You approach the old mansion, the wrought iron gate swinging open of its own accord. Once past the maw, it slams shut with a bone-chilling clang.
You proceed up the walk, now long overgrown with lifeless weeds and stalks of grass that reach for you like the bony fingers of a desiccated corpse. Lightning flashes overhead, filling the yard with jagged shadows and threatening shapes. Thunder rumbles shortly after. You hesitate, but just for a moment.
Up the dilapidated stairs of the front porch, each plank of wood creaking and groaning under your weight. You raise your hand to knock, but the front door glides open unassisted, much like the gate. You take a steadying breath, then step into the foyer. You take note of a pot of flowers, long dead, on the center table, and the treacherous looking stairwell, covered in spider webs, leading up.
Instead of going up, you head to the side and down a long, windowed corridor, into what looks to be a small library or reading room. You approach one of the shelves, lined with many ancient tomes, and seek out the particular volume you were told about. You tilt it, gently, and you hear a ‘clank’ deep within the wall, and the shelf suddenly lurches toward you, and then slides open, revealing a passageway. You head down.
It becomes darker the deeper you go, and you take every step with increasing caution. Your only light comes from the open mouths of ghastly faces carved into pillars standing at odd intervals along the spiral stairway. Their glaring red eyes seem to regard you with contempt, so you strive not to look at them and, instead, focus on the steps. One wrong move, and you’re in for a very nasty fall.
Soon you come to the end, the very deepest part of the house, and are confronted by another door. This one seems to be made of solid rock, and if you didn’t know better, you’d say it wasn’t a door at all but a decoration carved into the side of the rock the old house above was built on. But, you do know better, so you lift up the ancient metal ring that serves as the door’s handle and start pulling. You strain, teeth bared and clenched tight, muscles trembling from the exertion, and soon you can see dust falling from cracks along the doorframe, and you can hear stone scraping against stone. Finally, the door jerks open, and you almost go tumbling backward against the bottom of the stairs. Instead you manage to maintain your balance, and you head inside the newest – and last – room.
This small chamber smells sickly sweet, like cinnamon, and is lit by a number of candles scattered throughout. There are tables covered with arrays of vials and jars, twisting and twirling tubes, and others that are stacked to the ceiling with old, musty books. There are concaves carved into the walls that are filled with grinning skulls, with rats and spiders dancing and crawling through open sockets.
And there, leaning against the far wall, is a tall, metal casket, covered in dust and webs.
You approach, knowing better, unable to resist. You must see what’s inside. You came all this way. You cannot stop now. You reach for the lid, your hand trembling, heart thudding in your chest…
The lid springs open, and a hideous, decaying head leaps out at you. The nose has fallen off who knows how long ago; the eyes are faded almost white, covered in cataracts; the lips are peeled back from the yellowed, broken teeth; what hair is left on the shrunken, grayish pate hangs in thin, cloudlike wifts around the ears.
The hideous thing cackles madly, bobbing from side to side, and you feel something running down your forehead. Something slick, oozing down over your eyes. You close them, and succumb to the darkness as your ears fill with horrible, hysterical laughter…
“TAAAAAALES FROM THE CRYPT!”
Fade to black.
Fade back in on a skinless, skeletal hand emerging from the sleeve of a sparkling sequined gown. The hand rests on a dingy off-white table cloth, beside a plate that bears a few pieces of withered lettuce and the remaining bones of a fish. After a beat, a withered, long-nailed hand appears from out of frame, settles over the skeleton hand, and lovingly caresses it.
“You know, dear, I couldn’t help but notice you’ve only picked at your food all night. I’m really beginning to worry about you. You’re all BONES! EEEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!”
The camera pulls back, revealing none other than the Crypt Keeper sitting at the table, dressed in a rumpled tuxedo coat and shirt. Beside him sits a skeleton in a dress with a long blonde-haired wig tossed haphazardly on top of its skull. Once his giggles settle down, the Keeper gazes lovingly at his date, and forces his withered lips into a poor semblance of a smile.
Crypt Keeper: Really, darling, you should have had the lamb CHOPS… with a side-HACKING of green FLEAS! EEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEE!!
The Crypt Keeper playfully nudges his date, causing her head to snap off and plop onto the plate in front of her.
Crypt Keeper: Oh, dear. Well, I guess it’s true what they say… You ARE what you EAT! HEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!
He giggles madly, pounding on the table and rocking back and forth in his chair. After awhile he settles down, lightly dabs at the corners of his mouth with his napkin, then turns his pale eyes toward the camera.
