Welcome to Horrorwood
Ink fills the page…
“Shit,” Assistant District Attorney Marcie Kent whispered under her breath before snatching the offending pen away from her legal pad. The stain had seeped through the first five pages of her meticulously crafted opening statement, and it took her a split second to realize that her small outburst was in full view of the judge, the jury, court onlookers, and the defendant, Spencer Orenthal Charnas. She looked around sheepishly as she blotted the mess. Not a good first day of trial impression.
DA Kent’s assignment to this case was not by any accident of random chance. No, she very much chose this for herself. Always a believer of creating destiny, rather than waiting for it to strike, Kent was a go-getter, type-A, DA’s office all-star. And Spencer? Well, he was just recently accused of killing his fiancée, Hollywood starlet Nadia Teichmann, a beautiful young girl with a lot of potential. The DA had watched her own star rise over the past few years and this case was just the ticket she needed for admission to celebrity status in the legal world. She outmaneuvered, outgunned, and outmanned everyone in the central office to get a crack at this defendant. She had been with the case since day one, was even the first to the courthouse for his surprise arraignment. Chalk it up to first day jitters, but here she was with a page full of ink, the first blemish in what would soon become a botched trial.
Kent quickly composed herself and apologized. She looked over to the defense table where she spotted Spencer’s lawyer, Carlos Cochran, and the defendant himself, a smug look on his face. On this day (as on most days), Spencer was “rockstar” incarnate. Slicked back hair, California-tanned skin, and a fitted suit that covered up two full sleeves of tattoos. He had a certain magnetism that could easily have a chilling effect on getting a conviction, and she knew that she would have to get ahead of that charm as soon as humanly possible. Kent made eye contact with a couple members of the jury, then took a breath before launching into her initial statements.
Suffice it to say, Kent handily recovered from the earlier mishap, delivering what could only be viewed as total perfection in her conveyance of the facts of the case. Like the scalpel of a seasoned rhinoplastician in nearby Beverly Hills, she cut through the jury’s doubts, dexterously molding them into the shape and size that suited her argument, all while removing the distractions that could mar an otherwise beautiful case.
He did it.
This is how he did it.
Acquittal is not an option.
And then her final blow: a set of videotapes that would become the lynchpin of the case. She had the whole room eating out of the palm of her hand and used that momentum to build up these pieces of evidence. The jury would practically believe they had witnessed Spencer commit murder in real life. Even if they were alleged to be merely works of fiction.
As she came to a close, Kent wanted to give her audience, the jury, a taste of what this trial would bring. “Give them just enough rope and they’ll hang him with it,” she thought. Thus, she used her remaining time to allow Spencer to introduce himself—on her terms, of course.
“Ladies and Gentlemen,” she began. “We’re asking you to consider whether the defendant brutally murdered his fiancée in cold blood. I could go on all day about the defendant’s depravity. But let’s hear who he really is, in his own words…”
†
[It should be noted here that large chunks of italicized text are the actual video tapes put out by Ice Nine Kills. These tapes would be used as evidence against the singer and, thus, are described in full detail, depicting the plots and visuals of these
vital artifacts. These videos are available online, wherever music videos may be streamed, with the QR links provided. But, be warned: many of them are graphic in nature and are not for the faint of heart.]
Lights up on the deserted streets of Horrorwood, illuminated only by pale street lamps and the orange glow of a burning vehicle, a relic of recent destruction. High up in the hills, a large, white-lettered sign displays “HORRORWOOD” against a backdrop of lush green. But we’re down on the streets below. There, in the middle of the madness, a movie theater previously prepared to premiere a film that has since gone unshown. The marquee remains unlit, suggesting the theater’s idle state. Cutting through the black, one lone klieg light strikes the night sky, as if to alert the universe to the source of chaos, the eye of the storm. Bodies lie strewn about the front of the theater. Someone—or something—very dangerous has been here. Standing amidst a sea of bodies and bedlam is, perhaps the danger himself, Spencer. He wears a blood-stained yet well-tailored tuxedo and stares down at his crimsoned hands. What have they done?
With a loud POP, the marquee behind Spencer illuminates, casting light onto the massacre surrounding him, a sea so red it’s hard to know where the carpet ends and the blood begins. The marquee for the Silver Scream theater announces the picture: Welcome to Horrorwood.
A phone rings. It is quickly answered by Spencer, now riding in a limo, unbloodied and unburdened by the actions of the evening. It is a time before the mayhem—hours, minutes—it’s hard to tell. In this otherwise quiet limousine, Spencer screams
into the receiver of the rotary phone. He is surrounded by three gorgeous women, none more so than his beautiful fiancée, Nadia, whose red dress evokes the color of the bloody mess soon to come. As the limo sharply rounds the corners of the streets, Spencer and his female guests are thrown around the bench leather seats, their champagne reaching the rims of their glass and sometimes spilling over.
The limo swerves past neon signs and art deco-style buildings. Finally, it reaches its destination: a well-lit, well-attended movie premiere, night-and-day from the previous iteration of the theater. For starters, no one has been killed. The crowd screams as Spencer exits the limo, donning his black wayfarer sunglasses and taking his place at the edge of the red carpet, where he joins the other members of Ice Nine Kills. A woman on each arm, Spencer is thereafter flanked by Ricky Armellino and Dan Sugarman, his two guitarists. On either side of Ricky and Dan: drummer Patrick Galante and bassist Joe Occhiuti. The band moves forward in unison as camera flashes flicker and fans fawn over their fame and fortitude.
