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The Dream Trap	By : Flynnparadox Category: M through R > Nightmare on Elm Street Views: 2501 -:- Recommendations : 0 -:- Currently Reading : 0
Disclaimer: I do not own A Nightmare on Elm Street, nor the characters from it. I do not make any money from the writing of this story.

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A Nightmare on Elm Street:

The Dream Trap

By Brian Flynn
Prologue: Jesse Checks Out, Jill Checks In
The theater was dark and dank, the print was scratched to hell, and though she was all by herself, Jill Snyder was laughing her ass off.
It was past one in the morning and the midnight movie at the old Valiant Theater - The Evil Dead - was really picking up steam. Jill took another hit of her roach and giggled some more. She truly loved this movie and seeing it stoned was - at the moment, it seemed - the best idea she had ever had. Pity there was no one to share it with. Bobby had to get up early for practice, Gale and Eric had other plans.
The theater was a rathole, run down, dingy and dirty but Jill wouldn't have it any other way. No matter how bad the theater was, whenever the lights went down and the movie started up, she was always transported to another world, a world sometimes lit by a rather dim bulb but always existing at 24 frames per second. It was magical, really.
The Valiant was a single screen theater for much of its history but had been converted to a two-screener six years ago. Jill was in the smaller theater, while the tiresome Rocky Horror Picture Show was unspooling in the larger theater. Jill was sure that theater was filled. It was a more popular midnight movie for some reason.
Jill took another hit, laughed, and dropped the roach.
"Shit," she said and got on her hands and knees on the grimy theater floor. She saw a little glowing ember under her seat and reached out to retrieve it.
That was when she saw the shoes.
There was nothing out of the ordinary about the shoes themselves. It was the fact that there was someone else in the theater with her. She was sure she had come in alone and she hadn't heard anyone come in during the film. But there was definitely someone here, someone sitting in the seat directly behind her.
Slowly, cautiously, she got up on her knees to peer at this other movie patron. She didn't know why she should be afraid to look but she was.
Turns out that she was right to be.
Peering over the theater seats like a frightened child, Jill saw that the other person was someone she knew.
His name was Jesse Walsh, he went to the same high school as she did, and, right now, he did not look well.
Her terror rose. She considered running - just booking it out of the theater as fast as she could - but she was frozen in place.
Despite all she had heard about Jesse recently, despite the terror she felt looking at him, there was something in his face, a look of hopelessness, that kept her from running.
He was staring at the screen - no, that wasn't right. He was staring through the screen, as if hypnotized. But that look of sadness, of hopelessness, was certainly there, she hadn't imagined it.
Jill mustered up all the courage she was capable of and spoke.
"Jesse?" she said.
He didn't respond, didn't even look at her.
"Jesse," Jill continued, "they...they say you killed a bunch of people. Lisa, Grady, Kerry, all those people at that...pool party massacre. Even your family, your parents! Tell me it's not true. Tell me!"
Jesse was sweating profusely, unnaturally so, Jill noticed.
She could see it in his hair and running down his face.
Then she saw his clothes. They were completely soaked.
When she realized that her eyes were running and the sweet smell of marijuana left her nostrils and was replaced with a noxious, potent smell, she knew it wasn't water that was covering Jesse.
It was gasoline.
Jesse finally stopped looking at the screen and looked straight into her eyes.
"He'll get you, too," he said.
And then the gasoline pouring out of his shoes touched Jill's still-lit joint under the seat and Jesse went up like a candle.
Fire engulfed his body and his seat. The heat was instantly intense and Jill fell onto her ass.
She took another look at this scary, sad boy before running and, for a moment, she thought she saw another figure standing over him, a demonic yet somehow playful silhouette.
Then she got to her feet and ran, never looking back.
Chapter One: The Elm Street Kids
Fall, 1986
1
"I see it every night when I close my eyes," Jill said. "It's burned into my brain. If you cut my head open right now, you'd see it on the inside of my skull, like a fucking burn on toast. Is that normal, after all these months?"
"Of course it is," Dr. Saunders said. "This is not something that will just disappear with a snap of your fingers. This is not magic we're talking about, after all."
"Magic might work better. Or maybe drugs."
They were sitting in Dr. Saunders office, a bright, open room with good light. Jill always chose to sit opposite the psychiatrist, eschewing the convention of lying down on a couch during these sessions.