Crypt Keeper: You’ll have to excuse my date. It seems the wine has gone right to her HEAD! But, that reminds me of tonight’s tale… It’s your typical saccharine story of BOIL meets GHOUL, BOIL falls in lust with GHOUL, and ultimately the GHOUL chops the hideous thing into meaty bits and shovels them into a shallow grave by the riverside! What makes this particular case so unique is that the two mismatched lovebirds are actually professional wrestlers from the federation with my favorite name, the American SKULL CRUSHERS Wrestling Alliance! There’s the lanky, love-sick loon called the SINISTER RHYTHM, Vren Gray, and his blushing betrothed, the HIDEOUS FREAK called Eden. Now THERE’S a girl I could really GO AFTER!
He throws a sideways glance at the skull resting on the plate beside him.
Crypt Keeper: Don’t worry, my lovely little death cap… You know I only have EYES for you!
His holds his hand out toward the head, revealing two shiny, bloody, blue eyes resting in his palm.
Crypt Keeper: I got them nice and fresh, too, because I know that’s just how you like them. Pity about the fellow who SOULED them to me, though… He was rather ATTACHED to them! EEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHE!!
He dumps them onto the plate where they roll to rest beside the skull’s jaw, then wipes his hand off on the tablecloth.
Crypt Keeper: Anyhow… Our friends Vren and Eden have recently become the Tag SCREAM Champions of the ASC, but everyone’s wondering… Will they be able to work out their differences and be a CUT above the rest… or will they grow tired of one another and AXE for some space? Heeeeee! We’ll find out, in a delicious dish I like to call…
Cut to an open book, revealing a Tales from the Crypt comic cover with an artist’s rendering of Vren Gray and Eden, sitting at a dinner table, with a human heart resting on a platter between them.
Crypt Keeper: …Room for Two.
Fade to black.
Thursday, October 29th
8:09 PM
Open on a fancy restaurant, filled with many diners, all of them dressed in expensive clothes. The only sounds to be heard are the clink of silverware and the hushed tones of a multitude of conversations. Occasionally there’s a brief burst of laughter, but that’s quickly hushed back to proper levels.
The camera slowly pans to the right, over dozens of seated diners and a handful of waiters, waitresses, and other staff passing innocuously between patrons and tables. At length the camera settles on a pair seated at a table closest to the foreground, revealing Vren Gray and his “date” for the evening, Eden.
Vren, dressed in an expensive looking tuxedo, his hair spikes swept back into a gloriously ridiculous attempt at a civilized style, and bearing his half of the ASC Tag Team Championship around his waist, busies himself with consuming his meal as quickly as is physically possible.
Eden, dressed in a tattered black t-shirt, her face still heavily bandaged, her hair matted to the side of her head with caked blood, and smeared with a fresh and messy application of makeup, quietly rocks back and forth in the chair opposite Vren. Her half of the Tag Team Titles is nowhere to be seen.
Neither speak for as long as the camera is focused on them, until a waiter approaches and addresses them.
Waiter: And, how are sir and… madam… enjoying their meal?
Eden: There’s a fly in my drink.
Waiter: Uhm… I am sorry, miss, but I’m afraid I cannot see what you are–
Eden: HHHHHAAAAWWWWWKKKKK… P’tew.
Splash.
Pause.
The sounds of clinking silverware and muted conversation die away entirely, leaving the room in icy silence.
Vren stops chewing and looks up at the waiter.
Vren: …Check, please.
Cut to black.
8:35 PM
Open on a tight shot of Vren’s face.
Vren: Okay, so the restaurant thing was totally my bad. I shouldn’t have even… yeah, I don’t even know why I attempted that. But, look, this can work, all right? Just… try not to spaz out anymore, okay?
The camera pans back to reveal Vren and Eden standing in the middle of a moderately crowded McDonald’s.
Eden: There was a fly in my drink.
Vren: Okay, well, there aren’t any flies in anybody’s drinks here.
Eden: No, the flies are all in the food.
Vren: W–
Eden: And rat droppings.
Vren sighs.
Vren: Nobody gets sick at McDonald’s, okay?
Eden stares at Vren from under her bandages.
Vren: …Nobody I know ever gets sick at McDonald’s.
Eden continues to stare.
Vren: Over two hundred billion served!!
Eden continues to stare.
Vren: Okay, I gotta use the bathroom. PLEASE, PLEASE promise me you won’t maim anybody while I’m gone. All right?
