I Met Kool-Aid Man (Audio Version)

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The Twilight Saga: New Moon

One of the reasons that ColuMn exists is to, as they say, take one for the team.  Want to know what Burger King Ketchup-Flavored French Fry Potato Chips taste like, but don’t really want to spend $4 to try them yourself?  That’s what Sparks is here for.  Want to see what’s up with that whole Twilight phenomenon, but don’t want to fight 14-year-old girls for a place in the Slushy line?  BlackJack is here to punch those little bitches for you.

I was pretty late to the whole Twilight thing.  I saw the first flick, in theaters, but at the end of its run, last February.  When I saw that New Moon was scheduled for November, I knew that ColuMn readers would demand a review, so I bit the bullet and went online and ordered a pair of tickets, confident that I would have no problem finding somebody to go with me.  I usually have no problem attending movies alone, but there was just no way I was dragging my old ass to the theater for the midnight showing of a movie aimed squarely at pre-pubescent girls.  I’m already on a number of government watchlists.  No need to add me to the potential pedophile list.

With my tickets to the midnight showing secured, I could focus squarely on finding some nubile vixen (of legal consenting age or above) to be my lucky companion.  Chicks love Twilight!  I pretty much figured I’d be beating off the contenders with a stick (supply your own punchline to that obvious set-up).  The days passed.  Then the weeks.  And I still hadn’t gotten around to asking anybody.  The problem with asking a female to go see a Twilight movie with you is that they automatically assume one of two things:  a) you’re gay, or b) you’re a sick child molester.  While for certain women either of these things would be seen as big-time aphrodisiacs, to the women I have access to, they were both a solid negative.  And, let’s face it, there’s no way to try to explain that you’re just a normal heterosexual guy who happens to like angsty teenage vampire stories.

Finally, with mere days to go, I made my move and asked one of my Facebook friends, former co-worker, and all around nice girl to attend with me.  Much to my relief, she accepted my sheepish invitation, asking what time we should plan on meeting up.  I had no idea.  Would there be a line of 4-foot tall children stretching around the block?  Would any responsible parent in their right mind let their child attend the midnight showing of a movie most adults would rather burn their eyes out with a car lighter than watch?  I figured an hour prior to showtime was plenty.

But she wasn’t satisfied with that, calling the theater, who told her that they were showing the original Twilight right before New Moon and letting people who attended that keep their seats.  Before I knew it, I was back on the internet purchasing two tickets to the 9:00 showing of Twilight.  I was now looking at 5.5 hours of Twilight madness.  Cool.  Fine.  I can do that.

So the day finally arrived.  I was determined to get as much sleep as possible leading up to the show and then squeezing in a nap between work and the movie.  The problem was that I’d gotten so much rest in the days leading up to the premiere that I wasn’t remotely tired enough for a nap.  When my date texted to tell me that she’d checked with theater management and people had been lining up since noon for a 9:00 show, we made the call to hit a nearby restaurant for some grub and then resign ourselves to standing in the cold for a couple of hours.

So I picked her up and we drove down to the theater to check out the madness.  Which would have been crazy if crazy madness were defined as 6 people waiting in line.  The line for the bus stop was longer.  This was not a disappointment, as it gave us time to not only eat something, but get a few drinks inside of us.

We hit the line just as they started letting people in.  Grabbing our commemorative vampire teeth in the silky velvet pouch that they were handing out, we navigated our way in and to the balcony, finding some good seats and settling in for our marathon dose of lip-biting.

Twilight was fun to sit through again, actually.  The crowd got just how ridiculous a lot of the story is, cracking jokes and laughing at appropriate times.  You can read my review of the original flick if you want to.

At around 11:00 they started letting in the people who had chosen to skip Twilight and only see New Moon.  The theater was packed.  And then the lights came down.

We didn’t make it past the previews before the large tween girl demographic made their presence known.  With trailers for upcoming movies featuring Robert Pattinson and Zac Efron, I was rendered legally deaf before the Summit Entertainment Logo flickered on the screen and New Moon began.

If you don’t know the Twilight Saga, it’s the story about a normal everyday girl, Bella Swan, who falls in love with the weakest vampire in the history of cinema, Edward Cullen.  Complications arise in their relationship in New Moon when Edward leaves Bella in a misguided attempt to protect her, making room for Jacob Black, who happens to be a werewolf, to move in and create the most ridiculous love triangle since Abbot and Costello Meet Frankenstein.

