without breaking concentration from the tabloid.
“That’s Rusty Nailor,” Guy pointed to the muscular kid in the letterman jacket. “All-Conference at everything, including the first to be killed in every slasher flick. Next to him is his girlfriend, Suzanne Copy, head cheerleader, who currently leads the school in the number of times being kidnapped.”
She rolled her eyes, then showed her wrists, the only blemishes on her otherwise perfect skin.
“And what’s your character?” the girl in the wheelchair asked the guy who opened the door for her.
“Everyone calls him ‘Hot Pocket,’” Rusty explained.
“Why?”
“Because in high school, my mom packed them in my Scooby-Doo lunch box. I’m always spending my lunchtime looking for a working microwave on campus,” Guy said.
Suzanne put down her tabloid after having circled her horoscope. “He’s the goofy sidekick to either the hero or the ‘last girl’ heroine, hon.”
“Except I never make it to the end,” Hot Pocket whined. “I’ve been killed in these films so many times that I think it’s illegal to sell me life insurance anymore.”
“In other words,” Suzanne explained. “We’re the slasher film victim archetypes.”
###
Rusty stood up. “They’ve got us all typecast. And they own our contracts, so we can’t get out of here.”
Suzanne pointed to the doors. “The director, Warren Cavern, has guards who won’t let us leave the set of the films. So we’re stuck here physically, as well as financially.”
Hot Pocket groaned. “We keep getting killed off on stage, but he uses dark magic to bring us back to life every time. It’s like that movie Groundhog Day, if it took place on Halloween or Friday the 13th.”
The girl with glasses gasped. “So I’m stuck here?”
All nodded in reply.
Rusty stood up. “But, you know, I’m more than just a man of strength, speed, and stamina. My real dream is to perform on Broadway, singing classic show tunes.”
Suzanne and Hot Pocket put their hands up to their ears a second before the jock broke into a rendition of “Memory” from Cats, sung out of tune, along with an unnecessary key change. The girl with glasses quickly covered her ears as well.
The cheerleader took her hands away from her ears once her boyfriend finished and started combing her hair. “I’m not just about being pretty and perky all of the time. I’ve got a dream too. I want to start a church camp where I direct the kid campers in morality plays. I want them to make the right decisions when they go to high school.”
“Yeah,” Rusty laughed. “And not get drunk and make out with me after skinny…”
“Shut up, Rusty!” she snapped.
Hot Pocket jumped in. “I know I’m always joking around, but I’ve got big plans too. I want to be a game show host, like Bob Barker, Alex Trebek, or my favorite: Steve Harvey!”
“He does like to joke around a lot,” the jock noted.
“Yeah,” Hot Pocket replied. “I’ve been killed so many times in slasher films that I think
I qualify as an honorary red shirt.”
Suzanne gave him a side-eye. “What do you mean by red shirt? You always wear blue.”
“It’s a Star Trek thing, I think,” Rusty guessed.
Hot Pocket ignored them. “So who are you?”
The girl with glasses in a wheelchair gave a nasal-sounding giggle. “I’m Marie Lovelace, named for two leading scientists, Marie Curie and Ada Lovelace. In high school, I won the science fair, the spelling bee, and the award for most hospitalizations for accidents. Just clumsy, I guess.”
“Well, welcome to hell,” Rusty sighed. He pulled back his jacket to show stitches around his neck. “I’ve had more injuries in these films than in my football-playing days.”
Hot Pocket pulled up his t-shirt to reveal a myriad of surgeries. “I’ve had more organ repairs than a cathedral.”
“No offense” Marie smiled. “But I’m the brain, so when I’m out there in the slasher movies, I’m going to outsmart the villain, or at least not fall into his traps.”
“Good luck,” the cheerleader offered.
###
28 days later, Marie joined her fellow archetypes in the breakroom for another coffee break.
“Speak of the devil….How’s that outsmarting thing going?” Hot Pocket asked, eating a handful of Green M&Ms.
The brain in the wheelchair sighed. “You’d think my I.Q. would make a difference, but no. Every time, the slasher wins.”
“Warren Cavern writes all these scripts, so he decides who lives or dies,” Rusty the jock explained. “You can’t live through one of his horror flicks unless he allows it.”
“I think he’s acting out his pathetic high school angst,” Suzanne opined. “Got bullied by the jocks and turned down by cheerleaders like me for dates to prom. Plus, he wasn’t as extroverted as guys like Hot Pocket. He kills us off to get even.”
“Wait,” Marie held up her hand. “Can’t live through one of his horror flicks,” she repeated Rusty’s words. “That gives me an idea. What’s the schedule of movies that we have to shoot tomorrow?”
Hot Pocket moved to the newest addition, a room with a small TV with streaming options—and hit a button on the remote.
