Split Siren

John skipped the film at eleven and curled up in bed with the newest issue of Scream Queen Illustrated.

He instinctively thumbed to the centerfold, and there she was in full-color - as the cover had promised - Suzi Parker, sweeping her hair up like a high fashion model, clad in a skimpy bikini, smiling that seductive smile of hers.

John was suddenly aware of his loss of breath, of his heart slam dancing in his chest, of his erection rising in his boxers: all of these were symptoms of his infatuation with his scream queen of choice, Ms. Parker.

If a stranger were to step into John's bedroom, they would suspect one of two things: either the room belonged to Suzi Parker or, more likely, to that of an obsessed fan. If they guessed the latter, they would be correct and advised to get the hell out of the bedroom...who knows where he keeps his chain saw, right?

Indeed, John's bedroom was a Shrine for Suzi Parker. Posters of the movies in which she appeared festooned the walls, everything from Class of Slaughter High to her most recent screamfest, Ghouls Dig Dead Boys. The bookshelf space was stacked with horror videotapes, all of which featured Suzi. He even owned a grainy bootleg of the only porn movie she'd ever done, in which she was billed as Suzi Q.

Sure, John's interior decoration was peculiar, if not downright creepy. But the truth was, he was just a harmless fan-boy, a pimply seventeen-year-old who couldn't get horizontal with ugly chicks, let alone hot babes. He worked at the Village Take-out during the day, and spent his nights haunting video stores, looking for rare, out-of-print splatter movies. You know, the kind of movies that has enough tits to breast-feed a family of six, and enough blood and gore to paint a two-story house with.

Tonight was different, however. Tonight he had a date.

Granted, his date was made of paper, with three staples dissecting her heavenly body, but why be picky? He held the magazine - Suzi - in his left hand, and slide his free hand through the hairs beneath his boxers. He stared unblinkingly at Suzi as he worked up a sweat, masturbating with a fervor not unlike that of Freddy Krueger stalking and slashing the youth of Springwood.

Beads of sweat trickled down his forehead and landed on Suzi's hair...

Suzi Parker was standing in the woods, clad in a skimpy bikini, shivering as the cold night air clung to her body like a death shroud.

What am I doing here? she thought. I should be in a heated trailer, working on a big-budget picture, not some grade-Z slasher flick aptly titled Camp Slaughter.

"But the calls just ain't coming in, baby." That was what her good-for-nothing agent, Harry, would have said.

How he smooth-talked her into accepting the role of yet another dumb blonde, she'll never know. At least this time she didn't have to get naked, or worse, fake an orgasm. All she had to do was run around the woods until a masked maniac knifed her in the chest.

Routine work. She could have done it in her sleep.

This may not win me an Oscar, she thought. But at least it'll pay the bills.

Wet droplets pelted Suzi on the head. She looked up at the sky. Not a cloud loomed above.

"Is it raining?" She asked Ted, the production assistant, who had brought her a cup of coffee.

Ted shrugged.