Not much happens in New Moon.  It was my least favorite book in the series, with large chunks of story taken up by Bella being depressed that Edward left.  There are a lot of threads that will lead to some pretty good plotlines in the next two movies, but that’s basically all New Moon is: the prelude to Eclipse and Breaking Dawn.

There were some things I liked in New Moon.  Kristen Stewart was better (looking anyway) than ever.  You can tell, if given some good material, this girl could probably the act shit out of it.  The werewolves were also pretty cool, with vastly improved special effects since the first movie.  And the tween girls in the crowd roared their obligatory approval every time Edward or Jacob or the wolf pack took off their shirts, which was contractually obligated to occur every 3.5 minutes.  Seriously, I haven’t seen this homoerotic of a movie since Dick Hard 2: Dick Harder.  Not that I saw that.  But that doesn’t  bother a demographic group that is still probably 2 years from their first orgasm (if they’re lucky).  They know they’re supposed to roar their approval at shirtless Ambercrombie models, so they do.  It all seemed very mechanical and manipulative.  But hey, as long as they’re having fun, who am I to judge?  I was a guest in their house that night.

The movie ends extremely abruptly (and a bit before the book ends) and extremely unsatisfying, making it further seem like just a preview of the next movie.  I can’t in good conscience recommend New Moon to anybody who isn’t a fan of Twilight, and even Twihards will probably find themselves not overly thrilled with this adaptation.  But it will hold you over until Eclipse comes out on June 30, 2010 when things finally start to get interesting.

As we made our way out of the theater at 2:30 in the morning on a work night, we both marveled at the level of naive insanity that had gripped us when we had decided to undertake this endeavor.  As I nodded off behind the wheel and plowed head-first into on-coming traffic, I couldn’t help but feel that it had been a terrible decision to go see the Twilight/New Moon midnight double feature and quietly cursed you, the ColuMn reader as my car rolled into a ditch, and I finally got some shuteye.

The Strip Club

As ColuMn winds down Year Two and slowly transforms into a site with even less frequent updates, we’re getting a little nostalgic and appreciating all of the good times we’ve had.  In that spirit, cmsof agreed to spring for a night on the town last Friday.  It is only now that we will speak of it and never again.

As the rooster crowed, signaling the end of another exhausting workday, Sparks and I wandered non-chalantly into cmsof’s office.  We were surprised to find O’Connor sitting across from the Chief, with some elaborate storyboards laid out.  Before I could ask if The O’Connor Chronicles was coming back from cancellation, cmsof announced that he was treating the staff to all-you-can-drink PBRs (Pabst Blue Ribbons) at the corner dive.  All-too-weary of the Saturday morning PBMs (Pabst Bowel Movements), I decided to stick with Vodka Red Bull.

As the evening flew by, I remarked to myself in my head that this was the first ColuMn drinking event that had not been ended prematurely by S.W.A.T., the vice squad, or one of us erupting into uncontrollable sobbing.  Maybe we really were becoming men.  I raised my head from the half-empty glass of anti-freeze-flavored vodka and allowed myself just a hint of a smile.

Like every other weekend in the history of weekends, it was clear that this little excursion would not result in any of us getting laid.  Used to it, but now fueled by the seemingly bottomless pockets of our faithful leader, Sparks was the first to bring up the idea of hitting the strip club.  ”I could get behind that idea, if you know what I mean,” I said, attempting a sexual innuendo that sounded more gay than anything.  ”You guys have earned it, I guess,” cmsof said, still frighteningly sober.  ”What’s a club?” O’Connor asked.

Ignoring O’Connor’s non-stop questions about pretty much everything, we left the bar and headed up the street, to where the neon proudly announced “Live Nude Girl”.  Either the “s” was burnt out or they only employed one exotic dancer.  Either way, none of us raised any objections.

The exterior of the club was nothing special.  A windowless eyesore that was a pox on the residential neighborhood that surrounded it.  You could tell it was near the elementary school just by the reader board which proudly stated, “Let us swing on your monkey bar”.  That sounded neither erotic nor safe.  We nervously made our way inside, allowing our eyes to adjust to the dark.  We were not prepared for the sight that greeted us.

I’ve been to a few strip clubs in my decades on this planet.  Usually there is a party atmosphere, with loud pounding dance music, a good-sized crowd, and a cornucopia of dancers in various stages of undress.  This was not that type of strip club.

