Chapter Text
"In Hell, Everybody Loves Popcorn"
Doomhead, 31
The Scream King & the Thirst Trap
(Everybody Loves Popcorn!!)
Part I: Do You Do Weddings?
Squeals, shrieks, wails.
Sticky elbows brushing, a rue of cologne, stank of adrenaline, and bonfire, all packed into neat little lines for each horror park attraction. Until the beasts came ‘round. The lines bulged and bunched, gaps made way for monstrous tramps and howls.
The one that tormented them now, unfortunately for them, was good at causing a scene.
Boots hit the pavement like shotgun shells. Ripping through the throngs of overlapping voices. The shrill kiss of metal-on-metal followed, sparks spat from the big fuck-off axe.
Clang
SCRAPE!
HISS
Tea kettle whistles. Slaughterhouse matinee. Blood-curdling banshees.
Their eyes wide, deer in hunting season scurrying behind broader shoulders. Some flashed nervous teeth, and some tossed back necks like a shot of cackling rail whiskey.
From the ground up, he was a towering silhouette of mayhem, gore-riddled boots and tattered jean. One overall strap clung for dear life, the other flapped a lewd warning, baring his torso, heaving and huffing, slick with sweat and smeared crimson as he paraded his power through the masses. Muzzled like the hound he was.
A prowler’s posture, herding paying sheep into the pen of abandonment kinks. Corralling them was a funnelcake-walk; let his heavy soles chomp the asphalt, bang the axe against every surface like a pair of corner-hot legs, and magically, they all clumped together.
One big stew of trauma-addicted meat.
“Yo, sick costume!” One guest hollered over the carnival fanfare.
The blunt blade skipped over their fingers on the rail.
The axe-man halted. A statue turning on its heel.
“What are the hell are you doing?!” another hissed.
A couple of college twinks pissing themselves in some off-brand couples’ costumes. A little blond thing behind them in a fuck-me racer suit so tight you could see where his daddy issues ended and his dick began.
Hyunjin, the actor, found that humorous. So did Corpsehound, the character, who knew his costume was sick.
Sick, like a strung-out party clown huffing glitter glue, sure. But he wasn’t no fuckin’ clown.
Nor the monster they were afraid of, oh no. Corpsehound was the one they hoped was real. The one that smells like burnt sugar, Red 40, and midnight romps. The one that doesn’t look away when they cry, the one that leans in and whispers ‘run, baby. I wanna chase you.’
He stepped under the moth-infested lamp. The guardrail of the queue between them, he leaned down closer to the huddled thing, oiled black curtains of hair falling to frame the marred leather muzzle masking him from the nose down. His upper skull’s hungry features protruded from the pale tarp of skin, eyes of sole white appraised the race car driver. A mutt’s grunt, snuffled wide his nostrils like a beast scenting weakness from behind the grotesque mask, shielding the suggestion of a dripping snarl.
“Good d-dog!” the blond squeaked.
Corpsehound hocked a dry laugh. The bloody one that made the flinchers wonder if it were truly a game. Corn syrup and latex murder stained his tongue, coupled with acrid buttered popcorn wafting from the midway of rigged gambles.
One of the beanstalk friends was a nervous laugher. The stockier one stepped back, shocked into submission by the volume of the cackle. The blond racer whined like he needed tending to, backing into other patrons with theatrical fear.
But his eyes. They lingered longer than they should on the eyesore slathered in dirt, sweat, and cracked-eggshell facepaint. A look that said he was used to being someone else’s bad habit.
Hm.
Corpsehound smiled like a muzzled dog waiting for scraps.
He paced the rail between them, rooting his head like he was memorizing the scent of their squeamish breath.
Then, the prop axe raked over the guardrail, scraping the distressed steel with another well-placed grunt before the terrific farmhand moved on amongst the herd, distributing the most frightful bang for their buck.
Good dog, he chuckled to himself.
He would be circling back around for the race car Barbie, no doubt about that.
The park was full. An October Friday, all actors were let loose on the grounds.