Eden flashes him a wide, psychotic smile. Her yellowed teeth seem to have gone a shade darker from chronically licking the makeup off her lips.
Vren shudders.
Vren: Yeah, I’ll be taking that one with me to my grave. Now, just stay here and behave, okay?
Eden nods.
Vren: Okay. Be right back.
The camera follows Vren until he disappears into the men’s room, then pans back over to where Eden was standing to find her missing. It swings over to the counter, where she’s just cut in line in front of an overweight woman with three children.
Lady: Hey! What’re you–
Eden: Excuse me, but you’ve got something in your deep fryer.
Clerk: Uh, lady, I don’t know what–
Eden: No, really. Lemme show you.
Quick cut to Vren in the bathroom, standing in front of one of the urinals.
Vren: *whistling to himself*
Pause. The whistling dies away. He slowly turns his head toward the camera.
Vren: Uh, guys? This is kind of a private moment. Wonder if, maybe, we could cut the cameras for just a few secs while I take care of bus–
There’s a crash, a scream, and then a gurgling, choked off cry from the other room.
Vren: Oh, Jesus Christ…
Vren quickly zips up and rushes out of the bathroom, with the camera jogging along behind him. He shoves his way through a throng of people and comes to a stop at the counter where the camera can see, over his head, Eden has the clerk by the back of his shirt and is struggling to force him head first into the deep fryer.
Eden: YOU GOTTA LOOK FOR IT! IT’S DOWN THERE SOMEWHERE!
Clerk: LADY I DON’T KNOW WHAT YOU WANT!!
Eden: HERE, OPEN YOUR EYES REAL WIDE AND TAKE A CLOSER LOOK!
Clerk: AAAAAAGGGHHHH!!
Vren: JESUS CHRISTMAS SHIT!
Vren leaps over the counter. He grabs Eden and pulls her off the clerk, and a struggle ensues, wherein the camera is knocked back and off the cameraman’s shoulder.
Cut to static.
Cut to black.
9:07 PM
The scene reopens on Vren Gray, Donald Tripp, and Walter Kebchak seated on a bench in a late-night arcade. Not far away from them is Eden, who is busy venting her nearly endless rage on a game of whack-a-mole that’s in the very early stages of breaking down.
Vren puts his arms up and rests the back of his head in his hands. He sighs.
Vren: Welp, this sucks.
Donald: Yeah.
Vren: And, might I just say, this is absolutely one of the worst ideas you’ve ever had, Donny.
Donald: Yeah, we– wait… What? My idea?
Vren: Yeah. You were all, “Hey Vren, be a wrestler! It’ll be easy! You’ll make millions! The ratings will totally rebound!”
Donald: MY idea?!
Vren: Which, okay yeah, the ratings are totally up, the best we’ve ever had. But the rest of this deal SUCKS.
Donald: YOU were the one who took one LOOK at a fucking DVD case and then was all, “I wanna be a wrestler! Herp derp! Let’s not go to wrestling class and just jump right in! Herpy derp derp!!”
Vren: Really? Cuz that sounds like something you would say.
Donald: I was the one trying to talk you OUT of it, remember?!
Vren: No, I don’t remember that, Donny. I distinctly remember you humping my leg like a sex crazed retard as soon as I mentioned sweaty guys in tights.
Donald: Quit trying to blame this on me! I’M not the one who lost two matches to a guy with a snake in a bag! I’M not the one who allowed Patty Hearst over there to threaten her way into half of the Tag Team Titles!
Vren: Hey, would YOU like to be locked in a small room with her and a bunch of medical equipment?
Donald: …Yeah, okay, you’ve got me there.
Vren: Thank you.
Walter: Maybe you should just take her to another restaurant?
Vren glares darkly at Walter.
Walter: …Neh.
Vren: Man… This is totally gonna ruin my Halloween Movie Pageant. The Halloween Movie Pageant that should be going on RIGHT NOW, may I remind you. The one I haven’t missed for the last TWENTY YEARS. In a ROW. I didn’t even miss it that one year I accidentally drank Mexican tap water and had dysentery for, like, six months.
Donald: Yeah, I remember. That was a fun Movie Pageant slash Another Vren Visit The Emergency Room Halloween episode.
Vren: So you can see why I’m upset.
Walter: Why don’t you just invite her along?
Vren: Why don’t you just deep throat that fucking revolver you’re always waving around and fondle the trigger like it was your boyfriend’s nutsack, Wally?!
Walter: Neh.
