The Texas Chainsaw Master Race

“Y’know, I could be on my couch right now watching the Dark Shadows marathon”, sez Blair, squeezing her tight little ass through the rabbit hole under a wrought-iron fence. The Bagdad cemetery in Leander, Texas is a minor tourist attraction, being where Toby Hooper shot the opening to Texas Chainsaw Massacre; as such, security is top-notch -- One semi-lard-ass, keeping in shape, eating only one donut, tapping his five-toed hoof listening to Bowie. He leans back, eyes on his phone, blankly staring at the music video to ‘Blackstar’. Nothing gets by him.  

...When the back of the swivel chair snaps under his weight, they breeze past while he’s rolling on the concrete floor of the booth.

Blair curls up in the hollow of an elm behind a mausoleum, somewhere near the middle of the boneyard. Bentley passes her a fifth of Hennessy and snatches it away when she’s had enough. 

A faint roar. Probably some obnoxious Harley rider hitting the gas on the highway. Bentley doesn’t seem to notice. 

She takes a swipe at the bottle. He bares his plastic fangs. 

“Oh yeah, Scream, Blacula, Scream.” 

Huff. 

“And what are you supposed to be, the incredible Karen?” 

“No, a Karen’s a white woman who’s never had BBC. I’ve been fucked by you plenty of times.” 

“Funny, I thought someone like you usually shops at some shit like Hot Topic, not Ambercrombie and Bitch.” 

They pass the bottle. She pounds it down more than he does. That roar again, slightly closer. 

“Science fiction, double feature...Malcolm X, will build a creature”. 

She points a sharp finger at four-eyes.  

He tosses the bottle before she can lap up the last few drops. 

She moves off a few yards and pokes around in the grass. 

He snaps his neck to the right when a chainsaw roar buzzes out for a couple seconds followed by subdued hushes and whispers. Pasty-ass ghosts throwing out unfriendly shadows come from the opposite end of the yard, toward the highway side. 

The alpha-douche with a square little shit-smear on his upper lip, a half-jap in spectacles with a slighly wider shit-smear, an obese Jubba the Hutt cosplaying the head of the Luftwaffe, crackhead-thin Nosferatu with the face of a grey hound, and a blonde, horse-face preppie who stands a head above the rest. 

Shitler waves a chainsaw between his legs. The others yuck it up. 

Nosferatu-Goebbels is the first to turn away and stare in their direction. 

He can’t see them in the shadows. He can’t see the shadows. He can’ -- 

He nudges can’t-see-his-own-dick Georring and all heads turn. 

Goebbels lip curls into a tight smirk. 

Someone shouts “Run, rabbit, run!” 

Goebbels leans over and whispers into der fuehrer's ear. Huddle. 

Georring bellows out a laugh and asks loud enough for them to hear, “What d’we do with the snow bunny?” 

“Lebensborn!” they shout in unison.  

...Bentley Usain Bolt’s it outta there. 

...He drops and catches his breath, the grating chainsaw buzz somewhere nearby. Havin’ lost sight of his slag of a companion, he fishes out a hotel-room mini-fridge-size bottle of malt and pours out half. Blair slides across the dirt road and tackles him to the grass. She suckles the last ounce. A shadow up the path shouts their location.   

Lights in the guard booth are still on, but they can’t see Animal Farm anywhere. The joint’s wide open, but they’re not scream-queen bimbos. Knowing the physics of chainsaw meets plate glass, cape-clad Malcolm hoists Blair Bitch Project onto the roof. Tipsy, she pulls him up.

The Third-and-a-half Reich fuck shit up; skinhead-piranha circling ’round, raiding the contents of the booth - snatching a skin-rag Heydrich lifts out of a false bottom of one of the drawers of the little desk - chainsaw-splintering glass, completely blowing out the windows. The tip of the saw grazes the edge of the roof inches from their feet, and when Bentley sez, “we’re gonna need a bigger booth”, Blair almost tosses his ass off the roof there and then. 