Don LaFontaine, the male voice from countless film previews, began his dramatic synopsis. “When angry parents killed Frankie, a corporate executive for marketing dangerous toys, they unleashed ‘The Nightmare on Wall Street,’ where this killer slays unsuspecting kids watching television with deadly subliminal advertising.”
Only Hot Pocket laughed. Red-faced, he pushed the fast-forward button.
A woman sounding like Nicole Kidman provided the chilling overview. “Tuesday the 26th is twice as unlucky for these Space Camp boys and girls when Justin Boorhes, an astronaut trainee who died in a tragic centripetal machine accident, exacts his revenge upon counselors and children alike.”
Everyone looked at each other as if to say: “Is this for real?”
Hot Pocket pressed the button, and the next preview was queued up. Michael Pena, of Ant-Man movie fame, gave his rapid-fire description. “Based on a college student film project, the scariest horror film of the summer features Fiberface stalking his victims in the desert with a deadly weapon in The New Mexico Weed Whacker Massacre.”
Everyone’s jaws dropped, stunned into silence. Hot Pocket shrugged and hit another button.
Keith David, the deep voice from Batman: The Animated Series fame, introduced the last film. “Arbor Day will never be the same as the ghost of lumberjack Mark Mayers uses his axes and saws to target teens camping on their spring break in Pisgah Forest …”
Marie took the remote away and shut off the television. “Good God, is anyone going to watch this shlock?”
Rusty shrugged. “Guess so.”
“Slasher flicks sell, or they’d never make twenty Saw films.” Hot Pocket pointed out.
“You know, I was reading in Psychology Today where Dr. Aloysius Hardee speculates that people compensate for misery in their life by watching popular entertainment where others suffer even more,” Suzanne stated.
All looked at her with greater shock than they did for the film previews.
“What?”
Marie waved off the cheerleader’s comment. “While I was in surgery for the tenth time this week, I got an idea about how we can get out of dying in these films by flipping the script and escaping this personal hell Warren Cavern has us in, contractually. And we’ll do it with each of your special secret skills and dreams.”
“How?” Hot Pocket wondered aloud.
Marie pulled out a notebook with no shortage of scribbling in it. “I’ve been working it out. Here’s our plan.”
###
The scene opened with Rusty staggering into his dorm room, football uniform still on. He slumped into a chair, turned on the television, and stared at it as if hypnotized.
Frankie appeared on screen and rubbed his hands together, ready to work his subliminal magic. “You want to go buy a set of Ginsu Steak Knives and stab yourself with all of them,” the cruel businessman commanded.
At that moment, Rusty sprang from the comfy chair and sang out dramatically.
“Why must I be stuck
Watching the T.V. box?
When I could play
With the other jocks!”
He pranced around the room while Frankie stared at him open-mouthed.
“What the hell are you doing?” the evil corporate executive snarled from the TV.
“You’re supposed to die watching me.”
The athlete continued to pirouette and sing
“Whatever do you mean?
You poor dumb slob?
Nobody dies in a musical
Unless it’s Les Misérables!”
Frankie tried to scream out from the television tube but found himself instead singing
“The lyrics are so bad
And the plot is worse.
I can’t really kill you
Or even so much as curse!”
Frankie groaned, trapped in an endless song-and-dance spoof of his own slasher movie.
###
Along the windswept desert sands, Fiberface stalked his pretty target. I’ll tie her up, gag her with her scarf, and torture her with my trusty weedwhacker, he thought, as she approached a low ridge. He carefully uncoiled the rope. It would be all too easy.
But as he rushed forward to bind her, she spun around and deftly dodged him. Fiberface tripped over a rock, fell in a tangle of ropes, and rolled to the base of the ridge.
As the slasher struggled with the bonds, Suzanne waved over several children to the top of the short ridge, which served as a sitting place for an impromptu lecture.
“Good afternoon, children,” the cheerleader sang out. “Today we’re going to talk about good choices and bad choices. Mr. Fiberface here tried to kidnap me. Is that a good choice, or a bad choice?”
A little girl’s hand shot up quickly. “It’s a bad choice. You could go to jail for that.”
“That’s right, little Kimmie. It can get you several years in prison, depending on which state you’re in. And in New Mexico, they tack on another ten years if you torture the victim.”
The children nodded in unison.
“And do you know what, kids? I looked at the script ahead of time. It turns out his older sister used to tie him up while she was babysitting him for trying to sneak out of the house.”
Fiberface grunted, trying to free himself from the ropes to no avail.
“What should Mr. Fiberface do, instead of kidnapping young ladies?” Suzanne asked her class.
The students looked stumped until one little boy named Randy raised his hand slowly.
