Camp McClane

by Grant Fieldgrove

  Were those platform sneakers?

  Carl, apparently, had missed a lot from living out in these woods for nearly two decades, and luckily for him, the Spice Girls were included.

  Well, there was no doubt this redheaded bitch wouldn’t be making much trouble from here on out, so it was time to focus his attention on the petite one who took off.

  He wasn’t too worried. She would trip. Bitches always trip, and he would catch up to her. He took a deep breath and took off walking in the direction she vanished.

  Sure enough, trip, fall, trip, fall, in the dangers of being chased, women can’t seem to remember how to stay vertical, and Carl caught up to her in no time. He grabbed her by her leg and began dragging her back to the campsite.

  She screamed, and rolled around, she tried to break free, she even offered him a blowjob, but Carl wasn’t interested. He returned her to the camp, lifted her up by her legs and held her face in the fire until he heard that reassuring little pop eyeballs make when they explode.

  He dropped her in the fire, looked around to see his cat, Professor Punkinpuss at his feet, and then decided to treat himself to a marshmallow.

  Delicious.

  The boss would have to be pleased about this one, he thought, while he loaded another treat.

  Twenty Years Later

  The van Andie’s grandfather bought for purposes of transport to and from Camp McClane was making its way down a winding, dirt road. Andie, herself, was in the passenger seat while her friend Dave drove. The sun was directly overhead and Dave was pretty impressed with the time they were making. Apparently, Dave was sixty years old, because what teenager would give a rat’s ass about time?

  But, alas, he was pretty impressed with himself. From home to ten miles from camp in less than four hours, when Google Maps said it would take almost six.

  “Dude,” Dave said, “this is going to be the best week ever!” He emphasized the word ever like he just withdrew a sword that was stuck in stone, a little too dramatic for such a clichéd and boring phrase. But whatever, he was two months away from graduating high school and he could do or say whatever the hell he wanted to.

  Right?

  Oh who gives a shit?

  In the far back of the van, Jimmy nudged his best friend Mort in Mort’s ample titties, and whispered, “Dude, the wounds outnumber the weapons. I like our odds.”

  What is odd is that it took Jimmy nearly four hours to come up with his sophisticated mathematical equation. But whatever, Mort was still confused.

  “Huh?” he mumbled.

  Jimmy, dressed in his classiest Fart Loading t-shirt, which featured a status bar nearly full, nudged him again, unnecessarily this time, and said, “The gash outweighs the stash, my man,” and Mort quickly realized that if there was anyone destined to be seated at the back of a van during a fun vacation, it was he and Jimmy. Still though, Mort had no idea what the hell Jimmy was yapping about. Gash and stash?

  Mort’s expression told Jimmy all he needed to know, thus resulting in him clarifying it even further. “The penis to vagina ratio is heavily in our favor. Shit, man, I’ll probably end up banging all these bitches this week.”

  “Ya think?” Mort said, genuinely curious for a split second, before realizing, nope…

  “I don’t think, my portly friend, I know! Five minutes alone with any one of them and I’ll be deeper than a Drake quote on Facebook. Trust me, my man. And maybe, when I’m done, I’ll be a good friend and send them your way. Whatta ya say?”

  “I dunno, Jimmy,” Mort said. “Girls don’t really like me. I mean, my tits are bigger than most of theirs, ya know…” This, sadly, was true. They jiggled when he walked and his XXL t-shirt, which had some mashup drawing of two nerdy-ass things combined to make one super nerdy-ass thing that all the plumpies were wearing these days, fit as tight as a whale in a crib.

  Out of habit, he tugged at the fabric, hoping for it to magically fit better. It didn’t work. It never worked.

  Jimmy backhanded Mort’s shoulder, “So what, man? They’re probably just jealous. Right? Bitches are always jealous about something. Besides, with the lights out, it’s not going to be your tits they’re interested in. Ya know I’m sayin’?”

  Ya know I’m sayin’ comes out as one word, oddly Fresh Prince-like.

  Another smack to Mort’s arm and Jimmy went on. “Trust me, dude. I’ve been with tons of ladies and-”

  “No you haven’t,” Mort said matter-of-factly.