The carnies spat fire, cartwheeled, and stilted their way through scares, cranking music boxes and bleating horns. Crazy world, lots of smells in a carnival. Kerosene stung hot and flashy in his nostrils. The stumbling undead from the asylum drunkenly swaggered between park games, sniveling petrifying squawks when folks were too fixated on tossing a grubby ring over moving skulls for a 5 penny prize. Those screams reeked of cotton candy and booze.
They breathed fire across the night, he hopped out of the shadows before applause could erupt. A zombie stalked, the hound charged. On occasion, he enjoyed picking on the actors himself. A well-timed lunge on a fake-ass clown, cannibalistic muzzled howl—asserting dominance, and all that.
Competition. He adored the chaos. Hated the boredom. He won by being loudest.
He had sent boyfriends flinching behind their girls, teenagers squealing, drawn eyes away from the rest, and chased sissies around the bonfire at the center of the park. Cries of ‘fuck you! That’s a real axe!’ and ‘OMG, DON’T LET HIM TOUCH ME!’ fed him fuller than a pig at Christmas dinner.
There was power in being louder than chaos. He wanted to be watched. Grunting, dragging his heavy, clangorous prop, letting loose real howls. Those shrieks were his to claim.
That was the plan for the rest of the night—to be the one they remembered. Until the blond thing spoke again.
“That’s it? He just sniffs?” A non-covert snicker. “Why he kinda—”
Corpsehound tilted his head. Then doubled back with the windmill whirl of his axe.
That shriek again—delightful.
The line had moved. A perfect little Corpsehound-sized gap.
He vaulted over the queue bar this time, landing under the lamplight with a heavy thud, body heat rolling off his hulking form in droves unto the autumn chill. The beanstalk abandoned the blond, the stockier one shoved him forward, and the racer flustered like a whore in church. The mob around them hooted, chanting Sacrifice! Sacrifice! Over exaggerated squeaks and pleas.
It was all a game, sure. Joy layered under adrenaline was the whole fuss; it was his job to stash it there. And when the flinches were real, he collected the fear and moved on sated.
But this one…had made a decision.
The smug, heart-shaped smirk tucked behind feigned remorse snagged Hyunjin’s attention before he could howl victory.
Pretty lips twitched, only for his assailant to hear: “You gonna bite me, puppy?”
That voice.
That told Hyunjin everything he needed to know about this game.
Brat.
Corpsehound growled behind the muzzle, white pupils locked on the target. He raised his axe, a sheen of putrid yellow light in the dark curving over his bare biceps—just before a sharp whinny sliced through the horde chaos.
The wagon had arrived.
“Oh, thank god,” the little blond thing breathed, clutching sunglasses perched atop his head like a rosary before skedaddling, friend in hand through the queue to board the ride.
A grimy grin spread behind the hound’s mask.
He stalked behind the group lining up before the rickety wagon. A wolf shepherding prey with jowls already lusting and bloody. The blond bounced into the back row like it was instinct. His smile. He had the nerve to smile, thighs slapping the splintered seat like muscle memory. Cute.
Friend to the left. Empty seat to the right. Fuckin’ poetic.
One mud-slick boot slung onto the wheel-spoke, hoisting the hound up slow and deliberate. He let the wagon creak its interruption of whatever the hell the driver was saying, let the crowd hush.
His arrival shook the carriage, jolting the passengers with gasps as he banged the wooden side of the crate with the blunt end of his axe.
“And lo! A special accompaniment this eve!” the carriage driver shouted—a rotund elderly gentleman with a skeleton’s face. “Care to introduce yourself, friend?”
To which, Corpsehound unleashed a howl from bloody teeth, looming over the applauding passengers. Reluctant excitement reflected back to him, squees of delighted dread. He basked in it.
“Aha—Forgot this one doesn’t relent much by way of speakin’—Y’all’ll have to forgive our farm hand here, what he lacks for brains he makes up for in malice.” The driver bellowed a theatrical laugh, bowing. “Take a seat then, mutt. I ain’t got all night!”
Corpsehound snarled, then dropped into the seat beside the blond.
“Good boy, Corpsehound!” crowed the driver, regathering the reins.