Vren: I CAN’T just *high annoying voice* INVITE HER ALONG *normal voice* because she hasn’t been properly initiated into my inner circle yet, and she isn’t GOING to be properly initiated into my inner circle, EVER, because she’s *quietly* BATSHIT FUCKING PSYCHOTIC!!
Walter: Was just making a suggestion.
Vren: I should’ve let Miss Daisy over there suggest your fucking head into that fucking deep fryer!!
Donald: Oh my GOD, the pair of you!
Walter: Look, think of it like this… You invite her to the Movie Pageant which is, as far as I’ve been told, just a huge booze-binge recreational-drug infused pass-out-at-4-AM-in-a-pool-of-your-own-expulsions free-for-all at your place… The odds are HIGHLY in favor of someone, ANYONE, picking her up and, worst case scenario, you don’t have to deal with her for a few hours. The only major drawback, that I can see, is you have to break your little “nobody who hasn’t been hazed for at least a year being allowed in” rule to make it happen.
Vren: No, the worst case scenario would be her burning down my fucking boat!
Walter: So? Don’t you have, like, crazy stockpiles of cash? Couldn’t you just buy a new one?
Vren: Uh, I like the boat I already have, Wal-Mart, and I’d prefer it remaining Unblown-up!
Walter: Pfft. Now you’re just being difficult.
Vren: Your FACE is difficult!
Walter: Neh.
Vren: …For me to LOOK at!
Walter: Neh.
Eden: Excuse me.
Vren: AHH!
Pause. Eden stands before them, mallet resting on her right shoulder, the whack-a-mole game a smoldering, sparking ruin behind her.
Vren: …I mean… AHH-llo! What… can we do ya for?
Eden: What’s this movie thing you guys keep muttering about over here?
Donald: That’s just Vren’s stupid–
Vren elbows him in the gut hard enough to drive the wind out of his lungs.
Vren: –my stupid and BORING thing where we watch really old, really awful, movies that nobody in their right mind would want to see all night long and we really hate doing it but we do it anyway every year because it’s tradition and, really, we have nothing better to do this time of year and you honestly wouldn’t want anything to do with it at all because did I mention the boring? Isn’t that right, Donny?
Donald continues coughing and gasping for air.
Vren: He says “Yes.”
Eden: Hmm…
She silently debates something, absently tapping the mallet on her shoulder.
Walter leans over toward Vren.
Walter: *whispering* Ask her.
Vren: *whispering fiercely* Shut the fuck up, man, I’ll kill you slow!
Walter: *whispering* Neh.
Eden stops tapping her mallet.
Eden: Y’know what? I think I’d like to check this movie thing out.
Vren: Oh, you really don’t.
Eden: Yeah, I really do.
Vren sighs heavily.
Donald: *wheeze*
Vren stares at Eden, then glances over at Walter who smiles back at him. Back over at Eden, then back at Walter, smiling, then back at Eden. Finally he stands, and cautiously puts his arm over Eden’s shoulders in the same manner one would try to one-arm hug a Tasmanian Tiger or a cactus.
Vren: Y’know what? I think you actually can attend the movie pageant… I think I just figured it out.
10:05 PM
Vren: So, I killed two birds with one load of buckshot and got Walter to babysit Princess Disgrace for the evening, didn’t I? Sure, I had to break one of my hard and fast rules about no new employees at the movie pageant, but I think everything worked out all right.
Donald glances over at Vren, reclined lazily in his chair/throne with one leg arrogantly draped on the arm. Surrounding them in the living room of Vren’s yacht is an assortment of young women (some barely over the age of 18), a few of Vren’s seasoned and well liked employees, and a smattering of other people Vren invited on pure whimsy.
Donald: Y’know, I still don’t get the whole ‘one year of hazing before invite’ rule.
Vren: It lets me know they’re faithful.
Donald: But most of the women here weren’t at last year’s pageant, and you’ve barely known some of them for a week, let alone an entire year. So, why can’t Walter get a regular invite? Furthermore, why didn’t I get an invite during my first year?
Vren: Y’know what these girls have that you and Walter don’t?
Donald: …It’s not tits, is it?
Vren: Dude, Walter’s like… three hundred pounds. He may not have many things, but tits, he’s got.
Donald: …*sigh*
Vren: Vaginas, dude. These ladies are packing heat.
Donald: …I really don’t think that’s the correct euphami–
Vren: Muff heat.
Donald: Right.
Vren: In their pants.
Donald takes a sip of his drink.
Vren: These ladies are carrying concealed weapons.