Dr. Saunders was in her forties, an attractive redhead immaculately dressed in a suit. Jill was a senior at Springwood High with black hair. She was pretty, with a deep, husky voice, but her eyes were bright with intelligence. There was something going on behind those eyes that wasn't quite clear to anyone looking at her.
"We've discussed drugs," Dr. Saunders said. "In fact, I've discussed it with your father."
"God, what else have you discussed with my father?" Jill asked. "Don't we have some kind of doctor/patient confidentiality thing?"
"We do and I have not directly discussed anything you and I have talked about in this room. However, we have discussed drugs and both he and I are against them. He may not know about the recreational drugs you partake in but I do and I don't want to prescribe anything if you are going to continue using."
"Recreational drugs. You make it sound like I'm some addict. Like I'm on heroin or coke. Recreational drug, not drugs. I smoke weed, doc, that's it. I like weed. Hell, I don't even drink very much. You know that."
"I meant no offense."
A moment of silence passed between them. Jill nervously fiddled with her black wristband as Dr. Saunders sat still, watching her. Finally, the doctor broke the silence.
"How are your friends?" she asked.
"They're good," Jill said.
"Supportive?"
"Yes," Jill sighed. "You and your little therapist terms. Supportive. They're there for me, okay? Like friends are supposed to be."
"That's what supportive means."
"I know. I just don't think any of them would put it that way."
"Bobby?"
"Bobby's good," Jill said, not looking at Dr. Saunders.
"But..."
"But he looks at me differently."
"Looks at you how?"
"Like I'm different since I saw it."
"You are different."
"I guess. We're good, it's fine. I like him, he likes me. I should be so lucky to get a football player for a boyfriend."
"Are you having sex?"
"Whoa," Jill said. Now she looked at the doctor. "Just like that, huh? I was beginning to think you were like an anti-Freudian or something. Or that you were afraid of sex. This is the first time you've asked me about it."
"It seemed like the right time," Dr. Saunders said. "Is it?"
Jill nodded.
"Yeah," she said. "We're sexually active, to use one of your terms."
"How long now?"
"Not long. A week."
"And you were the one who initiated it." It wasn't a question and Dr. Saunders' eyes burned into Jill.
"Well, I mean he obviously wanted to as well," Jill said. "But, yeah, I guess it was me. I thought it was time."
"Did you have a particular goal in mind?"
"You mean besides wanting to jump his bones? I mean, have you seen him? He's like a stallion or something."
"Yes, besides that. You didn't have sex with him to convince him you were just like any other girl, did you? You didn't, shall we say, give it away just because he was looking at you differently, did you?"
"Well, I'm not different than any other girl, right? What's special about me? I'm not strange, right?"
"No, you're not strange."
"Wow, weighing in, are we? That was pretty definitive, doc. Okay, I feel better. Job well done."
"What about your other friends?"
"Gale seems a little sad these days. Don't know what it is. We talk all the time but she hasn't mentioned it. Figure it must be boy trouble. Some asshole was probably mean to her. Like they always are. Course, the shaved head doesn't help. But I think it's a good look for her. Eric is Eric. He makes me laugh. And he's also friends with Bobby so there isn't that awkwardness that there sometimes is when you've got a friend who's a boy but he's not your boyfriend, know what I mean?"
Dr. Saunders said nothing for a moment. Then, "And Maria?"
"Oh, here we go again," Jill said. "Maria is my friend, all right? She is."
"Drug dealers aren't friends, Jill. They just want your money."
"What and she can't be both? She can't be my friend and also want money from me when I want weed? You know, you live in this perfect little world but, you know what, you've got blinders on. You've got tunnel-vision. All you see is what's right in front of you and you can't accept that people can't all fit in your little view, your little box that you like to lock up."
"I'm not the one seeing a psychiatrist, Jill."
"Oh, that's cold. You also didn't see a kid burn himself alive right in front of you."
"A murderer."
Jill shook her head.
"No one believes me," she said. "I'm telling you, he didn't do it. He did not kill all those people."
"All the evidence was there, Jill," Dr. Saunders said. "You have to come out of this fantasy. Jesse Walsh was a murderer. A mass murderer."
"I looked into his eyes! He was sad but he was no killer. He was scared to death in those last moments."
"He was scared because the police were closing in on him. His time was short so he chose a way out, a way out that would be remembered, just like his crimes."
"If that's true then why did he choose me? Huh? Why?"
"Because you were there."
"There's still so much that doesn't make sense. I don't know how I didn't notice the gasoline, for one, or where it came from."
