Saturday, May 3, 1964

SATURDAY, MAY 3, 1964

“Well my little boils and ghouls, have you seen enough?” The rickety plywood stage in front of the screen creaked as he leant on the edge of a massive operating table. There was no moon that night at the drive-in, and with the projector now dark he was lit by only a few headlights from the first row. A smile spread over his face like a wound as he looked down at the group of us who’d pushed up as close as we could get.

“Have you seen enough carnage?” He sneered.

“No,” we said.

“Have you seen enough suffering?” He demanded. His face was painted like a corpse, but his eyes, set deep in pools of black grease paint, were wild and crackling with life. He pounded his fists down on the table with every word like a revival preacher.

“No,” we said.

“Have you seen enough horror?” He teased. The blinking neon from the exit sign splashed blood red against the spider-web of scars running up the side of his face and the white shirt under his dusty black suit. He locked eyes with each of us and knew our answer before we did.

“No.”

“That’s what I hoped you’d say,” he cackled, running a hand through his greasy black hair. “Good thing too ‘cause I got another hot one comin’ right up! Mmmm makes me hungry just thinking about it. Little number called . . . the Blood Feast!” He strutted around in front of the table, crouched on the edge of the stage, and smacked his lips. The headlights cast a gargoyle shadow against the huge white-washed screen behind him.

“Which reminds me,” he said sweetly. “While my creatures are threading up the next feature, you may want to take the opportunity to patronize the concession stand.” He shot a mischievous glance over his shoulder to the side of the stage where he had parked a ferocious black hearse at the start of the show. Creeping towards the car, his voice dropped back into a simmering growl. “‘Course you might be like me,” he smirked, opening up the back of the hearse, “ . . . and y’packed your own snack!”

In two jerks, he’d pulled and thrown a lean black oblong box out of the back of car. It landed on the stage with an echoing thud and some muffled cries. He threw open the lid, reached in, and pulled out a girl. Blonde and long-legged, she looked about our age, maybe older. Like the girl next door, but none of us recognized her. She was in her underwear, wrists tied with rope, long black streaks of tear-soaked eye liner running down her cheeks, barely able to stand from the shaking. “C’mere sweetheart,” he said, pulling her roughly by the arm over to the operating table. She sobbed between big throaty gulps of air that made snotty bubbles rise between her thin pink lips. Each shuddering breath pushed her sweat-covered breasts almost over the edge of the cups of her bra. We were close enough to see goosebumps.

He hoisted her up and threw her petrified body on the table, which looked solid just like in the movies, but it creaked and buckled under the force when she came down. The sound of the slam echoed through the grounds. We held our breath.

“Please stop,” she whimpered.

“Please don’t,” we whispered.

“Shhh,” he cooed. His clown face now stretched into a mask of loving concern “You don’t have anything to be afraid of.” A flash of light reflected off the long blade he now held above her. “Except me, of course.”

She screamed.

He slashed.

The first one drew a wide ribbon of deep red across her throat. The next, across her bare shoulder, nicked the strap of her bra and painted her left arm with spray. Then another. And more. Thin slices became a frenzy of wet hacking blows that rocked the operating table, each one sending splashes of gore into the air and dripping off his maniacal leering face. Finally, he slowed, wiping his hand through his errant hair, slicking it back into place with blood. He seemed to ponder the scene before him for a moment with the dispassionate look a sculptor gives to marble. Then he drove the blade into her chest, sawing out a small circle. When he finished, he tossed the knife aside. It clattered to the stage floor as he tilted his hands and gingerly reached into her.

He pulled out her heart and held it gently with both hands. His eyes fixed on it like a frog that might jump away on its own at any second. Then he bit, wrenching loose a chunk greedily. Grinning ear to ear he chewed, reveling in the taste of our shock and fascination. Once he was finished, he casually wiped the back of his hand across his face, smearing red from the corner of his lip to his cheek. “Hits the spot every time,” he said.

We cheered.

The lights dimmed.

The next movie started.