Dark Tales and Flash Fun

Party Animals

I made my name in the deejaying world by being bizarre. I mean, even my name, DJ Marilyn Grotesque, offers the punters a clue to the sort of show I put on.

I've modelled myself on Marilyn Manson in his Tainted Love video. I stride into ordinary, regular parties and turn them into freak shows. Party hosts who want to shock their guests, love me. I always give them an experience they'll never forget... no matter how much they may want to.

Tonight's booking is my best payday ever, so I'm determined not to disappoint.

My black 1970 Lincoln Continental low-rider scrunches to a halt on the gravel drive at the front of the impressive mansion. Tonight it's going to be DJ Marilyn's mansion. My driver hits the pneumatics and the front of the car bounces like a kangaroo on steroids. A low banshee screech blasts out from under the hood. I want everyone to know that the main act has arrived. Be scared party guests, be very scared.

I peer out through the black tinted windows and a satisfied smile stretches my lips. People have streamed out of the house to see what the commotion is. They gasp and point as my car goes through its routine of bounces and bumps and grinds. I'm nearly ready. The scene is primed and set for another spectacular entrance.

I slip in my thousand dollar false fangs. They look so real; worth every cent I paid. Mind you, no one will see them until the moment is right. I shove open the car door and glide out onto the wide sandstone steps which lead up to the house. Every pair of eyes is on me. Do they think I'm a dead man walking? My paler than white makeup, blue lipstick and black eyeshadow would fool even a qualified pathologist, well at a distance they might. Dressed in black from head to foot, I stride up the steps.

I feel the mood shift from awe to 'oooh' when my girls emerge from the car; my five beautiful, sexy vamps strut up the steps behind me. Their skimpy black leather outfits look as if they'd be more at home in a brothel rather than this posh person's party. The girls have only one job; tease the guests, men and women, and entice them into an intimate web of expectation. Later, when the tension is reaching bursting point, and I give the signal, my little darlings will scare the living bejesus out of everyone around them with coordinated cat-like 'attacks', hissing and spitting sounds, and crazed displays of their fangs.

Me and my entourage bundle our way through the entrance hall. I'm heading for the little stage which houses my turntables and the controls for the lights, and fog machine, and flash bang maker. As I push my way through the gaping guests, my girls peel off and start seducing their victims. By the time I've reached the stage, all my girls are already hard at work, flaunting their leather clad bodies in the faces of their unsuspecting prey.

"Okay people," I shout into the mike. "I'm DJ Marilyn Grotesque, let's get this parrrr-teeee started."

☼☼☼

My carefully chosen music has whipped the party atmosphere into a frenzy; screaming vocals, ear-splitting rhythms and thumping bass undertones... and, I guess my girls working the floor have also helped to stoke the fires. Now it's time to crank up the vibe and spring our nightmarish surprise.

I dim the lights to almost pitch-perfect darkness and hit the play button. The air vibrates and throbs as I unleash Led Zepplin's Immigrant Song onto the crowd.

AAGH AAGHAAGH AAGHHH. The eerie screams and haunting guitar riffs slice through the atmosphere like an assassin's blade.

AAGH AAGH AAGH AAGHHH. The room is under my control. I ram the volume up to eleven. This is the cue for the girls to ready themselves. Halfway through the record, I'll shine one bright white spotlight on my face and flash my magnificent faux fangs. My girls will snarl and cackle and expose their fangs. Chaos will reign supreme. Welcome to my house of horrors.

AAGH AAGH AAGH AAGHHHAAAAGGGHHH! A bloodcurdling scream rips through the air.

Hold on. Too soon. What the hell is that? It's not a scream from the record. I know every word, every sound from my favourite track ever. I fire up the house lights. A frantic buzz is coursing round the dance floor; an excitement which isn't focused on me. My eyes scan the room. Where are my girls? I see Francine. She's prostrate on the ground. My God, is she lying in a pool of blood? The people around her are laughing. Why aren't they helping her? What in hell's name is happening?

Another chilling scream slices through the chaos. It's Jane. She's squirming and wriggling frantically, trying to rip herself free from the clutches of a woman who appears to be feasting on her shoulder. Why has no one leapt to her defence? Where's her saviour? I scour the faces of the people around her. I see a sea of evil, staring eyes and fangs; fangs everywhere. Fangs more realistic than mine. I shriek into the mike.

"Thank you ladies and gentlemen, DJ Marilyn is leaving the house."

I run. I sprint. I barge and battle my way through the morass of smirking faces. Gnarled hands with claw-like nails paw at me as I crash through the throng. I cross the entrance hall in twelve giant strides. Someone, or something, trips me, sending me tumbling down the steps and smashing to a halt against the side of my car. Thank God I made my driver stay out front to show off the limo and entertain guests with bounce performances. I rip open the door and scramble in.

"Go. Go," I shout.

"Hold on, boss, Laurie and Precious are coming down the steps," he says. "They look terrified."

"They're staying here," I scream. "Go. Go."

The Lincoln glides off and picks up speed once it gains traction on the gravel. I peep over the seat and peer out the back window. A feral pack of guests has surrounded Precious. I can't see Laurie any more.

We drive out through the big front gates and race off into the dark night.

"How'd it go, boss?"

"Well, they've had a party I'm guessing they won't forget in a hurry."

"So job done," says the driver.

"Yep, job done."

Yeah, job done, but I think I might give up this deejaying malarkey and go back to my story-writing career.