Boogieman Blues
It was a slow night at The Abyss, with only a few barflies milling about and sipping their drinks. The creature from the black lagoon, affectionately known as Gills, was tending to a couple of customers sitting at the counter bar. Near the jukebox and dart board that hung on the wall next to it, situated in the back of the dank, dreary ambiance of the establishment, sat a caped figure with a garish medallion draped around his neck, while a wolfman dressed in casual kaki pants and a plaid polo shirt was busy with a solo game of darts.
“They’re too terrified of each other to be afraid of us anymore,” They were in the middle of a heated conversation as Dracula scowled, before he took another swig from his warm pint of Sangria de Platelet.
“Terrified of each other?” They tear each other apart relentlessly, and we’re the monsters?!
The wolfman responded to his fanged companion, cursing at himself for his poorly aimed throw at the dartboard. Meanwhile, their bandaged buddy uttered a few guttural phrases upon his return to the table with a round of fresh drinks.
“You may be right, Imhosen.” The vampire agreed when his mummy friend sat down. “They tear each other apart because they are terrified of each other. Humans tend to lash out at anything they fear and don’t understand.
Giving up on his futile game of darts the wolfman took a seat at the table.
“This dry spell kind of reminds me of when those slasher bums kicked us out of our spot for most eligible villain… Speaking of slashers, where have they been lately? I have not seen them hanging around the bar lately.”
“Last I heard, that Vorhees fellow is a motivational speaker doing a tour around the country,” Dracula answered. “The cenobites took over for that deceased human trafficker, and that creepy Krueger guy landed a gig as a speech writer for the upcoming reelection campaign. Ever since those series of Hollywood reboots and remakes they have been pretty busy.”
Imhosen gurgled something from his rotted vocal cords.
“Meyers? Dracula repeated. “I believe he is visiting family for the holidays.”
“That guy gives me the creeps,” the wolfman said, as a chill went through his body.
Just then, a commercial came on the television boxset stationed above the counter bar where a few other monsters were sitting.
“Not this guy again,” The vampire groaned when an advertisement for low interest loans played on the TV, the spokesman for the company was dressed in a black cloak with a ghastly pale mask covering his face. “And, of course, we all know what Ghostface has been up to lately.” Dracula rolled his eyes as he got up to see what songs the jukebox behind them had to offer.
“What?” The wolfman smirked. “I like the guy; I think he’s kind of funny.”
“Only if you like amateur hour. This Ghostface is probably Sidney Prescott’s second cousin, twice removed because of blah, blah, blah…”
“Snob!” The wolfman snorted as he took a gulp of his drink.
“Troglodyte,” Dracula muttered under his breath while he perused the list of song selections.
