Not a lot of shit scares me. I mean, I’m a pretty straight-forward guy. I always feel like if something really threatens me, I can just drive my fist through it, or my truck, and that’ll be that. That’s why I’m more likely to be scared by a late mortgage payment than some guy sneaking into my house with a butcher knife. See, I can shoot the guy, bury him in the backyard and be done with him. Trust me, the neighbors don’t say shit. Mortgage companies tend to be more difficult to get your hands around…but you get the point. Straight forward, chin out, bring it on. And that’s generally served me well. Okay, no it hasn’t, hence the whole reason for this fucking blog, but regardless…that’s how I deal with shit and it’s led me to a state where very little actually gives me the fucking shivers. You know…like spooks me out. Horror movies are great, but ultimately more hilarious to me than anything else. They are primarily blueprints on how not to function in any form of crisis and incredibly amusing in that regard. “We’re stuck in a dark, abandoned warehouse with a psychotic killer loose in the area…we should totally fuck on this rusty bench!” Supernatural shit? Well, it’s just that…shit. Ghosts, Chupacabra and Mothman are nothing more than mental creations of the weak-willed…and cable television caters to them very nicely. There just isn’t anything of that nature that gets to me. Except one: Goths.
Yes, I know. I too have spent many a hour laughing and pointing at the skinny, pale dorks with mascara and black nail polish. The torn fishnet stockings and poorly-fitted black bra underneath a Bauhaus t-shirt, dyed black hair unwashed in weeks. And the girls are pretty ridiculous too. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t stuffed my fair share into a locker or dumpster in my youth…or a couple times last month while my daughter watched and laughed from the car (push the lid down again, Daddy!). I’ve never made much of any attempt to understand them or psychoanalyze. They are different and frail and my knuckles fit so well in the crook of their jaws. What’s to question? And there sure-as-fuck isn’t anything to fear.
But I write to you now a very changed man. A foolish and fearful man. I know now not to be lulled into a state of superiority simply because these children of the dark are seemingly unable to detach their chins from their chests and get their skin care products wholesale from funeral home supply chains. I know now not to point, stare or touch. I know that fear has never been so real and so tangible. Terror…thy name is GOTH. It happened last weekend…
Saturday evening. My wife and I had dropped the little one off at my mothers and were going to take in a nice romantic viewing at the cineplex of “We Bought A Zoo” (Shut the fuck up, my wife was paying. I figured I could ogle at ScaJo’s breasts for a couple hours. Oh fuck off, I can still hear you laughing). We walked into the front lobby and got in line to buy a ticket. We were a few groups back and had settled into a comfortable debate of whether or not I had just agreed to come to this movie so that I could stare at ScaJo’s boobs when we came around the corner of the ticket booth and the most ridiculous sight suddenly sat before me. Scrunched into the corner on the floor, between the ticket booth and the wall, was what appeared to be homeless lady with a giant, black hooded coat, tracing the brick with her painted-black fingers. My wife and I both paused and stared longer. Black coat. Black fishnet stockings into black boots. Long black hair falling from the hood held tight around her head and-wait. This was no homeless wino. Far worse! An annoying, teen goth acting out and desperate for the attention that her parents surely refused to give. We instantly broke into laughter at this pathetic little girl wallowing on the dusty tile floor, trying to muster every bit of teen angst she could derive from living in a four-bedroom colonial with DirecTV…but NO XBOX (GOD!). But as I raised a finger to point out the goofy Sponge Bob barrette clinging to a waxy strand of hair, her hood turned toward me…and a face of pure evil gazed upon me with eyes darker than the cheap eyeliner surrounding them. I dropped my hand as her mouth arced in a tiny sneer. A dark chill went down my spine. Why was she looking at me-
“Rick, were next. Come on”.
My wife called my attention back to the ticket booth as she paid for our tickets and handed me one. As we rounded the booth toward the main lobby door, I looked again to that corner…but she was gone. Stupid fucking goth girl. Probably snuck in to see Twilight for the fifth time. Ha! Yes, I am so clever. We wandered up to the concession stand to get my wife the obligatory bucket of popcorn and diet Pepsi. As I reach down to check my cell for any messages my eyes wandered around the main lobby and suddenly stopped at one of those couples photo booths by the arcade. There she was, sitting in the booth. Her dark hood up, looking directly at me…into me. Smiling.
“The fuck? Is she actually following us? Is she stalking us?” I blurted out.
My wife turned back to me. “Who?
“That little goth girl that was in the corner. She’s over-”
Gone. Fucking little rat.
“Do want your own drink,” my wife asked, completely ignorant of the terror unfolding before us, “’cause you always drink half my shit…”
“I want to know who that kid’s parent are so I can tell them to leash their animals.”
“Wait, are you talking about this Zoo movie?”
“No! That goth girl…never mind.”
