The Show Must Go On

    Episode 1 "Monsters exist! They are real. Not blood-sucking, hairy moon phase changing, an undead piece of matter brought back to life. I have seen them, fought them. Sometimes they are the eyes staring back at you. They are the mirror of our soul. Our true reflection. Not of who we want to be or choose to be. Those choices we don't control. It is that which we are. Personal demons. Our soul harbors hidden truths we can not ascertain. I am no hero. I'm no villain. I'm not an anti-hero. I'm neither good nor evil. Like the lion that kills for food. I take no joy in this. There is no absolution of my soul. What is a hero? Is the man who saves a life? A woman working two jobs so her kids have no want? Is it the drug dealer easing the scarred painful memories of the addict? Is it the master giving his submissive the feeling of having no control? No, that is tame and safe compared to me. I am Calioistro. A guide of sorts on this journey. These are tales of monsters, men, lords, giants, and gods. These are the wants and needs of impure thoughts. There is no right or wrong. As the scientist says, show me, God. The believer says make life with sheer will, nothing else. Do not hate me. I carry the stories. I didn't do the acts. I didn't think this out. I am merely the bridge from one medium to another. The sinful whisperer of wants.” A crowd of people claps. The lone spotlight was shining on Calioistro. He bowed. Walking across the stage, he heard the cheering applause. “Great job Dane. You really hit the character of Calioistro.” A young woman praised him. Dane took off the top hat. “It's all in the timing. I studied the life of Dreary Jones.” The girl smiled. “I love him so much. To me, he is better than Bundy, Ramirez, or Gacy.” Zane smiled brightly. “Highest kill count ever.” A voice called over the backstage area. “All "Creeps" on stage. The results are in. We are choosing a winner. All creeps on stage. If you are chosen and not there, you will be disqualified.” Zane joined seven other people on stage. “That's right folks. Welcome to Night of Freaks.” The announcer continued. “Remember only by texting in can you choose our ultimate creep. Your votes will be tallied by our live audience.” Each contestant stood under a gauge. The announcer rolled on. “Let's see those votes. Only one person can win the whole enchilada. Let's see which creep will leave our show.” The gauges lit up. People dressed like serial killers stood beneath the lighted gauges. Elevator music in the background. A flashing light shines on each creep as the votes rise. The light slows down. Ever slower. It stopped on a young female. “Rayleen March as Alieen Wuornos. You are this week's loser. I am sorry you are no longer a part of our show.” The six remaining contestants scattered away from her. “You know what people who are voted off get? Start the roulette wheel.” A wheel appeared. Each choice was death. “No! No!” She cried. “Now Rayleen. You decided to go for broke. Take your medicine.” The wheel began to spin. The ticking counting down gruesome deaths. It stopped. “Woodchipper death.” The announcer shouted out. As the audience cheered. Raylene's platform was raised. A giant wood chipper under her platform. A trap door opened under her platform. She fell into the blades of death. Twirling, spinning. The blades cut Rayleen to shreds. Her blood and guts covered the first six rows of the audience. The more blood and violence, the louder and happier the audience became. “Remember ladies and gents. Only you decide who is the best Creeper on Fade To Black” Zane took off his stage clothes. Backstage, a group of young girls praising him ran over. “Oh, my Gawd. You're the best. You're so cute. I wouldn't ever vote you off. Zane, please have my baby. I love you.” Zane's handler came over. “Come on kid. Your publicist is waiting.” The handler led Zane along the stage. “Thanks.” He replied as he was ushered past the other contestants. They walked into a green room. There standing before her was a red-headed woman. “Zane, my name is Genia. I'm your publicist. Right now, we need a style change. We have a photo shoot interview and... oh nice an interview on prime time. People are going to love to know why you killed your mom and dad. Don't tell them the whole story or our movie rights and book deal are out the window. Tomorrow we have to buy merchandise. Gotta keep the higher-ups in money. The more you make, the less likely they are to take. Your life that is.” Zane looked confused. “I had no idea. I'm a f*****g golden god.” Genia smiled. “With your face and talent, you can easily make it to the finals. Hell, you could probably win the whole kit and caboodle. Just remember these rules. Don't make friends with these losers. Their publicists are telling them the same thing about you. They will lie, cheat, steal, and flatter you to get what they want. No tears. People like to