“Maybe he could talk with his older sister, and work out their problems with words, not bad choices.”
“That’s right!” Suzanne beamed. She reached over and placed a gold star on boy’s head. Randy smiled.
Fiberface vainly tried turning on the weedwhacker to get out of his bindings, but it merely sputtered and failed to start.
“Gee—having performance issues today, aren’t we, Mr. Fiberface?” Suzanne cooed.
“You can’t get me in an ‘ABC After School Special.’ Didn’t you know that?”
The slasher groaned while the cheerleader continued. “When Mr. Fiberface was in third grade, Miss Brown gave him a D+ on his art project. And that made him mad. Children, what should he have done, instead of getting angry?”
Fiberface screamed in agony. Now he was the one experiencing torture.
###
Mark Mayers strode down the hallway, where he just knew that geeky sidekick was cowering. The last door on the left was sure to produce his next victim, he thought. He flung open the door, shocked to see a soundstage set up like a game show, complete with a live studio audience clapping in unison.
“Well, if it isn’t Mark Mayers, the Arbor Day slasher,” the host, Hot Pocket, announced into the microphone. “He’s our final contestant on the game show ‘Holiday Specials.’”
Mayers headed toward his target on stage swinging his axe. The crowd gasped, until the blade flew off the handle and bounced harmlessly off a fire exit sign. The audience responded with a classic laugh track.
“It seems Mr. Mayers doesn’t know the rules of the game,” the plucky sidekick laughed. “You can’t kill someone on a game show, especially the host!”
Three burly security guards marched the lumberjack down to the front row, in front of a monitor. “Since our Arbor Day slasher doesn’t know the rules of the game, I’ll explain them,” Hot Pocket grinned. “You post a bid on the item we showcase, and the contestant with the bid closest to the actual price, without going over, wins. The winner must then answer four trivia questions to win the grand prize.”
The game show host looked up to the control booth. “Johnny, what is the item up for bidding?”
“Well, Guy, I mean ‘Hot Pocket,’” the announcer laughed. “It’s a Whirlpool Washing Machine, which holds four cubic feet, has up to twelve wash cycles, and a smooth spiral stainless steel wash basket.”
“Great for washing those blood-splattered linens,” Hot Pocket added. “Our four contestants have me so scared that my goosebumps flew south for the winter.”
The audience roared with canned laughter.
“Pinhead, will you start the bidding?” the show host began.
The villain from the film Hellraiser snarled “I’m The Hell Priest and Lead Cenobite, if you don’t mind, sir. And I’ll bid $762 for the washing machine.”
“And how about you, Mr. Ghostface?” the host asked.
The black-hooded character with the white mask, from the movie Scream looked up, then down, and then typed “$595.”
“Excellent,” Hot Pocket clapped his hands. “And ‘Chucky,’ what’s your bid?”
The doll from Child’s Play laughed. “Friends ‘til the End! $596!”
In a flash, Ghostface drew a knife and stabbed Chucky in the head. The doll responded with a laugh. “Can’t keep a good guy down!” He gave his classic toothy grin.
Hot Pocket looked down the row at the final contestant. “And, Mark Mayers, what will you bid for the washing machine?”
Mayers angrily punched several buttons on his keyboard. “$625, I see,” Hot Pocket read the numbers. “The actual retail price is $666. Mister Mark Mayers, you win the washing machine.”
Cheers and loud claps erupted from the studio audience.
Mayers stormed onto the stage but tripped going up. He fell on his hacksaw, snapping the wood, making the would-be weapon useless. The serial killer groaned.
“Now, now, Mr. Mayers.” Hot Pocket wagged his finger. “Focus on what you could win if you get all four answers right. Johnny, what’s our grand prize?”
The announcer barked “An all-expenses-paid vacation to the Pacific Northwest! This trip includes stops at Redwood National Park in California, Olympic National Forest in Washington, and The Enchanted Forest in British Columbia!”
Mayers’ hands went from trying to repair the hacksaw to clapping in glee.
“All you need to do is answer four trivia questions about a holiday. And in your honor,
Mr. Mayers, that holiday is Arbor Day!”
The Arbor Day slasher danced with glee, rubbing his hands together.
“First question, Mr. Mayers, is this: What does Arbor Day honor?”
Mayers’ guttural tone followed.
“That’s right: trees!” Hot Pocket exclaimed. “Next question: What month is Arbor Day celebrated in America?”
Again, Mayers grunted his reply.
“You are correct, Mr. Mayers,” the game show host replied. “It’s April. Perhaps you’re smarter than a fifth grader!”
The Arbor Day slasher snarled something and made a move toward Hot Pocket, who retreated. “My mistake. You are smarter than a fifth grader. Now, for the third question, who was the Pisgah Forest Killer last Arbor Day?”