We were greeted first by a smell best left undescribed (rancid tar is about as close as I can come).  Once we got our gag reflexes under control (O’Connor never really did, but he tried and that’s what counts) we became aware that the place was dead silent.  No music, no murmuring crowd.  Nothing except for the sound of O’Connor expelling gas.  Determined to make the most of a pretty weird situation, we filed in and took seats around the stage.

As we waited for a dancer to take to the stage, a waitress came by to take our drink order.  I tried to order a Vodka Red Bull, but was informed that we couldn’t drink liquor.  cmsof left immediately.  By this point, seven Vodka Red Bulls in, I was sort of relieved and hopeful that my heart would stop racing well before medical attention was required.  I ordered a water.

At that point, the DJ, who appeared to not speak any English, put on perhaps the most inappropriate song to strip to ever recorded (Extreme’s “More Than Words”) and a stripper who hadn’t seen her 20s (or her feet) in at least two, maybe three, decades shambled onto the stage.

The performance that we beheld is not something I wish to recall, even for you, ColuMn reader.  With O’Connor in one ear babbling about not seeing a naked woman since his step-son tucked it for the stage adaptation of Silence of the Lambs in high school and Sparks violently dry humping the chair leg, it was all I could do to pay the $15 for my 8 oz. dirty glass of room temperature water.

As the “dancer” came off the stage, she made eye contact with O’Connor, who immediately jumped at her offer of a visit to the VIP room.  Figuring that I’d better keep O’Connor in sight, I grabbed the first stripper I could and followed O’Connor back to the VIP room.

As I got comfortable, slowing sipping from my $15 glass of water, the stripper ran through the overpriced menu options.  Three songs for $100?  I was pretty sure that “Rime of the Ancient Mariner” wouldn’t be one of those songs.  In fact, the two songs I’d heard since entering the club had spanned no more than three minutes.  One thing about strip clubs.  They’re not really concerned with artistic integrity.

The next option was the $300 “private room”.  When I asked if that was code for “boning”, I did not receive the shy nod that I was expecting, but rather a boistrous laugh that will follow me to the grave.  No, the $300 was basically an hour spent listening to strip club music and unspecified activities that would probably turn out to include awkward attempts at conversation and exotic dancing that more closely resembled the death throes of a paralyzed paraplegic slowly dying of a gut shot.  Not that I’d take the offer of boning anyway, though it would probably be more enjoyable than just diving into a big vat of gonorrhea, if way more pricey.

As luck would have it, before I could commit and part with my semi-hard-earned money, O’Connor shat himself, resulting in our entire group being removed from the premises as the first notes of the immortal “Send Me An Angel” wafted from the depressing morgue-like solitude of the strip club.

As we walked slowly back to the Sparksmobile, we all emphatically agreed.  This had been the best ColuMn office social gathering ever.

Spogz

You know something I’ve got that you probably don’t? No, not charm, class, or sophistication (you have read the site, right?). No, it’s SPOGZ from Eclipse and Todd McFarlane Productions, Inc.

Back in the dark, pre-internet ages of 1992 some of my favorite comic book artists told Marvel and DC to go fuck themselves and started their own comic book company, Image Comics. Back then I collected every single title they’d crap out (I’m looking at you, Bloodstrike). But the best ones were the books created and produced by the Image Seven. One of those titles was Todd McFarlane’s Spawn.

I fuckin’ LOVED Spawn. McFarlane was probably my favorite artist at that point and I soaked up everything he touched. I actually had a license plate that was SPAWN 9 (I got enough comments back then – don’t bother). I’d buy mini-series, posters, toys, Hotwheels, shirts, and SPOGZ.

Back in the early 90s I was always hearing about how Pogs were the next big thing. They were in gumball machines, in magazines, in cereal boxes, and sold in trading card-like packets. Supposedly they were huge in Hawaii. Pogs is basically a game where you try to flip your opponent’s disk with your disk. Remember, this was before the Internet. Our entertainment options were limited.

And still, no matter how big the hype got, literally nobody played Pogs. Nobody. Not that any of that mattered to me. I wasn’t going to PLAY with my Spogz. What are you? Crazy?

Spogz, perhaps obviously, were Pogs with pictures taken from the Spawn comic book on them. There were 54 regular Spogz, 6 prism Spogz, a Platinum Spog, a metal Spog, and the extra thick Todd McFarlane Spog. Are you tired of hearing the word “Spog” in your head yet?

Spogz appealed to my collector mentality at the height of its fanatacism. I spent God knows how much on the little round pieces of paper, and yet I never did collect them all.