"You were high at the time."
"Right, but I'm never THAT high. Also, I've read the same newspaper reports that you did. You remember when the cops had him cold, I mean stone cold cornered? There was no way he could get out of that manhunt they had assembled. They tracked him to that hotel, right? They knew he was there, just knew. Eyewitnesses, numerous phone calls, I mean he was there. No doubt. And they rush in and he's gone. Just gone. Door bolted, window sealed shut, like a fucking locked-room mystery. How do you explain that?"
"I sense the hand of sensationalist journalism. Nothing more."
"No, something was going on. I've read stuff, talked to people. There was more to Jesse than any of us know."
"I'm sure there was. Like all murderers."
A tear trickled down Jill's cheek. Just one - she had it under control almost instantly.
"I just feel like we were connected somehow," she said. "I think he chose me deliberately."
"Did you ever talk to him at school?" Dr Saunders asked. "Were you friendly with him?"
"No. Not many people were. He didn't make friends easy."
"You feel like there was a connection between the two of you because there was: you saw him die. You were the only person you saw him die. It was his very last moment, his last act. There is a connection between the two of you, Jill, but that's all it is. You were the witness he needed to complete his life. And I'm sorry that it was you."
"Yeah, maybe that's it. I don't know anymore. I've been pretty out of it a lot of the time."
"Sleeping well?"
"No."
"Bad dreams?"
"Sometimes."
"We discussed dreams when you first started coming to me. If I remember correctly, you're a lucid dreamer, aren't you?"
"Yes."
"Then why not change the dream when it starts to go bad? Make the monster explode or fight it?"
"It's getting harder. There are some nights when I don't even know I'm dreaming, which almost never used to be the case. I've been controlling dreams since I was nine. It sucks. Plus, I never really see the monster. He's always..."
"He?"
"I'm sure he's a guy but I've never seen him. He scares me, doc. And that shouldn't happen. Not to me, at least."
"We have to continue next week," Dr. Saunders said, standing up. "We've gone over our hour."
Jill nodded and stood up as well. She shook hands with Dr. Saunders.
"Thanks for listening, doc," she said.
Dr. Saunders nodded and showed Jill to the door.
Dr. Saunders' office was on the top floor of a strange, winding four-story building and Jill liked to walk instead of taking the elevator. As she made her way out of the building, she mused on her dreams.
The dreamscape was different than anything she had ever before experienced. It was a series of connecting rooms, rundown and vandalized. At first, it was fairly normal - a scary, deserted house, yes, but normal - but as the dream progressed, however, the spaces became more surreal, more paradoxical. And there was always that feeling that she was being pursued, that something was after her. She didn't remember much else about the dreams beyond that. It was frustrating because she did want to discuss them with Dr. Saunders. Despite her prickly relationship with her, she felt that the doctor was helping her in the long run.
The staircase down from Dr. Saunders' office was odd, the winding stairs somehow different from every other staircase Jill had ever seen. The space seemed more confined somehow, like the walls were collapsing in on her. Picking up speed, she got out of the staircase, the building and down the street, onto the short walk home.
Her appointment was after school and it was now early evening, a cool, pleasant Friday night. She had the whole weekend ahead of her. Maybe she could wrangle up Bobby or perhaps Gale to do something tonight.
She turned a corner and emerged onto Elm Street, her street. It was a long, straight road, tree-lined. Nice. And yet, there was something about it, something hidden. Arcane.
Looking up, past the trees, she noticed a girl in a second storey window, dancing like a robot to some music that Jill couldn't hear. The girl was rather strange-looking: blonde hair with black streaks in it, dark, expressive makeup. Grave Wave, for sure.
Jill knew the girl by name - Tiffany - but didn't really know her in any meaningful sense of the word. She nodded to her in the halls at school, that sort of thing. She smiled and kept on walking.
She stopped at Maria's house - 1419 Elm - almost approached it but decided against it. She didn't have enough money on her for weed, anyway.
She heard something, a rhythmic slapping sound. Rope hitting concrete? She frowned and turned towards the sound, which came from across the street. She saw nothing, no indication of the source of the sound. But she knew roughly where it came from. She didn't want to look up at it but she did anyway. There it was: 1428 Elm. Jesse's old house.
The House.
It had started to build itself a nice little reputation around town, certainly among the residents of Elm Street, at least. An empty house, a home now only to madness and murder. Murders, Jill corrected herself. Murders, as in multiple. She shuddered and kept walking.
