Horror Island

by Jim Stenstrum

  “Sure thing.”

  Dementia walked out the door and Crayon took a long, hard look at the apartment. What she really needed was a couple pounds of C-4 to blast the place to flinders and rebuild it all from scratch. But Dementia had already nixed that idea.

  Crayon looked down at her ink-stained blouse. Everything she owned was in the wash, and Dementia would flip if she borrowed any of her things.

  So she raided Rex’s closet instead, which contained lots more boxes of gross shit but very few clothes. However, she did find one of Rex’s old Asskicker shirts, which looked like a safari shirt with the Asskicker symbol on the back, and she put that on.

  With new resolve, Crayon returned to the front room, energized and determined to finish the job even if it killed her, which was a very possible outcome.

  Grabbing a broom, she started sweeping the hallway. She was taking great care not to damage any of Rex’s creepy artifacts, when something skittered out from behind a box of mummified organs and scared the shit out of her.

  Whatever it was had scampered behind Rex’s La-Z-Boy. At first she thought it might be a large rat, but as she got closer she saw it was one of the voodoo dolls made in Rex’s image that Papa Zomba kept nailing to his front door. And somehow or other, this little voodoo doll had come to life.

  Crayon could see it cowering in the corner. She slowly pulled back the chair to pick it up.

  “Aww, come on out, little guy. I won’t hurt you.”

  As she reached down to pick it up, it leaped at her, grabbing her by the throat and trying to choke her. Crayon fell backward onto the floor and the voodoo doll started punching her in the face. For a little doll made out of cotton rags, those tiny fists really hurt.

  Crayon grabbed the doll and hurled it against the wall. Then she snatched the broom and started swatting at it as the doll scampered up to the top shelf of one of the bookcases. She jabbed at it with the handle of the broom, but it moved very quickly. It started throwing some of Rex’s prized relics at her, including a small green meteorite and the mandible of a moon-dwelling Selenite.

  She kept poking at it with the broom, until she accidentally pushed the handle through one of the TV sets Rex had mounted inside the bookcase.

  “Oops. Shit.”

  She jabbed at the doll again, smashing a large snow globe with a human brain inside of it.

  “Oops. Shit.”

  The voodoo doll skittered back and forth across the top shelf of the bookcase, throwing everything in its way at Crayon. The doll beaned her good with an ancient lamp, smacking her hard in the forehead.

  “Ouch! Wait’ll I get my hands on you, you little monster!”

  Then it threw a sacrificial dagger at her, made of razor-sharp obsidian, missing her head by inches.

  Crayon was really steamed now, and she pushed over the entire bookcase. Books and televisions and otherworldly souvenirs crashed to the floor. The voodoo doll jumped free at the last moment, leaping onto a nearby window curtain, and Crayon went after it with the obsidian dagger.

  The scene was completely surreal. She was chasing a miniature Rex Havoc around the apartment with a sacrificial dagger, almost the very last thing she ever thought she would be doing today.

  The voodoo doll swung onto the window sill and tried frantically to open the window to escape. It managed to lift it up a few inches and started to duck through the opening, when Crayon slammed the window down on it. Its tiny cotton hand was caught and flailing about and she stabbed it with the dagger, pinning the doll’s hand to the window sill.

  “How’s that, you little creep?” she cried. “Now just stay there for a while and think about what you’ve done.”

  Crayon looked at the mess in the apartment and groaned. Dementia would return soon and there would be hell to pay. She picked up an empty cardboard box and started throwing Rex’s crap into it as fast as she could.

  Most of the stuff that fell out of the bookcase was in decent shape, and the few things that were broken she could hide. It was possible that Rex would never even miss these items, or she could get into a witness protection program before he did.

  She saw the ancient lamp the little doll had clobbered her with and picked it up. There were strange words engraved on its side, maybe Arabic, or maybe Swedish. (Hell, what did she know about languages? It’s not like she was one of those smarty farty high school grads or anything.)