Mayers proudly pointed to himself.
“That gives you three correct questions, sir.” Hot Pocket announced into the mic to the cheering crowd. “Last question: Who was the President of the United States when Arbor Day was first celebrated in America?”
A hush fell over the audience. Mark Mayers frantically paced the stage. Finally, he grunted three times to Hot Pocket, who replied “Rutherford B. Hayes? Oh, I’m sorry Mr. Mayers. It’s actually Ulysses S. Grant. So close.”
An enraged Arbor Day slasher brought out his bucksaw, but the metal blade clattered to the stage.
“Oh, did that blade rust?” Hot Pocket’s mock pathos showed through. “Should have used Rust-Oleum, one of our corporate sponsors. Because ‘Rust Never Sleeps.’ But Johnny, what do we have for Mr. Mayers in addition to the washing machine?”
The announcer’s voice boomed. “Well, Mr. Mayers. You’ve just won the home version of the game ‘Holiday Specials.’ And you’ve also won a box of Rice-a-Roni.”
“It’s the San Francisco treat!” Hot Pocket added. “Oh, and Mr. Mayers, you’ll have plenty of time to play the game—in prison. That’s because the FBI and North Carolina State Patrol are here to arrest you, given that you confessed to the Pisgah Forest Massacre on camera. As for our television and studio audience, join us next week when we look at our next holiday: National Ice Cream Day!”
###
On the set of the last film, a man in a flannel jacket, grey jeans, and black boots, wearing an astronaut helmet, crept up on several unsuspecting teens wearing light blue Space Camp t-shirts and white shorts.
The silence was broken by Marie’s voice, in a faux British accent, announcing. “Here, on this week’s episode of ‘Mutual of Orlando’s Wild Killers,’ we begin on a Tuesday, the 26th, where we see Justin Boorhes, our predator, sporting an astronaut helmet, as he approaches his targets.”
The serial killer waved his hands frantically and then gave the universal signal for silence with a single finger.
“And now, the would-be killer appears to be putting up a single finger for where his mouth should be, clearly not wanting me to alert his prey,” Marie continued. “Oh wait—now he’s giving me another finger, one much closer to the middle.”
The kids in Space Camp t-shirts began to look behind themselves, where Justin Boorhes was trying to shush Marie.
“Now Justin is making what appears to be a throat-slashing maneuver,” Marie documented from her wheelchair. “Yes, yes, you want to kill, you apex predator you.”
From within the astronaut helmet came a mighty groan.
“Ah yes, Justin’s quarry has heard the serial killer’s cries of dismay, and these space campers are now running away to safety,” Marie added happily.
While the Tuesday the 26th killer switched his focus, the show’s host told the television audience “Now Justin has shifted his attention to me. But what he does not realize is the fact that one typically can’t kill the narrator in a documentary.”
As if on cue, Justin tripped over a root, slamming to the ground. His astronaut helmet flew off. Shaking his head, dazed, the serial killer had just enough time to look up and gasp before the wheelchair slammed into him full force, knocking him unconscious.
“Oops!” Marie apologized. “Blast these wheelchair controls!”
###
When the four congregated back at the film studio’s breakroom, there were hugs and high fives to go around. Each related how they defeated their respective slashers.
“I wonder if this means we’re free of our binding contracts?” Suzanne wondered aloud.
“There’s one way to find out,” Rusty reasoned. He pushed open the side door to the break room. Security guards normally posted to block their exit had vanished. Slowly, the four archetypes crept down the hallway, past studio offices and board rooms, until they reached the control room.
Inside, they found a figure slumped over the controls.
“Speak of the devil, it’s Warren Cavern,” Rusty announced. “It looks like he’s sleeping.”
As they crept forward, Suzanne let out a scream.
“His head’s exploded, man,” Hot Pocket gasped. “I’ve heard of blowing a gasket, but this is ridiculous.”
“It appears he spontaneously combusted,” Marie observed. “Or at least his head did.”
Hot Pocket held his hand over his chest. “Our film productions were so bad that they killed him.”
“Guess that means we don’t have to be in any more slasher flicks,” Suzanne sighed with relief. “What do we do now?”
“Let’s celebrate!” Hot Pocket threw his hands in the air.
“Hey.” Rusty tapped the side of his head. “I know a great place by the lake. There’s a summer camp there.”
“Yeah!” Suzanne beamed. “We can stop by ABC Liquors for beer and rum.”
Marie frowned. “But is that safe?”
Rusty patted her head. “Sure, Marie. That camp’s abandoned, so we won’t be chased off by any cops or camp counselors.”
Hot Pocket laughed. “Besides, nobody believes in those legends about cryptids in the woods around the lake.”
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