Even today there are still a couple of the holofoil and the metal Spog that I don’t have. I also never sent away for the mail order binder. I recently acquired about 7 Spogz that I didn’t have as well as the “rare” prism board, whcih holds the 6 prism Spogz and the Platinum Spog. The other three and the binder will soon be in my possession. And then I’ll finally be ready to take on all-comers in the most viciously epic Spogz tournament in the history of mankind.

Dear Lady GaGa

Dear Lady GaGa,

I know you read ColuMn. GiGi is a brilliant alias, but according to O’Connor you just replaced the a’s in your name with i’s. Which really, when you think about it, means your alias should be Lidy GiGi. The point is, you might fool me, you might fool BlackJack, you might even fool cmsof, but NOBODY fools O’Connor.

So you and I both know that you’re reading this. Probably wearing that blue sex clothes thing from the Poker Face video. Yeah. That’s exactly how it is. Don’t bother denying it.

I could beat around the bush and completely bullshit you with verbal feces like, “I really enjoy your music,” or even, “You have a lot of talent,” but I only have limited space here, so I should get right to the point (he says after three paragraphs of rambling nothing – I know, right?).

I think you and I would make a great couple. Like there’s not even a good pop culture reference for how awesome of a couple we would make. Brad and Angelina? Tony and Angela? Paris and syphallis? They’re all fine examples. We’d just be that much better. Let’s just look at the facts as they exist and if, after I present my case, you can actually form the word “no”, then you will never hear from me again.

Exhibit A – I’m a robot dog. You do a killer robot. It’s like I could stop here, but I’m not going to. There’s more.

Exhibit B – You’re beautiful, talented, wealthy, famous, and a full-on pop culture icon loved by millions. I write for ColuMn. If opposites attract, it’s insane if we DON’T get together.

Exhibit C – It’s worth repeating. You’re rich. In addition to that, you’re “on the road” a lot. I am totally cool with that. With GTA IV: The Ballad of Gay Tony out this past week, Modern Warfare 2 coming out next week, and Left 4 Dead 2 dropping the week after that, I actually prefer you not be around that much, as I will be quitting my job to devote every waking moment to being your full-time lover (waiting patiently for you to return from your tour as I keep myself busy on Xbox. I can be brave for you, sweetie). Don’t forget to stock up on Snausages and pay your internet bill before you leave.

I know there are some cons alongside that epic list of pros. There is a little bit of an age discrepancy. You’re 23. I’m 280 in dog years. But I’m also a robot. And my tail vibrates.

So, Lady GaGa, the ball is, as they say, in your “court”. I await your arrival at the ColuMn offices where we all live and work. You might even get the chance to write a Taco Bell review (you won’t – cmsof).

Until then, my love, I remain,

Sir Sparks

The Taco Bell Deuce Dropper Blow-Out: The Black Jack Taco and the Volcano Crunchwrap

Everytime I go out in public, somebody always asks me, “So when is BlackJack going to review the Black Jack taco at Taco Bell?”  First, I tell them that Sparks is your Bell man.  Then they tell me, “Well, they don’t have a Sparks taco.”  To which I reply, “Well, they should,” followed by, “I’m never reviewing the Black Jack taco because it’s just too damn obvious.  ColuMn likes to mix things up.”  Even though I know the time will come when my on-going desperation for ideas will inevitably lead to said review.

So Sparks and I decided to pull a switcheroo.  I’ll be reviewing two Taco Bell items today and Sparks is going to handle a mindless go-nowhere article in a few days.  And then we’ll both share a good cry.

Before I get to the Black Jack taco I wanted to share my thoughts on a Taco Bell menu item that is right now only available in the Great White North.  Last weekend, while visiting Association™ Headquarters: Canada, I got pretty drunk.  After they’d pumped my stomach and marveled at the miracle of my still being alive, I hopped in the Ass Van (Association™ Van) and hit the local Taco Bell.  I was shocked to see a new Volcano Menu item:  the Volcano Crunchwrap.  I later discovered that this was a Canada-exclusive item, so I considered myself extremely lucky to have stumbled upon it.  And to still be alive after my .9 blood alcohol adventure.

Unfortunately, I didn’t have the foresight to snap any pictures, but I did take copious notes.  The Volcano Crunchwrap may be the hottest item yet introduced to the Volcano line.  If you’ve never had a Crunchwrap before (and this was my first one), it’s a big tortilla stuffed with taco stuff and then folded so that it resembles a diarrhea-powered flying saucer.  Mine wasn’t particularly crunchy, but it was wrapped.

