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Sugar, and spice, and everything nice, that's what little girls are made of.
Snips, and snails, and puppy dog tails, that's what little boys are made of.
And a love of music, raging hormones, and the traumatic memories of a survivor of a killing spree? Well. That's what the man of a girl's dreams are made of.
The first thing he's aware of is a rhythmic drumbeat. Ba-dum, ba-dum, ba-dum, a constant quarter note pattern that becomes the background of his life. All right, he's got rhythm. That's a start.
There's a lot of fun stuff in here, this place he was born and calls home, so he picks some of his favorites and adds them to the beat. Leather and slicked back hair and some swagger. A guitar. The guitar is his favorite, and he makes up songs about places he's never been and things he's never done, like the mall and the Grand Canyon and robbing a bank and having his first kiss. It's a good time. For a while.
Then he discovers sex. It's always been in the background of his existence, something vague and shadowy and tempting, but suddenly it explodes into his consciousness, and he can't get enough. It's a new kind of rhythm, a new kind of music, something physical and hot. A build, a rush, the best feeling he can imagine, and it seems a crime it's taken so long for him to have it. Solos are great but there's something to be said for the give and take of a duet. He discovers want, and he wants more of it.
Sex and rock n roll, what could be better than that?
Time passes, or doesn't, there's no telling in this place he lives. All he knows is that there's a droning sound behind the music, behind even the drumbeat of his life, and he wants to know what it is. He follows the sound to a dark hallway, dusty and crammed with old Playgirl magazines, pizza boxes, reminders to “call Val,” doctor's appointment reminders, and one precariously positioned machete. Has this been here all along? It doesn't matter; he knows it's here now, and he knows the source of the noise is at the end of it. The pizza boxes go one way and the magazines go another, and the machete feels good in his hand.
This close, the droning is almost loud enough to drown out the ba-dum ba-dum of his existence. He can hear something else, too. Screams. There's a boarded up wall and he takes the machete to it, hacking and prying and finally, finally breaking through.
It's glorious. Chaos and screams and blood. The droning sound turns out to be a drill- something boring now made exciting by this new application.
The Driller Killer himself has no style, no panache, but he can't argue with the results. He wants those results for himself, although he'd do it with some flair, with some sex appeal. Driller Killer 2.0, baby, new and improved.
According to legend, Athena cleaved her father's head open and emerged, fully grown and ready to take her place in the pantheon of gods. He is a thing of dreams, however, and has other methods of making himself known.
It's important to rehearse before the big show, though, so he slips into Val's dreams first. There are three doors in the Driller Killer memory-- the one he made, one he can't open no matter how hard he tries, and Val's, which took some finessing but opens just fine now. He can slide right into her head while she's asleep, croon sweet nothings, give her a wink, get real comfortable. And then he can try out his brand new drill.
Turns out Crazy Val is wise to him, though. She lets him steal a kiss, whether because she's lonely or as proof he can step out of her dreams into real life, and then raises a ruckus. He gets a hand over her mouth before her screams can bring someone running, and slips back into her head with a wink and a promise to come back.
It's not quite what he'd planned, but that doesn't mean he can't still have fun, and boy, does he. Val's screams of terror as he showed her his new drill get him hot under the collar, and her sobs are music to his ears.
“Why are you doing this?” she asks one night, crammed into a corner like that would help her if he decides to really let her have it. “Why do you hate me?”
“Hate you?” He laughs. “I don't hate you, baby. I'm just having a little fun is all.” He touches the side of her face with his drill and laughs again when she screams. Oh, Valerie; the drill's not even on. “Besides, I need someone to practice on so I can show Courtney a real good time.”
Val changes in a flash. She lunges at him and rakes her nails down his face. It hurts, but even this is fun. He doesn't think he's been hurt before.
“Stay away from my sister!” she screeches. “Don't you fucking touch Courtney!”
“Chill,” he says. “It's copacetic, baby. I'm gonna make it good for her. I know what she's into.” He smiles and taps his temple. “I'm in her head.”
He loves Courtney with everything he is. How could he not? He made himself from her, for her. He's exactly what she wants and what she needs. Even if she doesn't know it.
The night doesn't entirely go as planned. He definitely wasn't expecting Courtney to set him on fire. Turns out his girl has more to her than he thought.
So things got a little too hot to handle. He's not the kind of guy who gives up easy. Besides, he's still here, which means she still needs him, right? She hadn't even pulled a machete on him. He just needs to keep trying, show her they're meant to be.
Together, they're going to go all the way.