Continuing down the street, Jill reached her house in only a few minutes. The house in question was one of the nicer houses on the block, a well-maintained two-storey affair, with a fence around the yard. Jill unlocked the gate and made the short walk up to the house. Inside, she was greeted by an empty, dark house; her father must have stayed late at the paper. Only creaks and dustmites were here to keep her company. She headed into the kitchen to rustle up something to eat.
2
In his dreams, Eric Tate could fly. High above this backwards, provincal town, with its pathetic downtown and lousy nightlife, above the industrial section, with its boiler rooms spewing out toxic fumes and green death. He soared through the clouds, which in his dreams were always white and puffy, almost cotton candy. He banked, headed towards the high school, where he dropped a water balloon full of piss on the principal, who shook his fist in anger at him.
Eric laughed and continued on his way, dropping lower still, into the downtown area. It was kids stuff: a few bars and clubs, all of them either too tame to bother entering, others too adult to let teenagers in. In reality, Eric was doomed, either way. But in his dreams, the place was livelier, with cooler people around, not just posers or those druggies that were truly dangerous.
He landed deftly on his feet, as he always did, strutted through the streets, as he always did, was gawked at and admired, like he always was. He passed Taryn, who in reality was a pretty girl who was hardly ever in school because she was in this part of town, constantly doped up, but in his dream was a kind of leather-clad, punk goddess, with a high mohawk and a pair of switchblades. He nodded to her and she smiled back at him. Passing her by, he patted her on the shoulder and headed towards his goal.
She was at the end of the alley, all dolled up but still strong, still capable of fending off all who came at her: Steph. In reality, he didn't even know her last name, had only seen her around town, always on the arm of her bad news boyfriend, Drake. But here, in his dream, she adored him and sometimes, when he felt like it, would sleep with him.
He approached her now, both of them smiling all the way. Her red hair was elaborately fixed and high, her bangs like bat wings. Her lipstick was bright red, the color of blood in the movies.
This was his favorite part. Now he would reach her, pull out a cigarette like James Fucking Dean and lean into her and ask, "Got a light?" And she would respond, like she always did, with, "Always for you, tiger."
Here it comes.
He reached her, produced the cigarette, stuck it in his mouth, leaned in. Like a movie star.
"Got a light?" he asked.
She smiled at him, her face lovely with movie star good looks, her big eyes wide and lit with the perfect key light. Then the smile became a sneer.
"Why the fuck would I want to waste a match on a dried-up bag of shit like you?" she asked.
For a second, Eric didn't register what she had said and he leaned in more, expecting her to produce a match and light his cigarette. Then it hit him.
"What?" he said.
She didn't answer, just kept smiling and walked away, disappearing into an alley Eric hadn't seen before. The neon sign above him kept flashing. "Jake's Bar," it read. The neon light illuminated a spot on the wall perpendicular to him, almost as if it were highlighting the graffiti there.
And what graffiti?! Among the usual gang tags was a stylized, rather quite beautiful silhouette: a figure hunched over, hand extended up from his side - and it was a he, that much was clear - nails like knives. The overall color was a striped pattern of red and green, topped off by what looked like a brown hat. A fedora, perhaps?
As he was looking, he felt a presense behind him. Someone was standing right behind him. He whirled around - ready for just about anything, the way this dream was going - and the figure behind him pounced, attacked, a hand tipped with razors coming towards him. Eric was dead, he knew it.
"Eric!" a voice called.
Eric's eyes popped open as he snapped awake. He looked around, disoriented. He was home, at his desk in his room. He had fallen asleep at the desk - it had been a long day - one cheek flat against the desk, sticky with sweat.
"Eric!" the voice called again.
"What, ma?!" he said.
"Your dinner's getting cold!"
"Alright, alright, I'm coming."
He was dreaming, the usual dream about Steph, but something had happened, something had gone wrong. But what? He couldn't quite remember, but he didn't like it.
Rubbing sleep from his eyes, he got up from his desk and headed into the kitchen. He was tall, a little lanky, with red hair, spiked above his head. The house was small and his bedroom was practically right off the kitchen and living room.
His mother sat at the tiny kitchen table, a cigarette in her mouth. The table had been sparsley set: two plates adorned with unheathly-looking steak and a spinkling of greens; a bowl of beans in the middle of the table.
Eric joined her at the table, picked at the greens with his fork. They ate in silence for a few moments. Then, his mother:
"Going out tonight?"