The booze gone straight to his kidney, the kid-size Romper Stompers widen the circle once Bents takes out his pecker and R-Kelly’s them. Blair drunkenly slurs out “Bat out of Hell”, swinging her legs off the roof and tipping them up whenever Anton Drexler’s rejected cum-stains lunge for the only piece they have a chance of getting before they finally drop the act and come out in their mid-20’s. 

Himmler’s tearin’ pages out of a small pad, foldin’ and tossing them. Bents swats the paper planes. 

“Hey, King Kong, you and jungle fever Fey Wrey over there are wanted on the set of the Mandingo remake!” 

“Yo, Birth of a Nation, you wouldn’t know what to do with that clit-size stub of yours even if you got your noose-tyin’ hands on her Karen-adjacent ass!”  

...Junior Hitler cradles his saw-edged penis substitute. 

A soft whimper. 

Heydrich’s ears perk up. Up the dirt path, he hears snorts, like a pig pokin’ aroun’ for truffles.

He squints. 

Blair sprawled on her back, drones: “Nazi punks, Nazi punks, Nazi punks - fuck off!” 

Goebbels cracks a smile and claps along. Heydrich smacks him upside the head.  

Goebbels holds back strong Aryan tears. “Just ‘cuz we’re tepid skinheads, doesn’t mean we can’t listen to the wisdom of Jello Biafra!” 

Snort snort. 

Heydrich sweats, not sure what he’s seeing. “Uh, guys?” 

From the roof: “All I wanted to do was ring in Halloween, the holiest of all holy days, by liquoring up this Poppy-looking white girl and offering her as a blood sacrifice to Papa Legba. Is that too much to ask? 

...He hoofs it out into the meager light thrown out from distant streetlamps. One a them pig-people from House on the Borderland, mixed with the morbid obesity and mating habits of Harvey Weinstein. An American flag tied as a cape around his barely-existent Danny DeVito neck gently flutters in the night.  

“Jesus, Mary and Joseph Stalin, what’s that?!” 

“America’s finest”, Blair deadpans.

“I’m sorry, does anyone else hear Bruce Springsteen’s ‘We take care of our own’?” 

A balled-up ham-fist comes up and smashes Heydrich’s jaw apart. 

Werepig rips the cape off, wrings it and ties it ’round Heydrich’s neck, leaving him dangling from a nearby dry branch. The Hangman of Prague just got lynched. 

Der Fuhrer drops the chainsaw and slides out a Walther; two .380’s in the clip. 

Then books it. 

“Mein Herr!” 

“Hide yo swastika-branded ass, they’s even lynchin’ white folks now!” 

“Where’re we gonna hide? There’s only slabs and mausoleums!” 

Hitler calls back, yards away: “Perfect! A mausoleum’s just an above-ground bunker!” 

Georring throws his legs apart; Sumo stance. Himmler kicks up the Leatherface special and shreds that bitch. Goebbels runs off to die with his fuhrer, expiring in his strong, manly arms, bulked up from lifting up the other races -- white man’s burden being the ultimate exercise regime -- like he’d written in his fan-fiction so many times. 

...Texas sun. Heydrich’s corpse rocks gently in the October breeze. Hitler stumbles out the cemetery gates, dead-fucking blind. Hole in the left side of his head, just behind the eyes. Damned idiot couldn’t even shoot straight; the bullet ripped thru, severing his optical nerves.  

Goebbels dropped into an open grave, snapping his neck, trying to find his dear leader. Georring, ripped to shit, stumbled and spun around in a hemorrhaging haze, right to the middle of the highway, where he got roadkilled by a semi. Himmler didn’t have a cyanide pill, so when he got picked up and brought in, middle digits on his right hand missing, he settled for gangrene.  

Himmler stuck the Texas Howdy in Piggy’s guts before Pigs ripped it outta his hands; purple intestinal tract spilled out, mixed with the dust. After they’d fucked-off, he clopped back to the guard booth, settled in the swivel. He slid out of it onto the floor toward morning. 

Blair and Bentley hike down the highway. He gave up on getting anything outta the white girl. 

“Hey Bent-ley?” 

“Hm.” 

“Happy fucking Halloween.”