⚠️CH1P⚠️

This particularly bad day started as any other. The morning was uneventful. Noon was a slog. He was flagging by the time the evening rolled around, especially knowing what and who he would have to deal with. The last broadcast of Midnight Mayhem, hosted by H.R. Bloodengutz. 

He’d never really liked the show to begin with. That sort of horror schlock wasn’t his thing at the best of times, but it filled an empty space and the ratings were pretty decent for a while. As he predicted, it didn’t last. Midnight Mayhem had been on life support for a while even before he decided to pull the plug. Not least because of the hosts recent behaviour.

John screwed his eyes shut to think. He should have seen the signs, but Larry Kurtzberg had been a completely normal seeming man when they first met for the audition. Well- normal for a former Broadway actor turned taxidermist turned newly-minted horror host, which is to say eccentric at the best of times. But he had been kind and courteous, and he couldn’t doubt the mans enthusiasm for the role. While that sort of over-the-top acting thing wasn’t his cup of tea, Larry kept the folks happy. It’s what the studio wanted.

It was only once he had truly settled into the role when he started acting out. Small stuff at first- a bit of ‘method acting’ here and there, staying in character backstage, and improvising more and more of his lines. But Midnight Mayhem had never been a particularly rigidly scripted show, so the improv was no problem. And if it helped his performance, how bad could it be to just let the old man pretend for a bit off-set? It was harmless.

Now, they certainly had their share of complaints once he started bringing in his own props. The chemical bottles and tools from the taxidermists were one thing, but dead animals was another entirely. Where he even GOT some of those body parts was anyone's guess, but he claimed they added the ‘realism’ to his skits that he desperately wanted. And despite his best efforts, John never quite managed to curb the behaviour

Then he got erratic. Almost violent, once or twice. Always stopping just short. John himself had been the target of a couple of what he assumed were cruel pranks. The time what he thought was a prop knife missed his head by inches- only to discover afterwards that it was a very real and very sharp blade- that was the last straw. Well.. that, and the money. Advertisers kept pulling out, saying they ‘didn’t want their brand represented along with the kind of obscenity that show is becoming’. Money talks.

So, Midnight Mayhem got the axe. A sad inevitability. He broke the news to Larry, shook his hand even as he stared at him with blank eyes. Tried to be as polite as he could about the whole affair. Only when John said he’d stay the night for the final broadcast and offered, on a whim to cheer up the now-unemployed menace before him, that he’d organize some kind of going-away party did Larry perk up. Grinned ear to ear. He’d be so happy if John could stay to say goodbye with him. So he did.

He’s beginning to think that was the worst mistake of his life.

The pain came back then all at once. John forced his vision into focus and looked at the arrow sticking out of his leg. It was supposed to be a prop. Foam and plastic. But the razor edge of metal that was buried in the meat of his thigh was far from fake.

His breathing quickened apace, an involuntary twitch staining his trousers as blood soaked into the fabric. Larry had stabbed him. He’d actually done it.

John groaned, glad that at least he wasn’t gagged anymore- regretting it immediately, as the playful humming stopped, replaced by footsteps. A shadow loomed over him, hands on hips.

‘Welcome back. Had a nice nap?’ He squinted up at Larry, who seemed to notice something. ‘Wow, you’re a real bleeder, John! I thought you’d have a stronger constitution. Oh well.’

His jaw hung open. ‘Larry, what the fuck-’

‘Ah! No, no, John. We’ve talked about this.’ He hunched down, face to face with John. Wrinkles hidden under the pale corpse paint, only the red and white of his eyes- was he wearing coloured contacts? John thought- piercing through the black that surrounded them. He was smiling, head tipped to the side. The kind of friendly smile he wore when first introducing himself to the producer, at least a year ago.

‘My name is H.R. Bloodengutz.’ One hand clasped John’s shoulder. ‘I don’t want to have to remind you again.’

Oh my god, he was still doing this. John resisted every urge to scream and spit at him, to call him a goddamn lunatic to his face, to tell the old man he was going to throttle him the moment he got out of this chair-

No. He had to stay calm. Larry- H.R. Bloodengutz, whatever- was clearly delusional. He was dangerous. John had to navigate this… carefully.