"I don't know," Eric said. "Maybe. If I hear from Jill or Bobby. Riley, maybe."
"Well, I don't want you taking the car."
"When can I get my own car?"
"When you get a damn job and earn enough money to buy one."
"Riley's dad bought him a car."
"Well, maybe your dad could have bought you a car, too, if he hadn't gone and got himself killed."
"Nice, mom. Good one."
They didn't talk much after that.
3
It was nearly midnight when Gale O'Connor showed up at Jill's house. Jill knew she was coming even before she rang the doorbell installed in the gate in the fence around the house: her loud, backfiring clunker of a car gave her away.
Jill opened the front door, leaned against the doorframe, arms folded across her chest. She made no effort to walk down the path and let Gale in, but just stared at her.
Gale stood at the gate, looking exactly the same as she always did: short, 5'1", wearing jeans and a simple white T-shirt under a brown leather jacket, pretty but odd, mainly due to her head, which was shaved bald. Her hands were tucked into her jacket pockets.
"Well?" she asked, almost shouted.
"Well?" Jill said back.
"Beefy Boy?"
"It's almost midnight."
"The drive-thru will be open, always is on the weekends. Come on, it's not like you've got a curfew or anything. I don't see your dad's car in the driveway."
Jill smiled.
"You know everything, don't you?" she said.
"Pretty much," Gale said.
Jill laughed, and went to get her keys and a light jacket. A few minutes later and they were cruising through Springwood, speeding through mainly residential streets, the top down on Gale's convertible. The car had once been a stylish, hot red but was now dull and battered with age, its engine always sputtering and making lots of other, less easily identifiable noises. Boy, was it still fast, though, and Gale drove it like a maniac.
Beefy Boy was a short drive away, a gaudy, somewhat isolated fast food joint in a mosty residential area. Gale pulled up to the drive-thru speaker box, placed their orders, and drove around to the pickup window. At the window, as he always was, was Bryan. He had their order up quick and Gale thanked him and they pulled around to the front of the restaurant to eat. The dining room was closed and they wanted a little cool night air anyway.
"So, come on," Jill said, "tell me."
She was sprawled across the backseat, fast food bag in her lap, burger in one hand, soda in the other. Gale was sitting across the front seat in a similar manner.
"Tell you what?" Gale said.
"You know," Jill said.
"I don't. What?"
"Come on. Your crush. I know there's somebody at school who does something for you. That nagging itch, you know."
"I..."
Gale shook her head, nibbled at her cheeseburger, lapsed into silence. Jill put her own burger in her lap, leaned closer to Gale across the seats and sipped on her soda.
"There must be someone," she said.
"Well..." Gale said.
"Give me a name, at least."
"Chris."
"Chris. See, not so hard? Chris who?"
"You...you wouldn't know..."
"I know a lot of people."
"But not Chris."
Jill gave her an odd look, one eyebrow raised. She smirked.
"Okay," she said. "You don't need to tell me anymore if you don't want to."
Gale nodded, not looking at Jill. They ate in silence for a few moments before Gale spoke.
"Hey," she said, "have you been sleeping okay? Recently, I mean?"
"No," Jill said. "Keep thinking about Jesse."
"I get it. It's just..."
"What?"
"Well, I keep having these nightmares. It's weird. I didn't see Jesse die but it feels like I did. You know? As if you telling me about it has made me remember it somehow. Does that make any sense?"
"No, you're completely crazy."
Jill laughed.
"But, really," she said once she recovered, "I don't think it's too weird. I have talked to you about it."
"But not a lot," Gale said. "Just here and there. And I completely understand. It probably hurts to think about it. But you've only talked about it a couple times. But it feels like I was in that theater, too. In my nightmares, I'm buying popcorn at the Valiant, and the concession stand is...dirty. It's covered in shit and blood but the girl working the counter is immaculate...beautiful, you know? But she's hiding something. Her smile seems forced. And there's this door behind her...behind the counter, right? One that isn't there in real life. And its banging, like someone...or something...is trying to get out."
"Pretty intense."
"Yeah. So I buy my popcorn and go into the theater."
"Which screen?"
"The smaller one. Screen two. I go into the theater and sit down right next to the only other person in the theater. And its Jesse. He smiles when I sit down and starts eating my popcorn. Right out of my bag. Like he's my date, you know?"
"Yeah."
"And he's acting weird. Smiling too much. He's hiding something, too. Like the concession girl. And me."