We started walking to our theatre, my mind trying to prepare for boobs, stupid animal tricks, and Matt Damon’s ridiculously square head that I was about to be subjected to for the next two hours. As we reached the theatre door…there she was, leaning against the wall, waiting for me.
“Rick, isn’t that the weird girl from the ticket-”
“Yeah, I told you! Shit.” I walked up to her, “Listen, Dutchess of the Dark, scram or when you come down from your Robitussin high I’m gonna drag you back to your shitty parents. Fuck off.”
My wife pushed me past as the little demon just stood there and smirked.
“I am not afraid to punch a kid!” I yelled.
“How did she know what theatre we were going to? Did she fucking eaves drop at the ticket counter…creepy rat.”
“Probably had a quickie seance in the hall. Please don’t threaten children when we’re out. Reminds me of our honeymoon,” my wife pleaded. But those kids at our hotel pool had it coming. And only one of them cried. I don’t care if they were still wearing diapers, you don’t spit your pacifier into the pool….but anyway…
I looked back and gave the girl one more mean-mug as we walked into the darkened theatre and chose our seats close to the side-it was all that was available. Apparently the story of family-run zoos really captivates people. After the initial previews the theater darkened further and the feature began, but I couldn’t help but notice a bit of chill entering the air. Regardless, I settled in and patiently awaited the boobs and, hopefully, some great animal fart/poop jokes. I mean, with all these animals, there has just got to be some good lion poop jokes-that’s new territory. The seat next to me was empty and next to that was the wall. Yet I kept feeling something bump my leg. Ignore it. My eyes hadn’t really adjusted so there was nothing to be seen anyway. The movie progressed. It was terrible. They bought some family zoo. Not a word about animal poop yet and not a single tight shirt on Ms. Johansson yet. Somebody was finding this all quite hilarious though. An incessant giggling was hitting my ear just off to my right. I tried to ignore it for as long as possible but it quickly became maddening. Finally, I leaned forward to tap the person on the back but paused when I happened to look down and see the actual source of the giggling and leg bumping. There she sat, wedged between the row of seats, ass planted on the sticky floor, knees up to her chin…her pale face now contrasting the dark of the theatre. She smiled at me and actually hissed out loud. Yeah, hissed! That chic had somehow snuck in and squeezed under the seat next to me!
“Holy Shit!” I cried as I jumped back.
“Rick…Scarlet’s boobs are not that big…shut up,” my wife whined.
“Look, she’s right there…the goth bitch!” I screamed as I started kicking in her general direction and leaning against my wife. “I think she teleported!”
My wife looked and saw the little white-faced demon as well and jumped up. “Holy shit, what is wrong with her?”
“Out! Let’s go!” I yelled as I herded her past the legs of annoyed patrons. “Sorry, Sorry….rabid goth bitch behind us. Might want to move to another row…”
We hustled up the aisle and walked out of the theatre. “Well I’m gonna find a manager or something and get her kicked out,” my wife proclaimed as we walked back down to the lobby.
“Fine. Whatever, that bitch is creeping me-”
There she was, leaning against the wall a few feet ahead of us. Impossible. There was no way.
“Rick. What the fuck…”
“Quick, inside here!” As I pushed my wife into a maintenance closet and locked the door behind us after turning on the light. It was a small room with some mops and shelves full of cleaning supplies. Smelled like bleached popcorn.
“Rick…let’s just go. What is she gonna do? She’s just a kid…right? Rick?”
I was suddenly overcome with urge to have sex with my wife on the rusty bench in the corner. No idea why. I shook my head, “I…yeah…I don’t know. I’m freaked out. You saw that. She can teleport! How do you stop black magic?! I mean…I saw “The Craft”! Shit is about to get real!”
We paused and caught our breath and tried to regain our senses. “Okay, maybe it’s just a differant girl. You know? They do kinda all look the same,” my wife replied.
They do. That’s true. Those goths. Maybe she came with a little pack of dark weirdos and they were all just fucking with us. Like a goth version of “The Brood”. Still, we both had the unmistakable emotion of terror coarsing through us. Okay. We were gonna unlock the door and just book to the closest exit and out to my truck.
“Should I say a prayer first?” I asked.
“You’re an atheist.”
“Right. Okay…you saw those Harry Potter movies…say a spell or something.”
My wife gave a look of disgust and shoved the door open and we spilled out, B-lining straight to the first exit we saw and out into the parking lot.
By the time we got to our truck, we were actually laughing. We had run from some eighty-pound, thirteen-year-old girl who liked to dress in black and write bad poetry. She was probably inside right then getting yelled at by her mother for sneaking out of The Muppets movie.
Then we saw it. A black, fishnet stocking. Torn. Flapping in the wind from my truck’s antenna.
We didn’t talk on the way home. Fear the Goths.