‘Look, okay- Bloodengutz. Right? Look, how about you- you untie me, and we can talk about this whole thing-’ He was cut off by a squeeze to his shoulder again, as Larry rose to full height. He burst into laughter.

‘You’re funny. You should have been a comedian, you know. You know perfectly well I can’t let you go until we finish the show. After all, you promised you’d stay for the whole night. You aren’t going to break a promise, are you, John? Not like you’d break an employment contract, anyway…’

John’s jaw clenched tight. ‘I- said I’ll stay. I will. I promise. It’s just-’ He rummaged through his brain, desperately looking for something to say, something that might convince the man to let him go- to untie him, at least.

He… couldn’t think of anything. Especially when he was interrupted by Larry clasping his hands together loudly.

‘Wonderful! There’s no rush before the next segment. Do you need anything else, John? Anything that doesn’t include me untying you. Obviously.’

‘This arrow out of my fucking leg.’ He mumbled through gritted teeth- he hadn’t even intended for Larry to hear it, but his patience was wearing paper thin.

‘Hm? Oh! Goodness, how did that get there.’ Larry chuckled to himself fondly. John was about to spit a remark back when he froze. Larry had grabbed the shaft of the arrow and was holding it in a white-knuckled grip. John realized with sudden clarity just how deep the arrowhead was.

‘There’s no need to complain so much.’ Larry lowered his voice, joviality gone. ‘You know, they say you shouldn’t pull out a foreign object if you get stabbed. It can cause serious internal damage. If I were to say, yank this out…’ His grip tightened for a second for emphasis- before he let go of the arrow completely. ‘Well, it might pierce your femoral artery. Do you know what that is, John?’

He couldn’t reply. Chest tight, eyes locked on his leg.

‘It’s ri-ight here.’ One finger pointed into the crux of where his hip met his leg, and traced down slowly. ‘Near the groin, there. And runs all the way down to… here.’ He stopped at John’s knee, tapping it lightly for emphasis. ‘Carries the blood from your heart down to your entire lower half. Now, if that were to be pierced- even a little…’ His hand drifted back to the shaft of the arrow, playfully walking his fingers along it. ‘It would cause immediate, rapid, blood loss. I’d give you… mm. Maybe two or three minutes, more or less.’

‘Oh, you wouldn’t stand a chance, especially not tied up like this. This isn’t the sort of gentle trickle you get when you cut your finger. No, no- this is arterial blood, John. It’s high pressure. It would spray out of you like a… like a beautiful geyser. Goodness, it would probably hit the ceiling...' His voice lowered to a whisper. He sounded awed.

John didn’t realize he’d been holding his breath. He was going to pass out.

‘But don’t worry!’ Larry clapped, startled him into a gasp- his lungs thankful for the sudden surge of air. ‘The night is young! Why, if I let you bleed out now, that would be no send-off at all. Like leaving the party before they even serve any drinks.’ He laughed to himself, flopping down into his throne next to John and taking a sip out of a wine glass. It was only supposed to have juice in it, but- John wouldn’t put it past Larry to be drunk right now.

He let out a shaky exhale. The pain in his leg- it throbbed, but… the bleeding wasn’t too bad. Not yet. He could handle this for the time being, just until he got a handle on the situation. He could do this. Heart pounding, John looked around. He scanned the studio beyond the stage lights.

It suddenly occurred to him just how quiet it was.

‘La- uh… H.R. Bloodengutz.’ He quickly corrected himself. Larry hummed in acknowledgement. ‘Where’s the rest of the crew?’

There was a pause and the sound of fingers tapping against glass.

‘Oh, they took the night off.’ He said, unconvincing. Not that John would’ve trusted Larry at the best of times, but he said it through a smile. A smile that had already gotten him stabbed tonight. He looked over, saw Johns tight-lipped expression, and rolled his eyes.

‘Fi-ine. I drugged them. Same as with you. Thank goodness you all partook in my celebratory pre-show toast! But they aren’t the stars of tonight's show quite like you and me. So, well-’ He waved his hand. ‘I put them in the prop department.’

‘So they’re alive?’ John mumbled.