The racer tried to stand, perhaps to swap seats with his friend. The carriage began to move with a jolt, horses leading them toward the dewy fog of farmland. Too late, princess. The axe handle came down like a guillotine over the little racer’s lap, strapping him in for the ride as the hound gave an animalistic grunt of denial.
“Oh, look at that, someone doesn’t want man’s best friend settled beside ‘em,” the carriage driver cackled, coaxing the crowd to boo. “You’ll be clingin’ to him once you see what evil lurks in that there barn, boy!”
The blond shriveled, dainty grip clutching the axe handle over his lap. His gulping was comical, realizing the group had all returned their attention to the driver as the story commenced.
Hyunjin stared. All in the name of character dedication.
The blond’s profile was feverish, apple cheeks painted like a porcelain doll you’d display in a case. Pretty eyes, glassy with night. You know, the kind that didn’t have to beg for a damn thing? That type of pretty. Hyunjin wondered if he shattered just as prettily with less innocent screams—but that thought pushed the envelope further than he’d like.
As the story went, the farm was once overrun by an unnatural flock of crows—called a murder—that pillaged not only the crops, but the eyes of livestock. The farmer did his best to keep up with costs, replacing the stock as they dropped dead, until the town butcher took notice that the farmer came in far too often with eyeless meat.
When the butcher questioned, the farmer described the murder that plagued his land. The butcher knew many folk, and shared a rumor he’d heard of a scarecrow artist that was so talented, any farm he graced was left murderless.
You can guess the rest of the plot from there. That part wasn’t important. Corpsehound was one of the scarecrows, this was his domain, that’s all that was needed to know.
Hyunjin had heard the story a thousand times, but never while watching something so squeamish beside him.
The racer gave him a wet side-eye, snapping his gaze forward as he noticed being watched.
Hyunjin had the urge to make him squirm in more ways than what they paid him for—and he couldn’t say he was ashamed at the thought. His unrepentant stare trailed over the masculine jaw framing that otherwise androgynous face. Short fingers poking out of driving gloves tucked fine blond strands behind his elvish ear, giving the hound access to the sight of bite-me real estate extending pale down his collar.
An unabashed grin came over Hyunjin, but it hid in the shadow of a muzzle, contained where it ought to be.
At this point in the story, the gut-wrenching roar of revving twin chainsaws assaulted the air around them, passengers sounding the alarm—and the little racer clung to Hyunjin’s side with a squeak as another pair of scare actors in party store masks charged the slow-moving wagon.
Hyunjin tensed.
Warm. A waft of sugary body spray—perhaps the glittery kind—mixed with maybe a few shots of vodka on his cheeky breath.
As they crossed over a small covered bridge, the chainsaw pursuit ceased (the dead not being able to cross moving water, something or other as per the story) but the clingy hands held onto the hound like he was the last beau at the rodeo.
After a moment of deliberation, Hyunjin laid one finger on the pleather-clad thigh trapped under his weapon. Just one. The blond ripped away, face obscured by the bridge’s shade. That gloved hand lingered on Hyunjin’s bare bicep in the dark.
He flexed. The hand squeezed.
Muggy weather glued the touch to the hound’s heated skin. The sensation of being grabbed was impossible to ignore. Sticky. Slick.
Then, the spell of the bridge was gone, and the stagelight moon revealed the contextually scandalous touch, just before it ripped away like the light burned.
“Sorry!” the racer whispered, wide eyes gazing up for mercy.
Because to get into this park, you had to sign a waiver. No touching.
And this little twink was testing the policy.
The friends in their couples costumes clung to each other like virgins on prom night, meanwhile their third wheel was trying to hitch a ride with contract violations and fake blood stains.
The final destination barn loomed at the end of the dirt path walled by corn. Passengers engrossed with spotting other actors weaving through the stalks, copyright piano coming from outdoor speakers. The story went on in the background, and now, similarly to the hound, neither did the racer pay it any mind. Waiting for acceptance.
Hyunjin again grunted, rolling his eyes with a shrug that said ‘I forgive you. This time’, but the blondie didn’t budge.
Instead of abandoning the challenge, Hyunjin’s frosted pupils held it, refraining from investigating the authenticity of freckles dappling the peripheral of his view.
