Status Updates From Funland

Though her torso was smeared with blood, Dave saw no wounds. Joan removed her shoulder holster and the knife rig. She took off her bullet-proof vest. Her T-shirt looked glued to her skin. It was white. Its whiteness struck Dave as strange and comforting. He'd seen so much blood in the past few minutes that he'd begun to feel as if scarlet was the natural color of things.

An instant before he threw himself against the door, Jeremy heard the clack of a sliding bolt. He clutched the knob, twisted it, tugged at it, crying "No! Let her out! Let her out, you bastard!" He pounded the door, smashed at it with his shoulder, kicked at it. The door stayed shut. He sank to his knees, weeping.

Tanya pulled a folding knife out of the pouch of her sweatshirt. She pried its blade out. Jeremy dug into a pocket for his Swiss Army knife. He saw Samson, Karen, and Cowboy produce knives of their own. "Everybody ready?" Tanya whispered. She scanned the group, her eyes glinting and fierce in the candlelight, then turned around and began to climb the stairs.

He unwrapped the blade and looked at it. Memories of last night rushed in, seizing him with fear and desire. Who needs the razor as a reminder? he thought. Who's going to forget that?

"Your blood and mine," she whispered. Her lips and chin and cheeks were dappled with it. She lowered his hand. She placed the razor blade in his palm. "Keep this with you to remember." "I'll never forget." "I know."

She'd been walking through a small town just after dark. It was October. A chilly wind tumbled leaves past her. She smelled wood smoke from chimneys. On both sides of the street, warm light glowed from the windows of homes. It hit her then. The loss. The sudden understanding that she was outside, alone, unloved, with no hope of ever returning to the home that had once been so cozy and safe and full of happiness.

She walked in the direction of the house, and soon it appeared peared through the fog. Its windows were dark. The house stood on pilings. Ducking down beside the porch stairs, she gazed into the black area among the posts. It looked like a cozy place to spend the night.

They seemed nice enough, but who could tell? In the car with them, she was at their mercy. But you don't argue with cops, you do as they say. That was a lesson she'd learned early, and never ignored. At least they were taking her away from that creep.

His name is Harrison Bentley. His friends call him Bents. Others among us call him a troll. A few nights ago he was beaten, stripped of his clothes, and bound with ropes to the steep downhill tracks of Funland's Hurricane roller coaster. A calling card was taped to his forehead. head. It read, "Greetings from Great Big Billy Goat Gruff."

Bro where is the horror???

Kinda crappy