  “Okay, well I’ve been with a few and let me tell-”

  “Nope. One. You’ve been with one.”

  “Okay fine, I’ve been with one. But over and over and over, my man! She couldn’t get enough of my rosco!”

  His rosco? Holy shit. “She told me it was like being fucked by a wet macaroni noodle.”

  Jimmy was shocked. Outraged. “What?!” he gasped!

  Mort smiled a little and nodded, then made a tiny U shape with his index finger.

  “Seriously, the best!” Dave said, after no one bothered to reply to his previous prediction from nearly five minutes ago. To Andie, he said, “This was a great idea to come up here, babe.”

  “Babe?” Andie said.

  Dave shrugged, smiled wide, and said, “Sure babe! Why the hell not?” Dave was wearing a tight shirt like Mort but, unlike Mort, when he bumped into people they didn’t react like they just got hit with a sack of jelly.

  Andie smiled along with him. “We’ll see how the week goes.”

  Dave laughed again. “My point issssss… great idea. That’s all.”

  Andie leaned back in her seat and kicked her feet up on the dash. She was wearing shoes so she figured it wouldn’t bother anyone. Nothing worse than bare feet up on the dash. “I know. My grandpa said there probably won’t be anyone else around, either. I guess there is a small, blink-and-you-miss-it town like a mile or so up the road, but other than that, the place should be a ghost town.”

  Dave took his hands off the steering wheel to make spooky ghost hands towards Andie. “Scarrrrrry.”

  The van jerked to the left sharply and Dave quickly grasped the wheel, straightening the van out and saving everyone’s lives…or so he imagined.

  From the middle row of seats, Jessica yelled, “Watch out!”

  With the van back on the road, Dave threw his hands up in surrender. “Sorry, sorry.”

  “Hands!” Jessica yelled.

  And back they went.

  Jessica shook her head, clearing the near disaster from her brain, and leaned forward, poking her face in between Andie and Dave. She was a cute girl but if she were any dumber you’d have to water her twice a week. “I can’t believe your grandpa is reopening that old summer camp. That is soooo cool. That place has been closed since like, 1996, right?”

  Andie nodded, her face going slack as she turned somber, because that’s what high school girls do when they’re really concerned about shit. “Yeah, the year those counselors were all killed. But don't worry. They caught the guy. Crazy ol' Eddie, they called him. Was walking around with one of the guy's eyeballs in his pockets. The only one that didn't pop in the fire, I heard.”

  Dave laughed, because, well, that’s what idiot jocks do in moments like this, and said, “Yeah! Didn’t Crazy Eddie die in prison a few years back? Shit, that’s probably why your grandpa is opening up camp. Threat has been neutralized! Yeah!”

  He made to high-five Andie, but got nothing, because when high school girls are pretending to be serious, you better damn well take it seriously!

  Girls.

  Dumb.

  “Yeah,” Andie said, still somber and oh-so-mature, “like ten years ago now, I believe.”

  Jacquelynn’s face popped in next to Jessica’s and said, “What took them so long to reopen the place?”

  Dave laughed again, and in that dude-bro voice you fucking hate, said, “Haunted, remember? Ghosts. Ooohhhhhhh. Ghost town.” More laughter, but only from Dave. Well, maybe only Dave. He couldn’t be sure, but he thoug
ht maybe, just maybe, he heard Sarah, directly behind him, chuckle.

  Was that possible? The girl no one could impress chuckled? Had some curse been lifted? He didn’t know and really, didn’t care. Sarah was kind of a butterface. Everything about her looked good, but her face. Hey-O! This joke was still new to Dave, sadly.

  Teenagers.

  Andie sighed. “Ghost town doesn’t literally mean there are ghosts. Jesus, Dave.”

  “How’d you know what the ladies call me in bed?”

  More laughs, ya know, from him. Eye-rolls like slot machines on a casino floor from everyone else. Feeling dumb, Dave tried to save face. “I mean, obviously, I knew that. I was, ya know, talking about something else. Or should I say, someone else.”

  He did a bad Vincent Price laugh, even though he had no idea who Vincent Price was, but finally, finally, he had everyone’s attention. Well, everyone except those two faggots in the back seat, playing slap-titty with each other. He saw them in his rear-view. Mort and Jimmy were pity friends. They were the friends Dave had around when A) He didn’t want any competition, but B) Still wanted some dudes around to brag about his conquests.