The blond did not have the same shame.
Dark eyes fluttered their feathery boudoir fans, then trailed down over the hound’s bloodied muzzle; Corpsehound grinned, snapping his jaw. This time, the little shit teased a sharp bitten smile before squeaking, cowering against his friends—oblivious to the fawn eyes the hussy had just made at the bloody creature beside them.
What a little freak, Hyunjin mused, hocking another crusty laugh, bursting their bubble as he faced forward.
The story reached the ending, the farmhands with straw for brains decidedly turning on the farmer to butcher him up. The wagon halted before the decrepit barn, a hush falling over the passengers as the music melted away. One final warning before they disembarked, the driver’s voice thunderous through the fog:
“Now, stay close as we tour this here hellhole. If y’wander off, you’ll liable end up trapped somewhere and I gotta send the hound sniffin’ for ya’s—”
On cue, Corpsehound bolted up and howled to the moon, clanging the axe against the floorboard and stomping his way to the edge.
“And remember,” the skeletal driver droned on, “our scarecrows may be lifelike, they may get close, ya hear, but they will not touch you. I kindly ask that you don’t touch them’s neither.”
Hyunjin hopped down from the side of the wagon with a satisfying thump, leaning beside the step down with all his weight till the wood creaked. His axe balanced behind his head, arms slung over it like the scarecrow his character had been mutilated into. Outside his character, the actor pondered a different type of gut rearrangement.
The sheep cowered away from his statuesque pose, a fresh blood capsule oozing from his mask and down his chest, poised to strike as they climbed down from the wagon. Hyunjin counted.
The beanstalk and stockier friend exited, following the group flanked by two other actors into the barn to begin the screaming meemie soiree. Unsurprisingly, Hyunjin felt that greedy little glove latch onto his bare shoulder.
Another squeak, just before a second panicked yelp.
Hyunjin braced, grunting, unbreaking of his character as his arm caught the narrow waist. The other actors didn’t see. Hyunjin huffed before quickly setting the blond down.
The freak batted his fucking eyelashes again.
“My hero, Mr. Corpsehound~” he tittered, quiet as a curse. “So much for no touching, right?”
Hyunjin raised his shoulders alongside a disbelieving brow before gesturing toward the group. He began to walk wordlessly, but the blond kept apace with him.
“So, this must be, like, a super fun job,” the deep voice hummed. “You’re really good at it.”
Hyunjin grunted again. His spine stiffened as he whirled the axe beside him. Enticing, sure. Not enough to lose his job. Or so he thought.
“Not breaking character, huh?” the sly lips prodded further. “Do you do weddings? As, like, the groom? Or is there already a Mrs. Corpsehound—?”
“Felix! Quit flirting!”
Felix’s jackknife smile grew. “Guilty.” He waved a dramatic farewell before fleeing in the direction of the summons.
Gone with the wind. Thinking he’d get away with murder.
Hyunjin lurked, slumped against a tree trunk a ways away from the barn all lit up green and foggy. Contemplating how he’d make the little fucker flinch.
Night stars scattered over faintly pink strands of hair as Felix sprinted away, reaching his spot between company. His arms hooked around the taller shoulders on either side, highlighting his unrealistic waist as his head turned to whisper in one friend’s ear—
The little racer twirled, frolicking backward on nimble feet. Palm to lips, pursing to blow Hyunjin a kiss.
The hound whirled the axe, a discreet way to refrain from hunting down the little cocktease. When the blade rested over his shoulder again, bare muscle flexing with a snort—Felix winked. Freak.
One of Hyunjin’s fellow actors passed by them, oinking from behind a butchered pig’s mask and sending them scurrying toward the false sanctuary of the barn.
Screams were emitted with a puff of smog that made him crave a cigarette; the show had begun.
“Oi! Fuckface!” the pig man chortled, skipping up to Hyunjin before slipping up his mask. Eyes lined in kohl, faint sprinkle of sweat dappling his cheeks. “Packed night, huh? That lil’ racer chick between the sausage party has it out for you.”