"Then what happens?"
"Then I notice that what he's pulling out of the bag of popcorn and popping into his mouth isn't popcorn."
"What is it?"
"It's eyes. Eyeballs. Whole eyeballs."
"I'm eating here, Gale! Don't try to gross me out."
"I'm just telling you the nightmare. That's all. This was just last night. I want to get it out of my head. I don't want to sleep tonight."
"Okay, tell me more. What's the movie you're watching?"
"Some horror movie. I remember zombies. They're shambling out of an old ice cream truck."
"An ice cream truck, like a neighborhood one?"
"Yeah."
"Are they dressed like ice cream men?"
"Fuck you."
Jill laughed.
"I'm sorry," she said. "Just being thorough. So, go on."
"Well, the movie switches to another scene and suddenly I'm onscreen."
"You mean, the dream changes and you're now in the movie."
"No, I'm still watching the movie from the theater but I'm also in the movie, if that makes sense. Onscreen, I'm performing on stage, I'm singing in a metal band. And the band's great. Really bitchin. There's this girl on lead guitar with a mohawk and this other girl dancing sort of crazy, like a robot or something."
"Cool. Bunch of sexy guys in the audience?"
"No, not really."
Jill slapped her friend on the arm.
"Way to ruin a good dream!" she said.
Gale shook her head and smiled as she continued.
"So the zombies break into the venue where we're playing," she said, "and we have to fight them, kill them, you know? And, back in the theater, Jesse and I are really enjoying the movie, but something's wrong. I'm being watched. I know it, the way you do in dreams. I just know it. I look left, right, behind me, nothing. I don't see anybody. Then I look down, between my legs... And there she is, Lisa Webber, one of Jesse's...victims. The one he...beheaded. She's looking up at me, head resting on the floor between my legs. I scream and look at Jesse. And he's been beheaded himself. Just a stump of a neck where his head used to be, blood spraying out of it like a fucking fountain. Then someone grabs me from behind, from the row behind me, and I wake up."
"Well, I've lost my appetite," Jill said.
"Yeah."
"So what do you think it means?"
"Your therapist is rubbing off on you."
"I guess so," Jill said with a smile.
"All I know is that I don't want to have the same dream tonight," Gale said. "Will you stay up with me?"
"Of course. Sleepover!"
"But with coffee and cigarettes instead of sleep. Let's go."
They threw away the remains of their fast food and took off, Gale driving like a maniac once again, back to Jill's house.
4
"Ah, God, look at those tits!"
Stanley Peters sighed, put down the issue of Fangoria like it was too painful to look at anymore. Bobby Garfield picked it up, gave the foldout of Elvira, Mistress of the Dark a good once over, nodded in approval and passed it to Eric.
"I'm hip," Eric said. "She definitely has breasts. That I can confirm to you, my friend."
They sat around the empty high school football field, Stanley and Bobby on the bleachers, Eric standing on the ground just below them. The high school employed a security guard, of course, but he was a drunk and lazy to boot and the three of them - as well as other teenagers, from time to time - had taken to hanging out here in the middle of the night, usually after convincing some old hobo to buy them booze. Tonight was no exception and they all took turns taking a swig from the bottle of Mad Dog as it was passed around. It was one in the morning and the town was dark enough to see the stars, which filled the sky, sparkling above them.
Stanley had blonde hair, feathered and streaked. He wore a denim jacket that was a little too big for him, khaki pants and white high top shoes.
Bobby was tall, built like a war horse, with dark hair and movie star good looks. His smile was infectious. Tonight, he was wearing his high school football jacket, like he did most of the time.
"Man, I wish she did porn!" Stanley said. "Just want to see her get fucked! But no! Just some nudity in a shitty old movie. And not in the Elvira costume. I mean, what's the point? Why does God punish me so?!"
"Calm down, kid," Eric said. "You're gonna hurt yourself."
Bobby just smiled and took a swig from the cheap wine bottle. He passed it to Stanley.
"I'm just frustrated is all," Stanley said.
"But there are plenty of sexy chicks in all the skin flicks you have already," Bobby said. "Aren't they enough?"
"No. Are you kidding me? Of course they're not enough. Why do you think I keep buying them?"
"You like jacking off?" Eric offered.
"Well, I do like that, it's true," Stanley said.
They all laughed. The bottle found its way to Eric, who finished it off, tossed it into the football field.
"Careful where you throw that," Bobby said. "I'll be running there Monday morning." He smiled.