Larry’s face cracked for a second into a wide grin, before he pushed it back down, faux-serious. 

‘No.’

‘You killed them?’ John couldn’t tell if he was bullshitting. Look, Larry was- unstable, sure, and seemingly turning violent but… even then, John struggled to comprehend that he was a murderer. Maybe it was just a defensive bit of his brain- the part trying to insist this would all turn out fine, it was just a stupid joke after all, he isn’t in real danger- throwing up any flag it could to avoid seeing the situation as it was.

All he got in response was a tutting sound, and the flick of something. He glanced across and- Larry was holding a knife. He began idly turning it in his hands, gently picking at his manicured nails with the edge. John stilled.

‘You’re asking stupid questions, John. I couldn’t let anyone else get in the way tonight.’ His voice was low. Devoid of the usual playful tone he carried. ‘I want tonight to be special. It has to go a very- special- way. I want it to be a show to remember.’

He daren’t speak. His eyes kept following the glint of silver as Larry handled the blade with such casual ease. 

Then, all at once, Larry turned to him with a bright smile, the sullen demeanour completely forgotten. ‘Say, John. When this is all over, do you think I could take a souvenir? I’ve already gotten one from everyone else, but I can’t decide what I want from you. What would you recommend?’

A pause. ‘What?’ He croaked.

‘You know. Something to remember you by! Look- I already took an eyeball from Mary. I have the cameraman- the other John, you know him- I took his hands. The intern- goodness, I don’t even remember their name- I sort of just grabbed their gallbladder. Not sure why, it felt right.’ He paused, tapping the knife against his chin. ‘I can’t figure out what I want from a producer. Your brain? No, no… that’s not right. I’m considering the heart, but we’d have to find out if you have one first.’

He laughed at his own joke. ‘If I can’t decide, oh- I might be greedy and just take the whole lot. I think I could do a lovely mount of you, John.’

John was speechless, but only for a moment. The anger- the fear- it bubbled up all at once.

‘You’re insane. You’re fucking insane!’ He snapped. ‘Larry, for fucks sake, stop this and let me go!’

‘Look, I know you’re upset about the idea, but I really am a very good taxidermist, John. It would look very lifelike. I have some lovely painted glass eyes that look just like yours back at the shop, you know. You don’t have to worry about the quality-’

‘I’m not worried about the fucking quality-!’ The anger bubbled up and he let out an anguished sound. He struggled then, renewed- ignoring the pain in his leg, he wrenched himself against the rope and screamed at the top of his lungs. 

‘HELP! ANYONE! IF YOU CAN HEAR ME, CALL FOR HELP-’

And he was cut off by the rags in his mouth. Unceremoniously jammed in there, Larry moving swiftly to tie them around his head, even as he thrashed against it. Sufficiently muffled, John looked up at his captor with bitter eyes.

He was still fucking smiling at him.

‘John.’ He said, voice steady. ‘You really haven’t comprehended the situation you’re in.’ He crouched down before him, at eye-level. He folded his hands gently and spoke as if to a small child.

‘I can do anything I want to you, and you can’t stop me. I could chop you up into tiny pieces, one inch at a time. I could pry out your eyeballs and sew the sockets shut. And if I want to gut you clean and stuff you with hay and make a lovely posed figurine of you to put in my rec room, I will. Whatever I want, I am going to do. It’s not your show, John. It’s mine.’

He expected the eyes boring into him to be lifeless. Hollow and emotionless, like the stories he’d heard about serial killers and madmen. But it was much worse than that. Larry’s eyes were alive. The joyful spark of excitement was barely contained on his face. He was more alive than he’d ever been. 

And John was going to die here.

The thought spun around his mind, frantic. It’s not a joke. He’s serious. He’s going to die here. He’s going to die here. He’s going to die-

The spiralling was stopped then by the sound of something clicking, and whirring. The automatic sign had lit up- ON AIR- they were going to be live any moment now. The feed was coming back online.

Larry- no. H.R. Bloodengutz turned away from him, clapped his hands together, and laughed heartily. He found the camera with the little red light and smiled.

‘Look alive, John. It’s almost showtime!’

John looked into the camera.

He screamed.