be happy if they don't want to cry. No one likes crybabies. Lastly, go bloody or go home. Showmanship is the great divider. You have it. I have never had a stronger gut feeling.” Zane smiled nervously. “I had no idea the glitz and glamour involved. I feel bulletproof.” Genia smiled. “Yes, I'm sure you do. Don't get all doe-eyed on me. Most important now is to prepare. Study the greats. Jack the Ripper, Holmes, Zodiac. They were stars. Your time to shine is now.” Genia walked away. In walked his handler. “I'm Stan. Handler, security, bodyguard, entourage. I can get it done will be whatever you need to do. Burger? Check. Do you want fan p***y? Check. This is your world. Just sign my autograph book? Please.” Zane took out his pen. Stan looked sad. “Zane uncapped it, jabbed it in his stomach, and used his own blood to sign the book. Stan was over the moon. “I think you might be one of the best. A star in the making.” Zane blushed. They walked out of the green room. Stan told Zane he had a photo shoot. They walked on a sound stage. Here and there camera mounted tripods stood. Bright lights of red and black cast shadows. An eccentric-looking person walked over. “Okay everyone please get the creeper ready. We need hair and make-up. Please get him ready.” Zane walked up to the man. “Hi' I'm Zane.” The man looked at Zane. “Well, good for you. Pick your poison.” Zane looked bewildered. “What?” Asked Zane. “Oh great, another empty head. Pick your poison.” The man gestured toward a group of different weapons. Zane walked over. He grabbed a machete. “Very nice. Very good. Another stabber. Just kill me now.” Zane frowned. Getting mad. “Okay backstreet boy.” The photographer said. Zane looked. “Yes, you. Lance, I'm going to photograph you.” Zane cleared his throat. “I have an idea for this shoot.” The man got impatient. “Look at Little Billy Faggler. I shoot the s**t. You do what I say and we say our goodbyes.” Zane grew mad. “Look you single-winged fairy. I do this s**t my way. You work for me!” He walked in front of the camera. In front of him was a table with a family seated around a dinner table. Not dummies or mannequins, but a real family. Mother, father, and two kids. A pet dog lay on the floor. Zane could see the living people and the dog were drugged. They looked at him. “Please don't do this, son.” pleaded the father. Zane grew angry. A second of hesitation on his face, then anger. He started slashing and hacking the family apart. Not going for the easy kill, but the slow and steady form. Starting with the mother, he raised the machete above his head and sliced it down. The machete cut off her husband's ear. Screaming in the mother's face. “He dies first. Did you love him? Mom, did you love me?” He cut off the father's scalp and put it on his head. He cut off his fingers. Then he cut into his stomach, pulling out organs and intestines. As the father slowly lay dying, Zane walked off the shot. The whole sound stage was in shock. A collective gasp from them as he walked to the exit. Stopping at the weapon table, he dropped the machete. “You guys are sad,” replied Zane. He grabbed a knife and ran at the mother. Stabbing her in the chest until only strands of thin strips of skin held her torso together. He used the knife to cut off her face. He put it over his own face and turned on the kids. The set crew gasped in awe and clapped. The photographer walked over. “I take back what I thought. You, sir, maybe the greatest Creeper I have ever worked with. Definitely one of the best. Zane blushed. “You think so?” He asked. The photographer put his hand on Zane's shoulder. “Oh, honey. No... Not really.” The director walked away laughing. “I should kill you. You son of a bitch.” Stan came up behind Zane. “Don't mind him. He is around people like you every day.” Zane looked questioningly. “Like me?” Stan smiled. “Rock stars. Creepers. People like you.” Zane and Stan walked off the sound stage. Zane looked at Stan. “Can I ask you a question?” Stan nodded. “Sure.” He replied. Zane looked at Stan. “Why didn't you ever try to be a Creeper?” Stan laughed. “At one point I wanted to. I was on the verge. There was a sweet little thing. I had the biggest crush on her. I had dreams of how it would feel to bust my cherry. She would have been my first. Well, I broke into her house. I slipped into her room. I had my hand around her neck, starting to kill her. I saw her body and didn't kill her. Instead, we had s*x. After that, I was going to kill her, but she started beating me. She beat me within an inch of my life. One thing led to another. The police were called. I got let off with a warning and so did she. One cop said I was lucky. I could've gone to jail if I had just walked away.” Zane laughed. “Wow, you almost did it, man.” Clapping Stan on the back. Stan smiled. “Yeah. . Assault gives me. I don't think murder could ever top. Who knows one day I might try being a Creeper.”