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The Witching Hour lies upon the western hemisphere of the world, and the party is just getting started for the creatures of the night. Waves lap at the blond shore eagerly, like children licking sherbert off a spoon. Gulls caw, ever greedy for chips and vinegar, keen to dive bomb a fool.
A deep, smoker's voice carries across the dunes, the irritation in it rising with every instant that passes. It appears to be coming from a rapidly bobbing fedora skittering across the shadowed sand. “Jason…Jason…JASON! You dumb, hick jock! We know what your name is, alright?! We get it!” Having twisted his ankle, twice, in the long swoop of a letter ‘J’ dug into the sand of a moonlit Jersey beach, Freddy Krueger is pissed. Not enough fairy lights, he knew it. But aside from the lighting situation, this is his party, and Jason ‘Lawsuit’ Voorhees is ending it before it has even begun.
Stomping up to the hockey mask wearing psycho with his little LED tiki torch held aloft, Freddy swaps it from right to left hand, before using the maximum amount of drama to swipe the hockey stick out of Jason's gorilla grip. Oh Lord help him. Hernia City, here he comes.
His basement dwelling adopted son spins, mad as a rhino on meth, his few remaining strands of strawberry blond hair following along after. Jason had been using that stick to carve his name into the sand!
“Don't look at me like that, boy! I told you not to dig trenches in my beach! This isn’t World War One! You have a problem, okay? You need therapy. We ain't killing anybody tonight. Now go get dressed! Party's about to start.”
So Jason stomps off, in a huff.
Freddy watches him go, then spits. “Kids these days. Pah! Got no respect.” Freddy is like, fifteen years younger than Jason. What the heck is forty minus twenty-six?...He scratches his head, and grimaces further. Scratching one's head when it's all burned and horrible and your hand is a child petting claw, is less than optimal, but old habits die hard.
Next, the moon contrives to fiddle with his plans, doing so by potentially revealing to the authorities that serial killers are busy frolicking on the beach. That's bad, because Freddy doesn't possess a permit for that shit.
But while he's stoking the bonefire and opening little containers of chips and dumping them into pretty tupperware bowls, the third member of the Jersey Shore Clique arrives, dropped off by his brothers in their muffler missing jackassmobile. Burnt orange light dashes itself across the peeling hood and dies on the other side. A chainsaw revs a welcome.
Leatherface has put on his pretty face. And his pretty pants. Pretty hot pants. His chainsaw has fuzzy heart stickers stuck on it, alongside Maybelline kiss marks. Hot Girl Summer. Like Jason, he is also a gigantic masculine monstrosity, capable of giving teeny tiny* Freddy acute ingestion simply by approaching him. Regardless, the creepy janitor (or whatever the frick) spreads his arms in greeting.
“Jed! Welcome! To my beach party! Lovely night, ain't it? Come, have a drink, have some chips. I've got mystery meat and long pork flavour. Some guys couldn't come, oh well. Sucks to be them. Enjoy yourself.”
Leatherface makes some incomprehensible squealing noise, but Freddy misses it, another sound attracting his attention, his head snapping back so fast it almost comes off. “Jason…Jason!....Boy! STOP. DROWNING! How many time have I told you? You’re mute, not frikking deaf!” he looks back at Leatherface. “That young man is such a handful. You fight him once and suddenly he's your responsibility for life. I'd call that clingy, but what do I know.”
“...” says Leatherface, head cocked, staring at the little* man with an indecipherable expression on his leather face. The blade of his chainsaw spins lazily. His apron is Gucci. Everything's Gucci.
At this point, Jason returns, in a glittery speedo, emerging in slow motion from the black water like Neptune trying to get James Bond's attention. The other two stare at him, a mix of fright and confusion further twisting their already twisted features.
“Here.” Freddy hands the hulk a fruity cocktail with a small, skull embossed umbrella in it. Jason immediately drops it and stomps off towards a volleyball net.
A game of ‘Jason Says’ is non-negotiable, so the other two follow. There aren't enough players for volleyball, not even if you include Jason's Teddy bear, so they settle on frisbee, using Freddy's fedora as the disc, and when that is crushed, Jason's machete. It's just light enough to work, unlike Leatherface's chainsaw.
Naturally, some people (the host) have their heads cut off by the frisbee. It's all in good fun, but a first aid kit is still brought out, whereupon The Camp Crystal Lake Killer and Pretty Boy Sawyer argue over how to sew a head back onto a body. It's not an oft used skill of theirs. The former is all for doing nothing, proclaiming so by breathing heavily, while the latter squeals and makes faces behind his skin mask.
“...”
“EEEEEEEEEYARGH!!!”
“...-”
“EEEEEEEEUUURGH??!!”
"..."
Even Jason's murderous Oedipal hallucinations cannot win his case for him. As the original slasher, Leatherface prevails over his more iconic brother murderer.
After going crazy with the cross stitch, Jason and Jed compete over who can hold handstands the longest, to the tune of Britney Spears’ Toxic. As something like the serial killing version of a supermodel mixed with Rambo, with a low centre of gravity, Jason wins. Then they wrestle, accidentally kicking Freddy into a half flooded trench formed by the letter ‘S’. Jason wins again, possibly because he's wearing a speedo. Even with only three people and a ‘No Kill’ rule, it's a very entertaining gathering.
Once dawn begins painting the horizon in peach tones, the guys want to clean up, like the good boys they are, but the mean girl moon, and her friend group, the stars, are still busy spying on them from above. And calling the cops every other minute.
After almost a hundred phone calls from concerned bodies, heavenly and mortal alike, the po-lice finally roll up in their own version of a party wagon. Heaving themselves out of it, they swagger over to the edge of the embankment separating the boardwalk from the beach, their thumbs caught in their belt loops. “Hey. Freaks. Do you have a permit for this party?”
“What?” says Freddy Krueger, claw hand raised, dandy jumper on, neckbeard fedora in place. “Whatever brand of Socialism it is you're selling, we're not interested.” Behind him, the mountainous man-babies cock their heads in unison.
“You need a permit to hold a party on a beach.”
“Since when?”
“Since yesterday. The Law presumes you knew that, so…” the cops whip out their guns, holding them sideways, like gangbangers.
“...Okay, well, errgh-” Freddy looks to his adopted son, finding him still staring curiously at the police, like a deranged two legged Labrador. You never can tell when that chap is going to spring into a murderous rage. Like a Labrador. Freddy assumes Jason's going to fling an axe the instant a cop turns his back. Leatherface, meanwhile, is looking around for his ride, and continues to do so as bullets shower the sand like extremely unfriendly confetti.
As a frail young nonce, Freddy Krueger needs to break into Dreamland if he’s going to achieve anything here. He takes off at a run, “Screw this! You guys can party by yourselves. Losers!” While he gallops away on stick legs, he pulls out a mobile phone like a grey play-dough brick, extending the antenna. Need a distraction, need the A-Team. At first the person on the other side assumes she’s receiving a lewd call, meaning Freddy had best disappear into hell forthwith. But before she can curse him, he shouts into the receiver. “Pam! Come get your kid!”