"Eat me," Eric said.
"You're not my type, babe," Bobby said.
"I would certainly hope not," Eric said.
"Oh, I got a good one the other day," Stanley said. "You gotta borrow it, Eric. You'll love it. 'New Wave Hookers,' how does that strike your fancy?"
"New Wave Hookers?" Eric said. "What does that even mean?"
"I don't know," Stanley said, "but that's besides the point. It's got Traci Lords in it. Oh, man..."
"Traci Lords?!" Eric said. "She was underage, dude, didn't you hear? That tape's illegal!"
"Oh, and what we're doing here isn't?" Bobby said. "None of us are twenty-one."
"See, Bobby's on my side," Stanley said.
"I didn't say that. I'm just making a point."
"Thanks."
"You're welcome."
"Where did you even buy that tape?!" Eric said. "I know that Springwood Video unloaded half their porn stock when the news broke just in case!"
"This little place I found just down the street," Stanley said. "Small, kinda creepy, actually. Guy that works behind the counter is...weird. Wears this hat, right? A fedora, I think."
"A fedora?"
"Yeah. I think so."
"Eric," Bobby said, "something wrong?"
Eric shook his head but he was clearly shaken. Stanley laughed.
"What is it, dude?" he said. "Someone walk over your grave or something?"
"It's nothing," Eric said. "Just had this dream is all. And what you said made me remember something about it."
"What did you dream?" Bobby said.
"Probably something about big cocks to suck on or puckered assholes to eat out."
The voice belonged to a fourth boy. The other three looked around to discover Riley Reynolds striding onto the field. He was well over six feet, black, big and tough, with strong features. He, like Bobby, also wore his football jacket. Closely behind him was Ann Franklin, also tall and sporty, pretty and strong, her long blonde hair tied back in a pony tail. She looked mischievious, slightly cruel.
"Riley, man!" Eric said, laughing.
He approached the man, and they did an elaborate handshake that neither of the other two boys were able to follow. Riley held a football in his hand, which he tossed into the air and caught deftly, occasionally throwing back and forth to Ann, as he spoke to them.
"Who's your friend here?" he asked.
"I'm Stanley," Stanley said.
"Seen you around, man, nice to meet you."
"Likewise."
"This is Ann, if any of you don't know her."
"Hi," Ann said, raised one hand in a sort of salute, then caught Riley's football with one hand.
"Bobby," Riley said.
"Riley," Bobby said.
Stanley could feel the tension between them, the cold hatred just under the surface of their words, threatening to bubble up. The two stared at each other for a moment.
"What was with that pass this morning?" Riley said. "My grandma could throw a better pass than that."
"Maybe your grandma could catch it better than you, too," Bobby said.
"What did you say?"
"You heard me."
"Hey, guys, come on," Eric said.
"You say another word about my family," Riley said, "I swear to God--"
Bobby stood up, pointed a finger at Riley.
"You should be using your prayers to ask for a pair of faster feet, asshole," he said. "That fumble was completely your fault. I threw it like Joe Fucking Montana! I was perfect!"
"Perfect my ass!" Riley said.
He made to move towards Bobby and Eric stepped in front of him, hands raised. Ann put a hand on Riley's shoulder, holding him back.
"Hey, brother, calm down," Eric said. "We can all be friends here. It was just a practice, man. I mean, I don't play football, I admit, but this is why you guys practice, right? To find out what works, what doesn't work, to get better? Right?"
There was silence for a moment. Bobby and Riley stared at each other across Eric.
"I don't know why you're friends with this lightweight," Riley said to Eric. "He's soft."
"Soft?!" Bobby said. "That what your girlfriend said about your dick tonight?"
"Motherfucker!" Riley said.
"That's you, right?" Bobby said, pointing at Ann. "He's soft, right?!"
"Oh, I'm not his girlfriend," Ann said.
"Hey," Eric said. "Let's just get out of here, alright? We'll just cool down, maybe grab another drink? How 'bout that, huh?"
"Whatever, man," Riley said. "I'm gonna steal that gorgeous piece of ass right out from under you, Bobby. Hear me? I'm gonna get me some of that Jill. She is fine." He stretched out the 'I' in 'fine,' exagerated it.
Bobby shook his head. Stanley looked at the rest of them, not knowing what was going to happen but dreading it. He knew that Eric was friends with Riley, but he was also friends with Bobby. It was a tough situation for him. So which side would he come down on if there was a fight, right here, right now?