  The letters on the lamp began to change shape, twisting themselves into a language she could more easily recognize: Snarky English.

  The words on the lamp now read:

  RUB ME LIKE YOU MEAN IT

  And because she was not a smarty farty high school grad, that’s exactly what she did.

  Chapter 7

  Count Kalashnikov

  By 4 o’clock that afternoon, the fortress had become a hub of frenzied activity. In the Great Auditorium, The Pitch was about to begin, and every scientist on the island was required to attend.

  This was always a very tense and heart-pounding affair, where once a month everybody pitched their latest fiendish inventions or gave progress reports on projects already in gear.

  Those who won approval would be given unlimited funding for the next month, and those who did not win approval became candidates for expulsion, which for all intents and purposes amounted to a death sentence.

  Rex Havoc filed into the auditorium with the forty or so mad scientists who worked on the island, and took a seat between Dr. Goldfarb and Dr. Pretorius.

  Very few of these scientists were actually mad, of course. Some of them were merely sinister or diabolical; many more were just disgruntled and felt society had not given them the respect they deserved; and a handful of others were actually pretty regular guys.

  But a few of them—five or six by Rex’s count—were seriously cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs. These wackadoodles were kept in padded cells far from the general population, and were allowed only dull crayons and single-ply toilet paper with which to write down their lunatic ideas.

  As Rex looked around at the audience, he was surprised to see there were no female mad scientists on the island. He knew damn well they existed—he had clashed with a few of them himself—most notably Prof. Furietta Bitchstorm, who had been transformed into the radioactive monster called Atomic Bitch.

  He supposed that even in the zany world of mad scientists there was rampant sexism. Female villains would have to work extra hard if they ever hoped to smash through the “Diabolical Ceiling” and find acceptance among their male counterparts.

  For some mysterious reason Rex’s hand suddenly began to hurt like hell, as if it had just been stabbed with a dagger. His hand was bleeding, so either it was a stigmata or he had simply bumped his hand into something sharp. He shrugged it off, wiping the blood off on his hunchback tunic, and settled in for the show.

  On the stage, Montgomery was busy directing some of the monster stagehands. The Countess was also there, wearing her crossbow slung across her back, standing alert for any suspicious activity among the attendees. When the auditorium had filled and everybody had taken their seats, Czarina walked up to the microphone and addressed the crowd.

  “Gentlemen, a couple of ground rules before we begin. As always, there will be absolutely no rushing the stage or crowd surfing. We will not tolerate another disturbance like last month. Also, if you even think about escape or causing a commotion, your collar will explode and you will be blasted into a cloud of meat and blood.”

  This brought nervous murmurs from the audience. She motioned for silence and continued.

  “The Count will be out momentarily. So let’s behave like grownups and enjoy the show.”

  The house lights dimmed, and a large movie screen at the back of the stage came to life. A short film on the life of Count Kalashnikov began, spanning his years from growing up on a weasel farm in Dogcrapistan to creating the greatest software company in all of Russia, MicroTsar.

  “The Triumph of Me,” as it was called, was shameless propaganda,
showing the Count single-handedly defeating the Mongol horde; building cities of gold in Siberia; driving a Ferrari across the surface of the sun; and trouncing Peter the Great in a turnip-eating contest. Even Leni Riefenstahl would have thought this bullshit was awfully darn deep.

  The film made no sense at all, but Rex was impressed with the special effects and in particular scenes of the Count defeating a robot invasion with the help of Gustav Faberge and his amazing mechanical eggs.

  When the film ended, the audience clapped and cheered loudly. The Countess motioned for quiet and approached the microphone.

  “Gentlemen, please show some love for Nobel Prize runner-up and my dad, the incomparable Count Kalashnikov.”

  The auditorium erupted in raucous applause as every scientist in the room got to his feet to pay homage to the Count. At the same time, Czarina eyed the audience to make sure everyone got off their butts and displayed the proper enthusiasm. Rex played along, standing and clapping along with everyone else.