Donald stirs his drink with his little umbrella.
Vren: …Weapons of… penis destruction.
Donald: Look, I’m gonna go mingle for awhile. You just stay here and keep working on that bit.
Donald gets up quickly and leaves.
Vren looks around him, notices an attractive from the back girl nearby, and tugs on the back of her skirt.
Vren: Hey… Want me to get my U.N. Inspector hat?
Chick: …What?
10:19 PM
Elsewhere on the boat, Walter and Eden are sharing a quiet moment. Quiet in that Walter has finally stopped talking about his firearm collection, and Eden hasn’t said a word all evening.
The two lean on the railing, look out over the waters of Lake Michigan, and up into the night sky that’s suffering from a dearth of stars due to heavy, low-hanging clouds.
Nothing happens for a long span of minutes. Party-goers pass the two by, other sounds of gaiety and celebration reach them from the interior of the boat (which Vren made very clear to Walter that he and Eden were barred from), but the two don’t pay it any notice.
Finally, Walter turns to Eden and uncomfortably clears his throat.
Walter: So… You… wanna see something pretty cool?
Eden glances at him from under the stringy tendrils of her hair.
Eden: …Okay?
Walter ducks out of frame, and pops back in a moment later holding a large, and obviously full, canister of gasoline.
10:25 PM
Vren: So, Mr. Butkus, how are you enjoying the party so far?
Dick Butkus: Pretty well, you dick-brained fucksmith.
Vren: Good, good, I’m glad. I really feel indebted to you, y’know, for helping me win these tag belts.
Vren lightly taps the faceplate of the belt he still wears around his midsection.
Dick Butkus: Hey, glad I could help, you shit-eating cockhound. It always warms my heart to help out long-haired pantywaists like you.
Vren smiles.
Vren: Hey, that’s cool, man. So, listen, you just mingle for awhile, all right? And just… enjoy yourself. It’s on me.
Dick Butkus: Sure thing, fucksmudge.
Butkus wanders away and begins berating one of Vren’s music industry associates. Vren stands around, sipping from his drink, looking cool, until Donald finds his way back over to him and pauses.
Vren: Hey.
Donald: Yeah?
Vren: How does Butkus know about my panty thing?
Long pause.
Donald: …What?
Vren stares at him, puzzled.
Donald stares back, equally lost.
Vren: You… you don’t…?
Donald’s eyes are wide and blank.
Vren nods.
Vren: Okay. Good. Nevermind, forget I said anything.
Donald: Already there.
Vren leaves Donald and walks over to his HDTV. He taps the side of his glass with the remote to try and gather all the attention that’s possible to get by this point.
Vren: Okay everyone, I think it’s just about movie time! Now, you all know the rules… You can talk as much as you want, as loud as you want, until somebody tells you to shut the fuck up, and then you hafta, or else you get dumped overboard. Now, we’ll start things off easy, then, as the night progresses and we gradually get drunker, we’ll move into the harder stuff, and then by the time we’re all passed out the last movie we had in will just keep replaying until we all come around at, like, noon, and then we’ll wonder what happened, find our clothes, and then everybody goes home. So, just like the last few years, for those of you who were here…
Pause.
Vren: …And remember being here. Okay, to start off with… Child’s play, yay or nay?
Before anyone can say anything, Vren looks up at the ceiling.
Vren: *sniff, sniff* Hey… Anybody smell that? Is somebody making popcorn?
10:47 PM
Vren and Donald stand on the dock, with police issued blankets over their shoulders, watching the engulfed remains of the Seabird II quietly slip toward the bottom of Lake Michigan.
Vren: …Jesus Christ, what’d I tell you?
Donald: Yeah, we probably should’ve learned our lesson after the last time.
Vren: Why do you think I even have the one-year rule?! It’s so shit like this doesn’t fucking happen!
Donald: I thought you instituted the one-year rule so you could feel elitist towards the newer recruits?
Vren: That’s not it at all.
Donald: Didn’t we have a meeting once about exactly that?
Vren: I don’t recall.
Donald: Pretty sure it’s on tape somewhere.
Vren: Well, maybe it was on one of the cassettes that’s soon to be resting on the bottom of the FUCKING OCEAN?!
Donald: Lake.
Vren: WHATEVER!
Donald: You don’t even know geography!
Vren: MY GLOBE WAS ENGULFED IN FLAMES AND THEN SUNK!!
Donald: YOU DON’T EVEN OWN A GLOBE!
Vren: NOT ANYMORE I DON’T!