There was another moment of silence. Then Riley turned and walked off the field and Stanley breathed a sigh of relief. Ann smiled a nasty smile, put up her hands in a "What are you gonna do?" gesture.
"Well, guys," she said, "it's been real."
Then she turned and followed Riley. The two of them were off the field and gone in a matter of seconds.
"Well, I don't know about any of you," Stanley said, "but I could use a pull right now, if you know what I mean. Ease the tension, you know?"
"You're on your own, man," Eric said, laughing.
Bobby laughed a little, too. A few minutes later, they left to see if they could get another bottle from someone.
5
Drake lit a cigarette, puffed deep the sweet cancer and turned to Steph, who was also lighting up. The two of them made quite a pair: both punk to the very core, chains, black leather, makeup. They leaned against a brick wall in an alley in downtown Springwood. It was almost two in the morning now and only the worst drunks, the most dangerous psychopaths and denizens of the night were up.
"He in there?" Drake asked.
"Sure is," Steph said. "Couldn't stop looking at my ass."
"Can't say I blame him."
"You flatter."
"It's true. He still have it?"
"Of course. It's behind the counter. Sign says 'Not for sale'."
"Yeah, we'll see. You ready?"
"Ready when you are, babe."
"Let's do it."
They exited the alley, rounded the building to the entrance. A single, solitary door was illuminated on the street. The sign above it read, "Anderson's Pawn." Drake and Steph entered the shop.
It was small, cramped. Every shelf, every space of counter was full of junk, both valuable and totally worthless. Coca-Cola pins sat next to handguns, old porcelain dolls shared space with switchblades. The man behind the counter, presumably Anderson, was around fifty, big, round but not what you'd call fat. His hair had mostly thinned out and he wore big, black spectacles and a gold necklace. The counter was not lined with bars or bullet-proof glass. This place was too low-budget to afford something like that.
"Gal says you have some kind of great offer for me," Anderson said. "Something worth opening up at this time of night. What is it?"
"I want that," Drake said.
He pointed at the item, which was behind the counter, behind Anderson, on a little shelf of its own, dusty and untouched for some time. Anderson turned to see what Drake was pointing at.
"Can't you read? What are they teaching you kids these days? That's not for sale," he said. "It's mine. Source of pride, shall we say. I'll never sell it, no matter what the price. That really what you wanted to see me about, son? You wasted your time then."
"What if I make you an offer you can't refuse?" Drake said.
"Don't make me laugh."
But it was Drake - and Steph - who laughed. Steph covered her mouth in embaressment.
"What's so funny?" Anderson said.
"Nothing," Drake said. "Look, I got a buyer for that...collector's piece. Willing to pay quite a price."
"That somehow my problem?"
"Oh, more than you know."
He pulled the handgun lightning quick. One moment, his hands were empty, the next he was pointing the gun at the man. It was a revolver, nickel-plated, short-barreled.
"Jesus Christ," Anderson said. "Think that's supposed to scare me? Think that's the first time someone's pointed a gun at me, son?"
"Any of 'em pull the trigger?" Drake asked.
"Not a one. And neither are you. I don't believe you will."
"Oh?"
"Yeah. Your generation doesn't have the guts. You don't know anything about honor...or proper violence. The kind's that called for."
Drake cocked his head to one side, smirked. His piercings glittered in the harsh, flat light of the shop.
"Proper, huh?" he said. "I don't know about that."
He pulled the trigger twice, the first shot taking Anderson in the gut, the second in the head. His nose disappeared and the back of his head exploded out of his skull, splattering the wall behind him. Some blood and brain matter hit the item in question.
"What the fuck?!" Steph said.
Anderson's body dropped to the ground as Drake laughed. He walked slowly, calmly towards the counter.
"I thought you were just going to scare him!" Steph said. "Not kill him!"
Drake shrugged. He hopped the counter, gave the dead body a kick and grabbed the item off the shelf.
"Hold this," he said.
Steph took the item as Drake jumped back over the counter. They were out of the store in seconds. Their car was parked in the alley and they rushed back to it, got in and got going. Drake was driving, Steph in the passenger seat.
"Someone's willing to pay three thousand bucks for this?" Steph said. "Why? What is it?"
Drake shrugged again, looked at the item.
"I don't know," he said. "It's pretty flash. I could see myself wearing it."
The item was a glove.
A glove augmented with metal; razor sharp claws on four of its fingers.
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The Dream Trap