  A hover chair floated onstage, accompanied by Thomp, who acted as bodyguard and looked rather dapper in his four-armed tuxedo. The chair bore the Russian Imperial Coat of Arms, and seated in the chair, wearing an admiral’s uniform, was a man with the head of a giant bumblebee and two oversized lobster claws for hands.

  Rex was shocked. He had just watched the film about Count Kalashnikov, and not once was the man shown to have a giant bumblebee head. Rex presumed this was the result of a disastrous lab accident, a common occurrence among scientists on the island.

  “Thank you, gentlemen. Please take your seats,” said the Count, speaking to the audience through a voice simulator affixed to his chest. He toggled the hover chair controls with one of his huge lobster claws, moving the chair into the spotlight, making slight adjustments in his position until he found exactly the right angle to show off all 13,800 facets of his compound eyes.

  “Welcome to The Pitch,” he continued.”I see some new faces here, so allow me to introduce myself. I am Count Kalashnikov, your humble benefactor.”

  The audience broke into applause again. After a few seconds of this, the Count resumed.

  “Assembled in this auditorium are many of the world’s greatest scientists—including several Nobel laureates—and a great many others who were certainly cheated of that prize by the fish-eating Swedes.”

  Boos and catcalls echoed throughout the auditorium.

  “Gentlemen, I share your outrage. I too was an outcast— treated like a criminal in my native Russia—just because I experimented on the occasional hobo or streetwalker.”

  Several scientists in the audience nodded sympathetically, identifying with the Count’s hardships. One of the Frankensteins, possibly Ludwig, sobbed openly.

  “But I persevered, and I clawed my way to the very top of the scientific community,” the Count continued, shaking one of his lobster claws for ironic effect. “And today I control the greatest research laboratory on earth… Brainiac Island.”

  There was more applause, and this time the Count let it continue for nearly a minute before he motioned for silence.

  “My friends, here on Brainiac Island you are not ‘mad scientists.’ You are all men of extraordinary vision, chosen by destiny to lead mankind into a brighter future.”

  The Count paused a moment while Thomp refreshed him with a sip of sugar water, and then continued.

  “We welcome you to our island and offer you a place to work in safety, unmolested by police or meddlesome ethics. Here, there are no limits to your budgets and no asinine rules of morality to restrict your progress. The only thing that matters here is getting results.”

  As the Count spoke, the spotlight played across his huge insect eyes like a pair of spinning disco balls. The effect was dazzling.

  “My esteemed colleagues, mankind needs a hard restart, and I am looking for your most brilliant ideas to bring this ungrateful planet to its knees and usher in the next golden age of the human race.”

  The Count banged the chair arm with his lobster claw, emphasizing his point. The audience started clapping again, sensing the Count was approaching the finish line.

  “With your help, gentlemen, we shall create a perfect world for our children…”

  The applause grew louder.

  “And our children’s children…”

  The audience stood up and started cheering.

  “And make slaves of everyone else!”

  The room went crazy, with thunderous applause and whistling coming from the audience. Behind the Count, the movie screen came to life again, this time showing missiles launching and atom bombs exploding and twenty naked women riding horses on a beach in slow motion, all perfectly synched to the cannonade finale of the 1812 Overture.

  Rex was enthralled and stood up with everyone else to give the Count a standing ovation. After two full minutes of this unbridled adulation, the Count motioned the audience to resume their seats.

  “Now then, gentlemen, onto the matter at hand,” the Count continued. “This is The Pitch, wherein each month you are all given the opportunity to show off your research and prove to us that you are worthy to remain with us on the island. I want you to know that even though your very life depends upon the success of your presentation today, I think of you all as family, and that this culling process—although necessary—saddens me deeply.”

  There was a smattering of applause and a lot of nervous muttering from the audience.

  “Gentlemen, I am anxious to hear what wondrous new inventions you’ve been working on. Let us begin.”