Hyunjin stared at the barn, like the hell on legs might be spat back out. Negative, he’d bet money the lil’ skank was making eyes at some other fucker with a knife.
Finally, he acknowledged the other carnie with a single rasped word: “Dude.”
“Oh, c’mon,” the pig man snickered, patting a meaty hand over the hound’s higher ground shoulder before heading back toward the wagon. “Never seen you so pent up over a bitch—”
“No. Racer guy,” Hyunjin retorted, turning militarily with the axe on his collarbone to follow.
Raccoon eyes blinked up at him in the dark before realization settled in. “You’re going to tap then!” he guffawed, hand over his mouth like a teenybopper in a Craven flick, just before he unzipped his fly behind the wagon. “The mutt is gonna risk it for the biscuit! Or should I say, rutt for the sl—”
“Shut up, Bin.” Oily face paint dampened the heat spreading over Hyunjin’s cheeks. He huffed over the sound of piss watering the dry grass, his voice coarse from the grunts and growls he was restricted to for the night. “Not even you would want to bone dressed like this. I’d get his pretty little outfit all dirty. And a lawsuit.”
“Oh, but you’re so, so wrong. It adds to the thrill,” the butcher heckled, zipping up with a grunt and taking a swig of the old man’s flask stashed on the wagon. Empty, it clattered against the wooden seat.
Hyunjin groaned, dropping his shoulder as that meaty carnie hand clapped him on the arm again in passing.
“Get your piss prick hands off me.”
“C’mon, mutt. You can at least pretend to chase skirts.”
Hyunjin rolled his eyes, following the butcher back to the park grounds away from the attraction. “You’re complicit.”
“So’s the carnival chaos!”
The loud music and screeching of fright engulfed them once more, drowning out the grumbles of Corpsehound as he returned to prowl the midway. The stale stench of fried food and synthetic butter replaced the aroma of sugar, spice, something more than nice that had curled into his side.
He waited until patrons took their shot at the carnival games before scaring the daylights out of them. By the food vendors, he lurked behind the popcorn machines, pretending to be motionless through the glass until someone stared for too long.
The cheap distractions lured comfort just long enough for terror to be rewarding. They all screamed in decadent terror. But none quite matched the conflictingly baritone squeak that the racer—that Felix made. Not the thin-wire scream tuned perfectly to the frequency of Hyunjin’s satisfaction.
Not the swan in the pig’s pen.
And then, it graced his ears like Tchaikovsky’s lake.
The gradually thinning crowd seemed to fade.
The exit for the barnyard attraction, the last ride of the night. Terrified and giddy faces poured out from the gate, but not the one he wanted. Not yet.
The hound dashed, feet quickened by each little squee he could identify amongst the jarring chainsaw cacophony. He made it to the gate, glued to the shadows, just as the beanstalk and friend bolted—
A bad decision crashed right into his chest. Corpsehound grunted, staring down at the star-crossed prey that sputtered to back away like a cat on brimstone.
That musical squeal, the chainsaw wielders drew closer.
The pinky blond tried to dodge the hound blocking the exit; Hyunjin swung down the axe and twisted sparks into the cold, pretending to go one way, then the other as Felix failed to juke him.
Hyunjin howled a laugh, clanging the axe against the asphalt as the other two actors closed in, the sound of hunt nauseating the prey.
“Uh oh, lil’ Andretti! Seems like you done went and drew the attention of the damn mutt again!” The wagon driver cackled maniacally, mocking Corpsehound’s bark as he closed the gate. “I think he likes ya!”
Doe eyes were dilated. Not terrified.
Good. We’re still playing, barbie. Kinky little twat.
Hyunjin took the opportunity to snap his jaws with a bloody grin behind the muzzle—
And with a thrilled squeak, Felix successfully avoided the breadth of Hyunjin’s axe handle, fleeing toward the midway. He wasn’t safe there.
“Oh, we got a runner!” the driver hooted, slapping his knee in encouragement. “Run rabbit, run!”
White-out stare followed the swan, wondering how its neck fitted between his jowls.
1, 2, 3…
“Sick ‘em, mutt!”
Showtime.