The scene at the movie premiere continues, intercut with shots of the band playing on top of bullet-riddled cop cars and burned-out vehicles on the havoc-ridden streets of Horrorwood. Spencer sings from the center.
Back at the premiere, Ice Nine Kills is treated to the cheering of fans, dressed up in various horror costumes and band t-shirts and memorabilia, including a mask called “The Silence.” The night is not without its detractors, though. Dozens of protestors also line the red carpet, chanting and holding up handmade carboard placards emblazened with “IX=666,” “Death to INK,” and “Die Devil Worshippers.”
Notoriety is not without its naysayers.
Spencer extends both middle fingers to the protesters, who now flank the pathway into the theater and are held back only by velvet ropes. Journalists and camera crews crowd the band, blocking their swift entrance as they seek to grab an exclusive about the band’s big plans for the night, for the future. One particularly dim-witted journalist with a cheap haircut and an even cheaper tan steps in front of the rest to ask a question.
Spencer politely listens as the man asks, “Spencer, now that the Halloween franchise is over, do you think Michael Myers will make another Austin Powers sequel?”
Spencer pauses for a brief second, lost in thought, before removing his sunglasses and placing his arm slowly by his side. Suddenly, his pace quickens. He reaches up, pushes aside the man’s microphone, and grabs him by the back of the head, slamming him toward the ground. Once the man falls to his knees, Spencer carefully places his hands inside the man’s mouth—one on the maxilla, one on the mandible—and brusquely pulls the two apart. Once the cheeks are torn from the teeth and bone, the head gives way and the top half is separated from the bottom. Reporters, fans, and protestors alike scream in horror as pieces of the reporter’s previously intact skull fall on the red carpet. Spencer’s bandmates and their dates laugh and cheer the frontman on as he beams with delight at what he has done.
Chaos erupts through the crowd as various parties scatter for safety. In direct contrast, Spencer calmly strolls through the fleeing masses and toward Nadia. On arrival, she hands him a gold-wrapped present box, which he receives in stride, as he marches toward the protesters at the other side of the red carpet. Although this group maintains their distance from behind a rope, they stand their ground amidst the mass exodus. When Spencer is just a few steps away, he opens the box and drops it to the ground, revealing a pump-action shotgun. He raises the gun and aims before asking, “How’s this for an establishing shot?”
He pumps the gun and fires into the crowd, blowing a hole the size of a grapefruit in the face of an awaiting protester. A melee erupts. The band and their fans rush the protesters and reporters. The opposing sides clash, an explosion of anger and violence.
Spencer lowers his weapon slowly, a smug look crossing his face. He likes what he is seeing. From out of the crowd, Channel 9 entertainment reporter Diane Saw-Yer runs toward Spencer, her cameraman in tow, trying to catch the man at the heart of this insanity. Spencer casually asks to borrow the shoe of a nearby female moviegoer dressed to the nines. Diane’s story-first mentality and bouncy personality, summed up neatly in the
way her blonde hair catches the air as she runs, causes her to misinterpret Spencer’s current state of mind. He rises from removing the moviegoers pump and points the shoe directly at Diane, catching her mid-stride and embedding the stiletto heel in her eye socket. The squish of the hard shoe in the soft orifice echoes louder than it should, as blood pools around the gaping hole left in the front of her face. Spencer pulls back the heel, allowing Diane’s instantly lifeless body to fall backward, away from the offending object.
Seconds later, a large police response arrives. The crowd scatters wider until only Spencer and his bandmates are left. Weapons are drawn on both sides—the police and the band—and a standoff ensues. Firing round after round, the police duck behind their vehicles. The band finds refuge in the theater’s vestibule as they mow down one officer at a time, stopping only to reload their weapons. Officer’s heads and bodies explode as they are hit by the members of the band, who seem to be winning, until reinforcements are called in.
Before the group of new officers can fully arrive on the scene, it seems as if time stands still. Something is awakened in the form of a large man in a tattered coat. With one hand he struggles to affix on his head a Silence mask, a pale white face and dark black lips both of which are marred by numerous scars, including the largest one across the front that takes the shape of the roman numeral nine. The wild mane of the large, unkempt man flows out the back—the rest of his identity otherwise shielded by the mask. More terrifying is what occupies his other hand: a large chainsaw.
He is just the type of savage this town attracts.
Two police reinforcements, a beefy man and a smaller woman, approach with arms drawn, ordering him to the ground.
“Drop your fucking weapon!” the female officer shouts.
The masked man does not comply. Rather, he raises the chainsaw over his head, revving the blade and waving it around. Just as quickly as the officers are upon him, he swings the chainsaw in their direction, first impaling the woman, then continuing
through her and toward the beefy officer, skewering them like a shish kebab. He then proceeds to ram them into their own police cruiser, sending sparks flying and a grinding sound that echoes through the streets. Satisfied that they are dead, he parades his newly minted, double-bodied trophy down the streets of Horrorwood and into the darkness whence he came.
Meanwhile, the band holds their position in front of the theater firmly, despite an onslaught of police-issued rounds. Just as the band relaxes in their advantage, police SWAT vehicles arrive in droves. Heavily armored officers pour out of the vans and into the streets to take up a fortified position against the group of assailants. From behind flimsy glass, the gun-toting, tuxedoed members of Ice Nine Kills step forward, arms raised in surrender. Mouthing words that in no way express regret and remorse, ...
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