Jason Strikes Again (revised)

Jason Strikes Again
by Brooke Whittier


“Jason, what are you doing here?”  A glance at the clock made him shake his head in dismay. “Do you see the time?”  He gestured at the clock for emphasis.

Jason’s expression was concealed behind the hockey mask. He nodded yes, to acknowledge that it was indeed noon. The dark eyes peeping out of the mask's eyeholes appeared bloodshot and watery. He pointed at the Kleenex box.

“No, you cannot have a tissue.  First of all, you’re not even allowed out before dark. And, second, you’re not allowed to cry!” 

“You’re not God,” Jason sniffled. He snatched a tissue, but couldn’t wipe his gunky nose with the mask in the way.

“I am God!  To you, I AM God!  I created you!”

“In your image?” Jason smirked.

“That is beside the point.  I created you. That is all you need to know. You are a murderer. In fact, you are not even allowed to speak!  You have never had a line. In all the movies I’ve written, not once have you had a speaking part. And, most important, you CANNOT become a good guy.  I forbid it! That is that!” he exclaimed.  “Wait a minute . . .” he said, noticing some movement in Jason’s shirt.  “Not again! Is that a kitten?”

Jason nodded eagerly, removing the squirming, purring, white ball of fur from his shirt.  “Isn’t she cute?” 

“NO!” he exclaimed.  "You hate kittens! You hate everything and everyone! I created you, and I know for a fact that you eat kittens for breakfast!"

Jason gently returned the kitten to his shirt and rose up to his full 6’ 10” height.  He looked down at the writer, stating, “That’s it. I’m on strike.  No more movies, no more murders, no more mask, no more Mr. Bad Guy. I need to be me.”

“You can’t quit! You’re not even real!” laughed the writer.  “Get back where you belong, and come see me tonight.  We have work to do, and we do our best work at night.  A whole new generation is waiting to be introduced to Friday the 13th.  What are you going to do, hug them to death?”

This was ridiculous!  Negotiating with a giant fictitious serial killer was not cool.  Not cool at all. He left the living room and went into the bathroom to splash cold water on his face. 

The cold water felt good, but he couldn't shake the feeling he was being watched. Goosebumps prickled the back of his neck.  Rising from the sink, he looked in the mirror.  Jason stood directly behind him. His eyes were no longer sad and pathetic. He looked rather determined. 

“Wha . . .” the writer stammered as Jason's enormous arms embraced him.

Mrs. Ruiz used her key to enter the home. She gathered her cleaning supplies. It was her habit to begin cleaning at the top of the house and work her way down. When she reached the downstairs bathroom, she was startled to find the writer lying on the floor with a look of horror on his face. She felt for a pulse, but his cold stiff body quickly revealed no need for an ambulance.  Her eyes watering, she ran to the Kleenex box and dabbed them dry. As she was dialing the police she was overcome by a sneezing fit. 

"Are you alright?" asked the dispatcher.

"Yes," said Mrs. Ruiz. "I'm allergic to cats.  Anyway, I think he had a heart attack."

"Ok, Ma'm," said the dispatcher. "We'll be there soon."

Mrs. Ruiz hung up the phone and pondered the mewling white furball curling around her ankles.

"When did he get a kitten?" she wondered aloud. A moment later, Mrs. Ruiz felt goosebumps tickling the back of her neck. . .