Donald: YOU NEVER DID!!
???: Uh, excuse me?
Vren whirls.
Vren: WHAT?!
The camera reveals a young EMT, standing beside a stretcher with a blanket thrown over it, a few paces from Vren.
EMT: Uh, we need a little help IDing this one. He doesn’t have any identification, so we thought maybe you’d know who it was, since it was your party ‘n all.
Vren: Oh. Yeah. Sure. Shoot.
The EMT pulls the blanket off the head of the corpse. The corpse bears an expression on what remains of its face that could only be described as “Oh shit!”
Vren: Oh shit!
EMT: You know him, then?
Vren: Yeah. He’s my– well, was, my producer. Walter Kebchak.
EMT: Do you happen to have any of his personal effects somewhere?
Vren: …Uuuuuuuuuuuhhhhhhhhhhhhmmmmmmmmmm…
Vren looks over his shoulder at the last bit of the Seabird II as it sinks beneath the waves.
Vren: …Possibly?
EMT: Well, if you could get whatever you have to us, that’d really help us in contacting some next of kin.
Vren: Sure. Hey! Wait. Were there any other, uh… bodies… near his?
EMT: Oh, sure. Dozens of ‘em.
Vren: SWEET!
Pause. Dubious look from the EMT.
Vren: …Oh. Well, y’know… not for them.
The EMT’s look darkens further.
Vren: …
EMT: …
Vren: …
EMT: …
Vren: …
EMT: …
Vren folds his hands.
EMT: …What are you do–
Vren: Having a moment of silence.
EMT: Tch.
The EMT whips the blanket back over Walter’s face and stomps away.
Vren excitedly runs back over to Donald.
Vren: Did you hear that?!
Donald: Jesus. Two producers in as many months!
Vren: Huh? Oh, Walt? Fuck that guy.
Donald: …
Vren: Didn’t you hear?! Eden’s dead!
Donald: …Oh, good. So we’re responsible for actually killing an ASC employee, as well as putting one in a coma, now?
Vren: This is GREAT!
Donald: It suuuuuuuure is.
Vren: I can pick my own tag team partner for the title match this weekend! I don’t have to carry that psycho around with me anymore and worry about the moment she’ll finally fucking snap and castrate me with a spork or something!
Donald: This is a cause to celebrate.
Vren: Damn right it is!
A few yards away, a dirty hand grasps the edge of the dock, followed quickly by another. Then, a water-logged Eden – bandages askew, hair matted back, makeup nearly washed away – pulls herself out of the water and flops onto the dock, panting for air. After a few moments of recovery, she rises to shaky feet, and limps over to where Vren is happily bouncing and taps him on the shoulder.
He whirls.
Pause.
Vren: …Son of a WHORE!
Eden: *cough*
Vren: You’re just a bad fucking penny!!
Cut to black.
Fade in, back in the Crypt Keeper’s basement rec room. The ‘Keep,’ as the kids like to call him, rests his bony visage in the palm of his gnarled right hand, and absently taps his fork on his plate with the other. His cloudy eyes regard the camera with a vague expression that might be ire, might be boredom, or some strange middle ground between the two, it’s hard to tell without eyebrows.
Finally, the Keep straightens up and tosses the fork over his shoulder.
???: *off camera scream*
Crypt Keeper: Well, kiddies! I think it’s safe to say that, if I wasn’t already dead, that copious cavalcade of comedic calamity would have BORED me into my untimely demise! Which, I hope it did to some of you.
Pause.
Crypt Keeper: Because I hate you.
Another pause.
Crypt Keeper: So, if you’ll excuse me, I need to go spend the next several days scouring that tasteless bit of trivial trash from my mind… and also have a little alone time with my special lady.
Keeper holds up the decapitated skull of his date from earlier in the evening, now bearing a poor application of makeup around the empty eye-sockets and copious amounts of lipstick over the teeth.
Crypt Keeper: Come ooon, dearest! We’ve had such a BOOtiful evening together, I don’t want to see the moment spoiled! What’s that? You say you’ve got a HEADACHE? Hrmmm…
The Keep tosses the head over his shoulder, where it apparently crashes into a pile of dishes, pots, and pans. He looks back at the camera and folds his hands nearly on the table.
Crypt Keeper: That old BAG OF BONES couldn’t keep up with me anyway! Oh well… looks like it’s back to PLAGUE’S List for me! EEEEEEEEEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEHEEEEEEEE!!
Fade to black.
Crypt Keeper: Oh, I just SLAY me!