  It’s the only reason Mort and Jimmy were invited.

  Dave went on. “Don’t worry. It’s just an old campfire story I heard a few years back. Supposedly it’s true, though. If you believe that bullshit, I mean.”

  Andie shrugged, the smile had returned and the somber bullshit high school girl routine had been put away until some other mega-serious situation arose. “All I know is my uncle got the land, cabins and house for dirt cheap and stands to make a pretty hefty profit over the years and it provides a nice place for kids to come during the summer.”

  Dave shrugged again, kind of his go-to move that made you just want to punch him in the nose every time he did it, and said, “Whatever gets us out of the city. I'm lookin' for some nice clean air, some beers, some weed and some fuck.”

  For the first time in over an hour, Sarah finally spoke. “Some fuck, huh?”

  Jimmy sighed rather loudly from his back-back seat and groaned, “I’ll never understand why the bitches go for that guy.”

  “It might have something to do with him not referring to women as bitches,” Mort said, already resigned to the fact that this will not be the weekend he loses his virginity. “Might have something to do with it.”

  Jimmy smacked him again. “You know what I mean, dingleberry!”

  Mort shrugged. “Meh, don’t be too down about it. Most of the girls he’s been with secretly call him Small Dick Dave.”

  Jimmy laughed just as he was taking a sip of his disgusting warm Mountain Dew, causing him to choke loud enough that everyone in the car turned to look at him. “I’m okay! Go back to your previously scheduled conversation. Nothing to see here.” Then quietly, to Mort, he said, “So how small is it?”

  Mort’s face recoiled. “How should I know?”

  “Well, you’re the one relaying the message to me, I was counting on you to have a few facts!”

  “Sorry to disappoint, dude. We’ll be alone all week, why don’t you just ask to see it?”

  Mort laughed, but it died a lonely death.

  “Real fuckin funny, Mantits.”

  “Thanks. Can you maybe not call me Mant-”

  “Is it like, Chapstick small, or is it like average and only small when compared to porno cock? Because I’ve gotta be honest with ya, all this porno cock is killin’ us normal people! With the stupid internet, girls are seeing porno cock before they ever see real cock and then like, what they’re expecting is, uh, not what they get and then the poor guy is like, all sad and shit and it’s all because of porno!”

  “Don’t you watch porno?”

  “Oh, I love it. But…God, you’re not even listening to me. Sometimes I don’t even know why I’m your friend.”

  “I’m your only friend…”

  “Roll of pennies small?”

  Mort’s shoulders slumped and he slouched down in his seat as if all the bones were removed from his overweight body. “Dude,” he sighed, “I told you, I don't know. I don't know what small is and I don't know what big is. I have no idea how people even came to the conclusion that five and a half inches was the average size of a dick because honestly, who did they ask? And who with a two-incher is going to willingly offer up that information?”

  “Well, you’re no help, Jugs.”

  “That’s great. Sorry about that and all, but would you mind not…ya know… Mind laying off the fat jokes? I may be a fat virgin but at least no one has compared my fucking ability to a children's lunch favorite.”

  Jimmy all but ignored Mort. Again. “Yet!” Jimmy assured him. “Yet. Besides, that bitch Madeline is a goddamn lousy liar. Macaroni noodle my ass. I swear to…”

  “No more fat jokes.”

  “Fine. No more fat jokes. She’s still a liar, though.”

  Mort straightened up and put his arm on Jimmy’s shoulder. “Of course she is, buddy. Of course she is.”

  “Still though, gotta like our odds for this week, though, and I heard Jessica will fuck anything that moves. And, worst-case scenario, Small Dick Dave can't handle all these bitches by himself. He's gonna need some help, if ya know what I mean.”

  Stone-faced, Mort replied, “Yes Jimmy, I understand.” His hopes were not high. Not high at all.

  Jimmy however, seemed ridiculously optimistic. Mort couldn’t figure out why, though. Jimmy was a Grade-A Zilch, just like Mort. Where did this apparent abundance of self-esteem come from and where could fatass Mort get some?

