Fan Misery Story by giraffmang FanStory Movie Parody contest entry |
It was the dead of winter and the snow was heavy on the ground. It was snowing like a dandruff-infested teenager shaking his head. He was struggling to keep his car on the road. The chains bit in but the snow and underlying ice was too deep to allow good purchase. The car was sliding around like an ice-lolly on a metal tray. What had possessed Dean to be out on a night like this? Racing home from his latest book reading which had gone down as well as a thesaurus in a dyslexic's Christmas stocking. He lost control of the car, just like he had lost control of his bodily functions in church last Sunday. The results were slightly more disastrous.The car rocked and rolled worse than 'The Rolling Stones' at their age. It eventually came to rest on its roof whilst, ironically, 'Dancing on the ceiling' blared out of the stereo. The snow continued to fall. Stuck in the middle of nowhere, miles from anywhere, in a snow drift. Could it get any worse? Of course it could, as Dean discovered one of his legs was broken. He wasn't sure which one but it was definitely one of his own. His first reaction was to turn off the crap music. That instantly made his situation more bearable. He steadied himself and released the seatbelt clasp, landing with a flump on the roof of the car. He crawled from the totalled vehicle just before it exploded, because that is what all car wrecks are prone to do regardless of situation. Dean crawled through the snow, pulling himself along by his arms. He looked up to see a figure moving in his direction, barely visible in the snow, arms waving wildly, in a scene ripped straight out of 'The Empire Strikes Back'. This was no Jedi though, they were to have more in common with the dark lords of the Sith. Dean passed out due to cold, fatigue, worry, stress, an ailing career, snow-blindness and being in a car wreck. He had earned his unconsciousness. He awoke to the rancid smell of chicken soup. People always gave you chicken soup when you were poorly and he couldn't stand it. It made him puke which co-incidentally was the same colour and consistency of most tinned chicken soups. He opened his eyes because there was no one there to do it for him. He looked around the room. It was white, and cream, and pink, and lemon. It looked like the frosting on a fairy cake. Dean could think of nothing worse. His own room at home was black. Just black. He lived in a black house. That's just how he liked it. He called it his Dark Tower. This was hideous, a horror. Cruel and unjust punishment for a man in his predicament. He noticed one of those old over the bed contraptions on wheels. Jesus, did I go back in time? I bloody hope not. I have a book out next month. Starting again would be a bitch. Not only that, he been reviewing like a demon on FanStory and didn't want his valuable member dollars to be of no use anymore, or worse, have to start reviewing the same stuff again. The Horror! And he had been leading the Haiku competition on 'A Mucus of Your Choosing'. It had been the most interesting prompt in an age. Anyway, sitting on top of the contraption was an old fashioned typewriter. It was the kind with big keys and arms to stamp the letters on the page. You know, the kind you needed to have dainty little fingers for but the strength of Hercules to actually write. He was pondering this issue when the door opened. Into the room squeezed the largest woman that Dean had ever seen. She literally squeezed in. Dean was waiting for the sound of a large pop when she cleared the doorframe but instead there was a dull slopping sound. Dean's stomach flipped for the second time since waking. She had a face like 'Cujo' mangled by a JCB. She looked at Dean with adoring eyes. He wasn't sure if she was in love with him or wanted to eat him. He shuddered under the covers in revulsion. Without a word she lifted the bowl of chicken soup. Dean thought she was taking it away but she turned just as he was about to speak and spooned a huge mouthful into his cakehole. Dean started spewing like a scene straight out of the exorcist but without the head spinning or vaginal abuse. "That's not very nice now is it, mister." It was spoken in a soft lilting voice like that of an imbecile at an idiot's convention who was unsure of themselves. "I made that 'specially for you. I killed the chickens myself." Without another word, she reached towards his hands as if to gently stroke them but instead grabbed the little finger of his left hand and jerked it back so violently, he heard and felt it snap like a banjo string half way through a rendition of duelling banjos and he hoped to hell he wasn't in 'Deliverance' now. As the pain receded, Dean heard a tap, tap, tapping at the window and looked over to see what was making the noise. On the window sill was a dark black cat. Dean hated cats. All that fluffiness and kitten cuteness made him want to barf. It would drive anyone insane. "I can see you ain't cat people, mister." When she breathed, he could feel the tremors in the floor. "That's Carrie. She's just come back from the pet cemetery. She loves it over there. She visits her mother there regularly ever since the postman, Tom Gordon, ran her over with his 1958 Plymouth Fury. Anyway, you need to eat up the food I bring you. You don't need to be getting any thinner now, you little bag of bones." Dean could barely look at this woman but he was completely at her mercy. However he had some questions he needed answers to. "Where am I?" "Well now, mister," she wheezed, "You're as far from that little internet site, FanStory as can be at the moment. You really are in the tall grass! This here is 1408 Jerusalem's Lot. I know all about you, sir. I followed your every move on that little site. I was made aware of it by the lawnmower man who comes every three weeks when not in the rainy season." "But who are you?" "Why, mister, you and I have communicated many times, silly but you may know me better as The Library Patrolman on line. You reviewed some of my writing and were always kind and helpful. I loved it when you befriended me." FUCK! I am so screwed right now. This woman is a total creepshow. A veritable stalker. I am in the weeds. Is she gonna make me perform some kind of danse macabre.?I am so FUCKED! Even as Dean's thoughts were screaming in his head, she was still talking, "My given name is Christine Rose Dolores Claiborne -- Madder. But you can call me Christie Rose. I will leave you now to get some rest. I'll turn down the lights low and leave you to your nightmares and dreamscapes. We have a lot of work to do tomorrow. You are going to write me a winning competition entry, mister. I am sure to win if you stand by me. And then, we can have some fun." When she left the room, Dean knew he had to escape. If only he had his laptop. He could send out a distress beacon to the faithful on FanStory. Someone had to know more about this woman. He couldn't even remember her being on his fan list but then, does anyone really once you get popular? He tried to remember if he had given her any reason to believe their 'relationship' was anything more. He had to get out of here before she started turning the thumbscrews. Dean tried to stand but his leg gave out underneath him. He screamed in desperation. He lay on the floor and looked out the window. It was full dark, no stars. He just lay there, not knowing what else to do. After a while he glanced at the clock on the sideboard. It read four past midnight. He felt the rage building up inside of him and knew he had to take a stand. He had to get himself out of this cell. Dean pulled himself up by the foot of the bed, being careful not to put too much weight on his bad leg. He lifted the alarm clock and hurled it at the window. He hoped Christie Rose wasn't up on the night shift! The glass shattered and he hauled himself over the sill, cutting himself as he tumbled out. It hurt like hell. But he had to keep going. He got himself upright and managed to hobble out into the wintery night. Inside the house, Christie Rose arose with a start at the sound of breaking glass. She lifted her rifle she kept beside the bed and hurried to the back door. That's when she saw the running man. She loaded the rifle with her special rounds. A silver bullet. She took aim and fired. "Good luck riding the bullet, mister." Dean felt the bullet hit the back of his head but that was all. His head exploded into a million tiny fragments, landing like ruby shrapnel in the drifting snow. "Why does this always happen to me?" muttered Christie Rose as she boarded up the broken window in the guest room. "How many is that now Carrie?" she asked as the cat rubbed against her legs. The cat would have shrugged if she could. Christie Rose went into her study and checked on the progress of her latest competition entry on FanStory. Only a single solitary vote. Her own. She wondered what she had to do to win just one competition. Just one. She searched through her 'following' list and her eyes alit upon another name. She smiled to herself as a new plan formulated in her head. "And now it is your turn, Mr Cahill"
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