Nightmare Fuel: The Drummer

Evening at the comedy show. It was the perfect set-up; plenty of people were there. Comedian Joe Shmarly had struck a home run again, landing the perfect place next to the local bar. Sloshed idiots always laughed at your jokes whether they were funny or not. Should be an easy night. 

Joe Shmarly led off with one of his best jokes. Not all the people were completely out of it, so he at least tried to be funny. The punch line. The drummer’s cue.

Ba-dum tish.

The Drummer rolled his eyes and sighed amid the sound of the hysterically laughing mass of drunks in the room around him. At least there was a curtain here so that he couldn’t see them.

Or maybe so that they couldn’t see him.

Another punch line. 

Ba-dum tish.

And so it continued, late into the night. As the minutes ticked past, Joe Shmarly’s jokes became less and less funny and more just plain stupid. Or so The Drummer thought. Maybe he was just bored. He had been doing this for years, after all. Not just for Joe, but for many people. And it always ended the same way. He checked his watch; almost time.

Like he said, it was the perfect set-up.

Without warning, the windows all shattered to the rat-a-tat-tat of machine gun fire, and the door at the back of the room burst open, exposing at least half a dozen men in sleek black body armor. They all held M4A1 carbines and had huge, menacing machetes on their belts, unsheathed. 

The room exploded into chaos and screams as everyone tried to frantically evade the gruesome death that was sure to be dealt. All six guns exploded into rapid-fire action. Blood sprayed, and several bodies with more holes in them than in a piece of Swiss cheese sank to the floor, all life drained from them. Several more hit the floor, but were still very much alive. The walls, floor, and ceiling were peppered with gun holes, and the backstage curtain had fallen, revealing The Drummer, still sitting, but he wasn’t boredly staring into nothing waiting for his cue anymore. No, he was in a casually slouched position, watching the chaos with a predatorial, sadistic enjoyment. The gunfire stopped, and the attackers drew their machetes in their place. The lucky few who were still alive soon realized their luck was a false hope. In a few bloody moments, the mutilated remains of the last survivors were laying amidst a lake of blood. The Drummer surveyed the scene with a twisted satisfaction. His true line of work having been completed, he took a second he knew he couldn’t afford to admire his handiwork.

It was a second too long.

Before The Drummer could make his escape with his cronies, a squad of police and a SWAT team burst into the wreck of a room. All guns were pointed at him as they slowly picked their way through the mutilated body parts and huge pools of blood. Several policemen looked sick, and one passed out. The Drummer stared disdainfully at the motionless cop. Weakling. His ever-moving eyes surveyed the remaining hostiles, all with guns pointed at him. Waiting for their prey to move. He was caught and he knew it. He smirked, his expression made all the creepier by the flickering, sparking stage lights and the torn curtain that had fallen around him. One of the police officer’s gun hand started to shake as he observed The Drummer’s deranged grin. His finger tightened on the trigger of his gun. The Drummer knew his end was near, and in the dead silence between him and his adversaries, he let loose a booming, maniacal laugh. This was his type of humor.

Ba-dum tish.

 Bang.