Buckets of Blood

Buckets of Blood

Mark A Davis

232

It was Halloween night at the Anarchy Mansion, and Grandpa Anarchy sat in the television room in the dark.  A dull thump thump thump could be heard through the floor, the distant echo of very loud music from a party held deep below the mansion in the Anarchy Cave.  Despite the darkness, Grandpa stared straight ahead, as if waiting for something.  Nearby was a bowl of candy, but there had been few trick or treaters on this night.  Other objects near his chair were difficult to see in the dim gloom, but there was a stack of old newspapers, a collection of jewelry and metal items on the table, a cup of coffee, long since gone cold, and several strange objects leaning against the nearby bookshelf, at least one of which appeared to be a rifle.

A tall boy with long hair stepped into the room.  He looked about and then right at Grandpa.  He stumbled back.

"Oh, man, you made me jump!" he exclaimed.  "Whatcha doing sitting in the dark like...."  He paused to peer at the seated hero.  "Whoah!  Hey, you're that old dude!  Mr. Anarchy, right?  That old hero dude that owns this mansion."

"That's me," Grandpa replied.  "Grandpa Anarchy, world's oldest hero."

"That's right!  Hey, dude, thanks for letting us use your house  for this party.  Seriously!  This is a way cool place for a Halloween bash, am I right?"

"A haunted mansion for a haunted party?" Grandpa said.  "Yes.  However, you seem to have strayed some distance from the actual party, Son."

"Nah, Dude, I was just looking around, checking the place out, y'know?  Not often you get a chance to check out Grandpa Anarchy's mansion, right?"  The boy scanned the bookshelves, which lined the back wall of the room.  "You've got some really old books here, don't you?"

"I do," Grandpa replied.  He peered at the shadowy figure with the long hair.  "Most of the people here tonight are heroes and former sidekicks," he said, "but I'm not sure I know you."

"Oh -- of course not," the boy said.  "I'm no hero dude, I'm with the band."

"The band?" Grandpa repeated.  "Pixy Dreamgirl hired a live band?"

"Yeah, Dude, more than one!" the boy said.  "Who wouldn't want to play at a party with all of these hot superhero chicks, know what I mean?"

"I see," Grandpa replied.

"We're called Buckets of Blood," the boy offered.  "Our band, I mean. We're a death metal band, see?  Melo death.  We write exclusively about buckets."

"Buckets?" Grandpa asked.

"That's right," the boy said.  "Buckets.  You gotta have a theme, man, and all the good ones are taken.  Pirate theme, high fantasy, Gothic horror, Celtic folk fantasy.  All that stuffs been done to death.  But buckets, nobody's done that."

There was a pause as Grandpa processed this.  "I would think that would be, you know, sort of a limited subject," he said.

"Nah, Dude, there are endless variations.  Steel buckets, plastic buckets, wooden buckets.  Buckets for wishing wells, buckets for wells that people have tossed murder victims into, buckets for people dying of thirst.  Buckets in the old west, buckets in Medieval Europe, buckets in space.  Buckets are everywhere, Dude.  Jack and Jill had a bucket.  Then there's your phrases and cliches -- buckets of blood, buckets of crap, kicking the bucket.  When you really think about it, the possibilities are endless. We can always find new buckets to write about.

"But Dude, what are you doing here in the dark?  I know the party ain't your scene, but...."

"Oh," said Grandpa, "I'm just waiting for the slasher."

"The... slasher?" the long-haired kid asked.

"Or maybe it's zombies, or vampires," said Grandpa.  "Hard to say what'll show.  But you know how it goes, right?  Halloween night, bunch of attractive-looking teenagers throwing a party in the basement of a spooky haunted house.  Something's bound to show up.  Personally, I'm hoping for several things -- maybe a serial killer, then an evil poltergeist or undead creature.  Whatever it is, I'm ready for it.  Got the garlic, the holy water, the silver cross, the wooden stakes, several guns and my old shotgun... whatever shows up, I'm  taking it down."

The rocker laughed.  "Look Dude, if it's okay with you I think I'll just head back to the party...."

Grandpa Anarchy raised a weapon and fired.  A harpoon struck the boy in the chest and pinned him to the wall.  "Dude, what the heck?" the boy exclaimed, staring down at the object protruding from his chest.

"Stoner rock star is a pretty good cover," said Grandpa, "but I approved every invite to this party, including  the bands.  Death metal?  That's not Pixy Dreamgirl's style -- she's into that techno-crap.  And you saw me and my old books remarkably well in a very dark room.  Not to mention what kid doesn't scream when shot with a harpoon?  But mostly it's this ring."  Grandpa held up his hand on which was a large ring with a pentagram and a ruby set in the center.  "Got this from my lawyer.  See how it glows?  It does that in the presence of demons."

The boy transformed into a black-skinned demon with firey eyes and twisting yellow horns.  "Damn you to hell, old man!" it snarled.  "You've made your last mistake!  This night shall be your doom!"

"Nah, don't think so," Grandpa replied.  He drew a revolver and fired several shots into the creature.  The demon laughed.  "Bullets can't stop me, old man.  Bul... lets...."  The demon's voice slurred.  He slumped.  "How...?"

"Laced with holy water, jacketed with silver melted from a holy cross, blessed by priests and inscribed with prayers.  Cost a pretty penny, but danged if they don't work like a charm against demons."  Grandpa smiled.  "I told you.  I'm prepared for anything."

The demon screamed as it evaporated into black smoke.  The stench of sulfer filled the room.  Grandpa calmly removed the empty shells from his gun and reloaded, then again sat down in the dark.

Moments later Pixy Dreamgirl appeared.  She was dressed as a green-skinned witch.  "Grumpy Annie?" she asked.  "Is everything okay?  Only someone said they heard gunshots, and a  scream...."

"Everything's fine," Grandpa replied.  "Just a scary movie, that's all."

Pixy Dreamgirl glanced to the dark television screen, then focused on the harpoon buried in the wall.  "Ooookay," she said.  She frowned, and added, "Incidentally -- who's the girl?  I don't remember inviting someone like her."

Grandpa glanced to the corner of the room.  A young woman in a flowing purple 19th-century gown floated there, suspended in a faintly glowing purple bubble.  She was busily scribbling into a notebook.

"Just a former sidekick who doesn't know when to leave," said Grandpa.  "Ignore her.  Incidentally," he added, "you haven't seen any creepy clowns hanging around outside trying to lure children into the woods?"

"Uh... no?" Pixy Dreamgirl replied.  "Should I have?"

"Maybe, maybe not," Grandpa said.  "I'm sensing a 45% chance of creepy clowns tonight.  But don't worry, I'm ready for 'em."

FINI