  Truth is, surrounded by all these popular kids, these two assholes stuck out like a dick on a female statue, and Mort knew it.

  “So,” Jimmy said, “unless something terrible happens, count on us gettin’ some of that sweet sideways smile!”

  From the middle row of seats, Jessica shouted excitedly, “Look!” She pointed out the passenger’s side window to two shirtless men with abs so defined you could probably shred cheese on them. They were hitchhiking. “Let’s pick them up!”

  All joy drained from Jimmy’s face as he mumbled, “Mother F!”

  Two male hitchhikers stood on the side of the road. Both handsome, muscular and fit, of course. What else would they be? What woman bothers to pull over for a couple of fucking fatsos with mustaches and mullets? No woman, that’s who.

  Jimmy and Mort watched from the backseat with different emotions. Jimmy was irritated to high hell but Mort…well, Mort was used to coming in dead last so he couldn’t help but giggle. Of course this would happen. I mean, just in case Mort wasn’t already self-conscious enough, now with these two assholes, he looked like the before picture in one of those bullshit pyramid-schemes for weight loss. Drink this magical drink and go from looking like this fat asshole, to THIS! Or, hey, wrap your fat fucking ass in this magical Seran wrap and instantly become skinny when you peel it off!

  Dave wasn’t too keen on picking up the men either; in fact, he was downright against it. The main reason he brings along that fatfuck Mort and dirtlip Jimmy is so he’ll get all the girls for himself. Dave was no match for these dudes though, with their biceps bulging and their tans sparkling, combined with their advanced age and chiseled jaw lines, and he knew it. But, could he risk being seen feeling threatened?

  He certainly didn’t think so, so he gently applied the brake and pulled to the side of the road where the shirtless man-gods jogged to catch up and slid open the van door.

  “Wow thanks,” one of the hunky fuckin’ assholes said to Dave, but not actually while looking at him.

  “Yeah, thanks,” the other hunky asshole said as they stepped into the van and made their way to the rear row of seats.

  “God fucking damn it,” Jimmy mumbled to himself as the two new guests squeezed in next to him and Mort; their hot, sexy, sweaty bodies rubbing against the two losers sandwiched in the middle.

  The van sped off down the road.

  Mort leaned in to Jimmy, and with a bitter smil
e, said, “You had to jinx it, didn’t you?”

  On the street, the van passed a dusty, shot-up sign that read CAMP MCCLANE SINCE 1977

  Jimmy shook his head in disbelief and, being careful to not let these two Thor Wannabes hear, said to Mort, “Who picks up hitchhikers? What is this, a bad movie? Dude, never in my life have I even known someone who picked up a hitchhiker, but noooo, these bitches have to be the first. Of course. Fucking of course, dude. And look at them.”

  Mort was transfixed with one of the gentleman’s nipples. “Yeah,” he said, like a child admiring a toy he dreamed of getting for Christmas, “they’re gorgeous.”

  “God damn. God damn, dude, god damn it.”

  The way Camp McClane was set up, way back in the seventies when it was erected and still today, is the main cabin was separated from the other cabins and resembled more of a house than a standard summer camp cabin. The main house is obviously where you would want to be, and where, in fact, the group of high school students would be staying once they arrived. When the camp opens, sometime late next year, all the side cabins will be used for the kids and counselors, while the main cabin will be used for…Well, who ever is in charge and lives on the property.

  Right then, unbeknownst to everyone, the person that lived on the property was none other than the one and only Carl Langer.

  In fact, right at that very moment, Carl was resting peacefully on an old bed, his cat Professor Punkinpuss, still alive way beyond any age a cat has any right living, was curling up on Carl’s belly as a rerun of Columbo played on the television. I know, I know, a working television way out in the middle of the woods at an unused and abandoned cabin? Well, it just so happens Carl Langer was quite tech savvy and had managed to rig up an antenna using some barbed wire and a few coat hangers. Once the electricity was turned back on by Andie’s dad, Carl’s life got a lot more leisurely.

  Or so he thought.

  Right in the middle of a good night, just as Columbo was pinning the murder on some over-acting schmuck, an alarm began to sound. Not just any alarm, mind you, but a proximity alarm. They had company.