Roland Wilton Presents . . . THE PARODY HORROR PICTURE SHOW.

”Otto, sweetheart, you’re the only man I’d consider for the lead role in this production. You have the presence, you have the experience, you have, and only you have, the malevolence. I won’t take no for an answer.” To illustrate the point, Roland Wilton stamped his foot in what he thought was a bold and authoritative manner.

Nein, snapped Baron Ottokar Zemo. ”I am not an actor, I have a higher calling now. I am a critic.”

“But Otto,” Roland wheedled, “you starred in my greatest picture yet. You’re my good luck charm. You have to take the role in this picture.”

“Wilton, I wouldn’t even descend to review this picture of yours, let alone act in it,” the Baron sneered.

“I’ll make it worth your while,” the grade D producer begged.

“What could you possibly offer me?” the Baron sneered again.

Ten minutes later:

“Very well,” Baron Otto preened, “your soul, the soul of your ward Samantha Featherstone, if and when you obtain her, and the lives of your next three girlfriends.”

“You drive a hard bargain, old chap,” Roland Wilton sighed. “But go to it.”

“If you will excuse me,” the Baron huffed, “I will prepare the enchantment.”

* * *
Visionary and Asil Ashling stumbled out of the front door of the sprawling manse in Pierce Heights that housed the Heck-Fire Club. “Are you all right?” the young woman asked her companion.

“Just a little drained,” the possibly-fake man replied. “Just some of the after-mission shakes, when the adrenalin wears off. Ouch!” he cried, stumbling as his toe caught a wide crack in the pavement.

“Only a Great Man can be so frank about his reactions,” replied Asil. “Do you want me to drive?”

“No, I’ll be all right,” Visionary assured her. “It’s just a simple drive down from Pierce Heights and across town to the mansion.” He opened the right side door of the Chery sedan for Asil.

“How cute,” she said. “So this is the replacement for the Pinto of Doom?”

“Er, yes. They asked me to try out the prototype for Visionary Vehicles. Then they cancelled the project, but seemed to forget to ask me to return it.” He started the engine. It coughed, sputtered, whined, and settled into a two beat-three beat ragged rhythm. Shifting the car into reverse, Visionary winced as the left rear end lurched towards the ground and the right front wheel broke into a slight shimmy. Asil turned to him inquiringly.

“Uh, it’s er, sort of difficult to find parts for a prototype Chinese car,” he apologized. “And even harder to find anybody who knows how to fix it.” As they pulled into Lee Avenue, the front end nosedived as they hit a pothole. “Needs some work on the shocks,” he explained.

“Perhaps you should ask Liu Xi?”

Visionary shuddered. “I’m not sure I could handle a car that twists Void. It gives me that queasy feeling. And it still would have problems with the shocks.”

At that moment, every streetlight on the Heights went out. Thunder crashed and a pouring rain washed down on the city. The car crept along the gloomy street as Visionary squinted through the blurry windshield, hardly helped by the single wiper blade that stuttered back and forth while the other blade hummed loudly but remained still. A cold stream of water dripped from the seam of the sun roof down the necks of the driver and his passenger.

“Er. Not much farther now,” he tried to assure Asil.

“No problem,” she replied graciously. The Great Man clearly was willing to sacrifice comfort for the sake of his other duties.

A few moments later, Asil had a question. “Wasn’t that Wayne Boulevard we just passed? That’s the fastest way to the mansion.”

“What? Oh, I missed the turnoff. This way’s better anyway.”

Four random turns and a double spin around Scott Circle later, Visionary was about to admit he was confused. Then the engine sputtered, clashed, and squealed to a halt. The car drifted to the curb, scraped its tires twice, and juddered to a stop. Every warning light on the dashboard – at least the ones that still had functioning bulbs – lighted for a moment and then faded out. Visionary and Asil sat in the dark, rainwater splashing on their collars, and stared at each other.

Asil finally spoke. “You know what to do. Let me know what I should do to help.”

“Well, er, we could wait here for help. Let me call.” As he opened the phone, though, it lit for a moment and went dark. Visionary pressed a few random buttons to be sure. Nothing happened.

“My battery’s dead also.”

“Drat. The communicard’s out. Must be the lightning. Well, then, we’ll just have to go to that house over there, the one with the lights in the, er, turrets?”

“That sounds like a good plan,” Asil affirmed, getting out of the car and into the driving rain.

A few minutes later, the drenched pair had trudged up the long circular driveway to the house in question, which had slowly revealed itself to be a dingy, black Rococo-illicitly-crossbred-with-Gothic pile that looked as if an entire village of stonecutters had succumbed to ergot poisoning. Visionary tripped on the last cobblestones before the portecochere and lurched up to the broad, wooden door banded with thick iron and studded with spikes. “Friendly looking place,” he muttered.

Just as he raised his fist to knock on the door, it opened with a slow groan of tortured metal meeting ancient stone. A blocky, somewhat tall man dressed in servant’s livery, holding a lantern, peered out. “You’re here for the Transylvania convention, eh?” He looked vaguely familiar to the two, right down to his belt arrayed with a series of strange hats and headcoverings.

“I’m Visionary and this is my friend Asil Ashling,”

“You’re wet.”

“Well, yes.”

“Come in, then, and the doctor will see you.”

“But we’re not sick.”

“Don’t worry, we are.”

Moments later, the dripping Vish and Asil entered the grand ballroom of Schloss Schreckhausen, filled with revelers dancing the Time Warp.

It's just a jump to the left.
And then a step to the right.
With your hands on your hips.
You bring your knees in tight.
But it's the pelvic thrust
That really drives you insane.
Let's do the time-warp again.

Looking frantically around for anything familiar, Vizh saw the imposing face of Mr. Epitome. Just before he called out to the Legionnaire, he looked again. Epitome seemed a lot taller than usual, even for him. Perhaps it was the six-inch high heels he was wearing. And the long black cloak. Something was strange here.

Before he could collect his thoughts, though, a black-haired dancer in a fishnet costume had snagged his arm and dragged him into the line dancers jumping and thrusting to the music, while a man dressed in a feather boa, tights and not much else had snatched Asil.

[More, I hope, before Halloween. Or perhaps this could be a round robin?]

Playing the part of -- er, nobody in this travesty

J. Jonah Jerkson
VOICE OF THE PEOPLE