I bit into the shell and my mouth immediately burst into flames (my ass would follow suit exactly 20 minutes later).  This thing was stuffed with taco meat, the volcano sauce, cheese, rice, and the trademark red shell bits.  But the thing that really set the temperature rising was the inclusion of no less than 30 jalepeño peppers.  Seriously, you could not take a bite without crunching down on three peppers.  I had to remove roughly 2/3 of them just to be able to eat them and not feel like an alien was about to burst through my stomach.

ColuMn hopes that this doesn’t remain Canada-exclusive for long.  The Volcano Crunchwrap is an important part of a nutritious breakfast.

——————————————-

When I first heard that Taco Bell was introducing an item called the Black Jack taco, I was pretty sure it was aimed squarely at me.  They follow cmsof’s twitter feed.  They know BlackJack and Sparks.  Oh, they know.  Their marketing wizards must have said, “This guy and his stupid robot dog will buy these like pigs buy bacon (which I’m assuming pigs do a lot)”.  THEY WERE WRONG.  But I couldn’t hold off the inevitable forever.  Today I traveled to my local Taco Bell and ordered two Black Jack tacos.

I got home and unwrapped one.  Yep.  It looked like a taco with a black shell.  I bit into it and have to admit, it was really tasty.  Loaded with beef, pepper jack sauce, lettuce, and three cheeses (cheddar, pepper jack, and mozzarella), this really is a good taco.  Not sure why they don’t include tomatoes on this.  I guess they assumed I don’t like tomatoes.  But I do.  So get to work fixing that, Taco Bell.

I know there are the skeptical among you that say, “Taco Bell just dyes their shells a different color and calls it something like Volcano (red) or Black Jack (black).”  But no, this is a unique flavor that you’ll probably enjoy.  It’s not as radically different from a normal taco as the Volcano Taco was, but it’s still a nice little change from the ordinary.

In conclusion, if you’re in the mood for Taco Bell, they’re really stepping up the game by offering new items that combine unique flavors with fun concepts.  Hopefully this will be my last Taco Bell review, though.  My pants are tight.

ColuMn FACTS!

210 calories
150 calories from fat
17 grams of fat
4.5 grams of saturated fat
430 mg of sodium
(or, yes, this will kill you)

ColuMn Fun Fact™
The Black Jack taco probably was not actually named for ColuMn’s BlackJack.  But maybe.

ColuMn Rating: ★★★

1317½ Chapter Nine: Mindshaker Meltdown

ACT I, SCENE I:  Introduction
It’s a world of cold, misery, and shadows.  It’s a world of darkness.  The trees wither and hover precariously between life and death.  The only birds in the air are the carrions.  The few standing structures are rundown and unstable, liable to collapse at any moment.  Standing on the cracked pavement outside of what’s left of 1317 ½, Scott, Chris, Jason, Cami, Arps, Greg, and Deanna stare at each other in silence, not quite sure where to begin.

ACT I, SCENE II:  Strands
Scott has begun to piece it together and the rest are catching up quick.  They all know what has to be done.  If only they have time to do it.  With a smile of grim acceptance and warm friendship, Greg, Chris, Cami, Jason, and Arps vanish.  Scott and Deanna turn to each other, the smiles fading.  From all directions, members of the Psycho Killer’s species emerge from the shadows, slowly closing in.

ACT I, SCENE III:  Drop In
Tom rubs his eyes.  It had seemed so real.  Too real.  Like hyper-reality.  Mid-rub, Greg appears, looking extremely agitated.  Tom and Greg run into the kitchen and start heating up the knives.

ACT I, SCENE IV:  A Change Of Reality
In the basement, hovering over his shrine, the Psycho Killer glares above him, seeing through the ceiling up to Tom and Greg.  In a fiery burst of hate-filled energy, the Psycho Killer explodes through the floorboards, showering Greg and Tom with splintered wood.  But they’re ready for him.  Tom jabs two red hot knives deep into the Psycho Killer’s eyes, boiling them in his skull and digging deeper, searing brain tissue.  Greg and Tom vanish immediately.  Seconds later, the Psycho Killer implodes in a crackling blue electrical surge that leaves no trace behind.

ACT II, SCENE I:  1317 ½
Back at 1317 ½, things are relatively normal.  The place is a little messy, but there are no bodies.  Everything has been cleared out.  Cami and Chris appear in the living room, gather their bearings, and begin to explore.