  Chapter 8

  The Pitch

  The stage lights came up and Rex looked out over the audience. There was a weird energy in the room, part excitement and part naked terror, as each man wondered if his project would win him praise from the Count, or a place on Czarina’s trophy wall.

  The scientists waited their turn while seated in the audience, and each were summoned backstage shortly before their pitch. This kept things less chaotic backstage and kept the audience at nearly full capacity at the same time.

  Montgomery checked his clipboard and conferred with the Count, who turned his giant insect head to look offstage.

  “Dr. Wasabi, I believe you are first,” said the Count. “Please tell us what you’ve been working on.”

  An Asian man with white hair slowly rolled out a massive object covered in a large Japanese flag.

  “Your Excellency, I am working on a giant monster that will dwarf anything Japan has ever unleashed on itself. It will stand taller than Mt. Everest and make Godzilla look like Hello Kitty. I call it… Jumbotron!”

  He pulled a cord and the flag fell away, revealing a mock-up of an incredible creature that resembled all of Japan’s greatest monsters combined into one. It had three heads, a tortoise shell back, giant moth wings, and rockets coming out of its ass.

  The Count was greatly impressed by the model of the huge monster, and his antennae rubbed together with excitement.

  “Magnificent! There’s nothing like a giant lizard to bring ruination upon a major city. We may have to do a legal search on that name, but I like where you’re going, Doctor. Please continue your research.”

  Beaming with delight, Dr. Wasabi bowed and triumphantly walked off the stage. He gave a fist pump to the audience, but when he saw the pale and frightened faces of the other scientists waiting to go on, he slowed his pace and slunk quietly back to his seat.

  Montgomery referred to his clipboard and whispered to the Count, who welcomed the next participant.

  “Dr. Chronos, you’re next. What do you have for us today?”

  A movie star-handsome man in his 30s, wearing a Victorian smoking jacket with a vest and a silk puff tie, rolled out a cart containing an intricately designed Tantalus box.

  He carefully opened the box and inside was a curious machine, no bigger than a cantaloupe, which consisted of a miniature chair with a control panel and a spinning metal disk which was attached vertically behind the passenger seat
.

  “Excellency, I have made considerable progress with my time machine, and have sent not just one cigar, but an entire box of cigars, into the far future.”

  The Count seemed nonplussed. His antennae drooped.

  “Not only that,” Chronos continued, “but just this morning I also sent the inhabitants of the future an excellent bottle of brandy.”

  After a long, awkward pause, the Count responded.

  “Sounds like they’re having quite a party in the future, but I’m afraid we have very little to celebrate here in the present. Have you tried to send anything bigger through time—like a soldier?”

  “Unfortunately, I have only this small working model of my time machine so far,” the doctor replied. “Appetizers and after-dinner drinks are about all the machine can handle right now.”

  The light went out of the Count’s compound eyes.

  “I was hoping for a better progress report, Doctor. Please return to your seat.”

  Rattled by the Count’s chilly response, Chronos closed the Tantalus box and dismally rolled the cart off stage. After a few steps he turned back.

  “Did I mention I’m also planning to send a platter of hors d'oeuvres and tea sandwiches to the future?”

  “Thank you, Doctor. But I’m afraid your time is up,” replied the Count without looking up from his notes.

  Dr. Chronos sighed and pushed his machine off the stage.

  Montgomery leaned over to the Count and pointed to the next scientist on the list.

  “Dr. Skeezix, you’re on deck,” said the Count.

  A tall, thin man with long hair and a scraggly beard walked onto the stage. He had dark, insane eyes and wore the garb of a 19th century Russian Orthodox monk. The Count seemed unnerved as the man approached the microphone.

  “You are not related to that rascal Rasputin, are you?” asked the Count.

  “No, Excellency. I’m from Nebraska,” said the man with the crazy eyes and the ragged beard.

  “Very well. Please proceed, Doctor.”