ACT II, SCENE II:  The Idiot Box
As Chris and Cami methodically explore their home, the back door to the storage room slowly opens and Johnson emerges.  He creeps slowly and silently through the apartment, pausing outside the door to Deanna’s room, where Chris and Cami are beginning their search.  As Chris and Cami exit the room, Johnson transforms into the Psycho Killer.  Chris lunges at him, but is brushed aside effortlessly.  Cami hits him hard with the door, knocking him down.  As he begins to recover, he looks up just in time to see Cami shoving the tv off the tv stand and onto his head.  The tv screen shatters with a pop, blood pouring out and down the Psycho Killer’s body.  Chris and Cami vanish, followed closely by the Psycho Killer in the same blue electrical flash.

ACT II, SCENE III:  MINDSHAKER MELTDOWN
It’s an unusually cold night in mid-April.  The streets are slicked with rain.  An almost imperceptible disturbance touches the air and Arps and Jason appear, a block away from their destination.  Number one.  As they make their way closer and closer to the brick building, they spot movement in the bushy trees guarding the entrance.  It’s the Psycho Killer.  Arps and Jason each grab bottles out of a nearby recycling bin and break them to form sharp, jagged teeth.  They attack with no mercy, slashing and stabbing.  The porch light goes on beside the doorway and Arps and Jason look up, in that instant vanishing.  As the door opens, there is a sharp crackle.  I look out the door.  Nothing’s there.

ACT II, SCENE IV:  Future Shock
It seems instantaneous to all of them.  One moment they’re in 508 or 1317 ½, or on some strange, hyper-real street.  That same moment, they’re together outside 508.  But everything is different.  Chris, Cami, Jason, Arps, Tom, and Greg can only stare in jaw-dropping horror and wonder.  The 508 house is magnificent, a glittering castle literally made of gold.  It’s beauty is so great that to look at it is to drop all shame or pretense at weep openly at your insignificance.  Then they see Scott, a broken, beaten man.  He’s at least twenty years older than when they left him just seconds before.

ACT III, SCENE I:  2018
Almost instinctively, they know that the heart of this apocalyptic nightmare is inside of 508.  In the basement.  The Psycho Killer’s shrine.  They storm the basement in a berserker fury.  They have no control of their actions, their movement guided by something otherworldly.  Or so it seems.  They tear the shrine apart, savagely, using any weapons they can lay hands on, and if there are no weapons, they use fists and feet and teeth.  The Psycho Killer appears momentarily, but here he is at the peak of his powers.  Tall, strong, and oozing dread and fear.

ACT III, SCENE II:  End Game
Back in the dark world, no time has passed.  The Psycho Killers are still slowly advancing, closing their ranks, moving in for the kill.  Scott and Deanna stand back to back, swinging the biggest tree branches they can effectively wield.  It soon becomes apparent that the Psycho Killers aren’t interested in them.  It’s something just beyond where they’re standing.  Something at the doorway to 1317 ½.  And then Chris, Jason, Greg, Arps, Cami, and Tom appear, blocking the exit.

ACT III, SCENE III:  The Dark World
The eight friends stand together as a dozen or so Psycho Killers keep coming.  And then, inevitably, the fight begins.  It’s a blur of fists, tree limbs, lead pipes, feet, blood, hair, bone, and screams as the battle rages.  Soon the sheer numbers of the Psycho Killer horde overpower the gang.  The Psycho Killers begin jumping through the door of 1317 ½, vanishing into oblivion.

ACT III, SCENE IV:  Parting Shot
Scott, Deanna, Tom, and Arps are down.  Unconscious?  Dead?  The rest are barely standing upright.  Three Psycho Killers appear out of the shadows of the alley, running at full speed.  They manage to snag Cami and Jason, too tired to fight or even scream, shoving them through the portal.  Chris and Greg react instantly, unable to intercept them, but in time to, without thinking, dive through the door, gone.  Tom and Arps have recovered and are close behind.  Tom dives through seconds behind Greg, but the portal closes.  Severed diagonally from head to toe, half of Tom’s body falls with a sickening thud to the ground, leg and arm still reflexively twitching and spraying blood for a few long moments.  Half of his head remains connected to his torso through a few strands of muscle, one eye staring into the sea of infinity.  Scott, Deanna, and Arps can do nothing but stare in shock and horror.  Behind them, a shadowy figure retreats into the murky black of the alley.

April 21, 2008