"I think...I think," and it doesn't help that you stammer when nervous, "I th-think this is getting out of hand." Bathed in pale moonlight, she looks at you, head tilted, almost as if she's perplexed, and pulls the professional-grade Dr. Zaius mask completely off her head.
You're in the middle of nowhere, beyond the city limits, inside a labyrinth of gravel roads separated by fields of rotting cornstalks, waning forestry, and the occasional farmhouse, the nearest of which is probably half a mile in any given direction. This place, whatever it may be, is essentially devoid of human life, barring the two -ahem, make that three- of you, and there's no reason to keep wearing masks, but still, up until this very moment, you've been dressed up like you were three hours prior, at a mammoth Halloween party for collegiate and high-school lowlifes alike (with a few additional miscreants such as yourselves thrown in for good measure). The costumes, the masks, the pretense; it's all coming undone, and things are definitely spinning out of control.
The mask is off, and she takes a seat atop the hood of a stolen, teal Nissan Sentra you've been cruising around in for the past forty-five minutes. The car's been shut down, yet the parking lights remain lit, as if you'd need the additional illumination; it's been a chilly pre-Halloween, but the sky is virtually cloudless, resulting in a surprisingly bright crescent that gazes down upon the Earth, beaming with approval. From neck to feet, she's wrapped up in gauze like some kind of revenant. Here and there, strands of fabric are unravelling, and it seems as if it -or she- could very well fall apart at any moment, but you know better than to believe in miracles.
"Getting out of hand?" she ponders aloud, knowing full well what you meant. "How so?"
"How so? I mean, y-you know," again you hesitate, this time due to a disheartening pair of contributing factors; the first of which being that you doubt you'll be able to talk her out of this insane plan, and the second being the thumping sound coming from inside the Sentra's trunk, "I...I just don't...Is this what you had pl-planned all along? I mean...I just thought..." Fortitude is not one of your stronger points, but this situation has gone far beyond a simple matter of rolling with the punches. She rubs her forearm across her eyes, seemingly flustered by the muddled profusion of discontent.
Eyes still covered, she speaks, her voice infused with an almost comical frustration (even though the joke's probably not on her). "Look, and take off that stupid ninja hood, will you," she begins a bit too casually, "and the mask, because really, and do listen to me, shinobi; if cathartic discussions of morality in this new millennium consist of repetitious questions and incessant stuttering, then I'm glad I skipped out on societal evolution, and," she pauses, eyes veiled, with a morbid smile forming as she sighs, then inhales, "and I know you're about to say 'So-societal ev-ev-evolution?' so I'll go ahead and save you the effort. And I know I like to talk, but you take a look up there," she utters, removing her arm from its resting place to point northward, "and tell me what you were doing when I found you just three short weeks ago."
She's pointing toward a slight incline a few hundred yards away. You feign incredulity, but you're not doing very well. There's a line of fencing running alongside the road as far as the eye can see, and at that spot, in the distance yet not, on the eighth of October, you used a bolt cutter to clip two twenty-four inch strands of barbed wire from a weathered stretch of fence, noting that each of the portions of wire were particularly rusted but still functional, which satisfied you at the time. You then wrapped each strand in a towel and delicately placed them inside an outdated denim backpack found within the musty attic of your parents' home. After that, well, a lot of things have happened since then, and that was different you protest in earnest, but she seems less than convinced, and she's visibly dissatisfied with your lackluster response.
"No, I want you to tell me what you were doing at that time," she says, just after lighting a cigarette.
"It's not the same. I-I have a reason, a plan, b-but this, this...I mean..." The thump from the trunk grows louder, more intense. "How old is this-"
"Uh-huh. But you still haven't told me what you were doing out there." She offers you a cigarette. It's taken with reluctance, as you haven't smoked in six months, but there's some comfort to be found in the known even if it's unwanted, you suppose. She slides off of the hood, whips the driver's side door open, and shuts off the parking lights. "Let's consider; I never offered you plastic gloves, you know, the ones you've been wearing for several hours. Funny how these things work out," she whispers into your ear as she gingerly places the set of keys into your palm. So that's the way things are going to be.
The masks are back in place, and the trunk is open. Desiccated Dr. Zaius and No-Fun Fūma Kotarō stare down at a young man, sixteen at most, bound in thick, industrial-strength rope. His mouth and eyes are covered with duct tape, but even so, the make-up smeared across his bruised face still resembles -albeit vaguely- Brandon Lee's ill-fated portrayal of Eric Draven from the Crow, accentuated by jet-black attire yet contradicted by the kid's vivid blonde bowl cut. He struggles at first, but an elbow to the face calms him down a bit just before he's pulled onto the jagged gravel. The rope constricts his arms and legs, with roughly fourteen feet left over. Also inside the trunk is a gym bag that clinks and clatters metallically when removed, its precise contents known to only one amongst the three.
Eric Draven endeavors to mumble, struggle, and swallow some teeth as he's being dragged face down along the ragged path toward a burgeoning Bur Oak standing solitarily amidst an otherwise vacant sea of withering grasses. Fūma grudgingly pulls the painted face to their fated destination, his head drooping low in silent defeat, while behind him and his quarry, Dr. Zaius skips to the beat of a song yet unwritten, the holdall jingling as it rises and falls concurrently, her enthusiasm spurred by the coincidental; a cow in a pasture adjacent to the road moos lazily, and soon enough, a series of fluctuating howls echo throughout the valley.
"They say not to worry. That you'll still be alive when it's all over," Zaius wistfully assures, though neither the ninja nor the kid is certain as to whom she offers this putrid shred of conciliation.
A potent breeze nudges the dangling young man back and forth; his blonde tresses gently swish against the cool earth while the thick, robust branch supporting him creaks with a pride of sorts, for it shall not buckle under the weight of its fleshly adversary. Kotarō stands alone, attempting to distance himself from what is about to transpire. Gazing up at the smirking moon, Andy Mercil wishes he were somewhere, anywhere, other than here, doing something else, something wholesome and yet, despite the allure of detachment, the crestfallen shadow assassin lends an ear to Dr. Zaius as she sifts through the gym bag and labels removed objects in the order they emerge: Jones, Cedar, Iowa, Delaware, Linn, Benton, Buchanan, Johnson.
Even though you're trapped, this is too much. Your eyes plead not like this as Dr. Zaius pours the remaining contents of the gym bag upon the scattered license plates. Clink-clink-clack. The noise generated by the fallen instruments causes the hanging man a moment of panic, and rightfully so; he wiggles violently until Dr. Zaius playfully kicks him in the chest and even then, as he swings around, he's panicking, trying desperately, yet in vain, to escape his flaxen trappings. It's not the violence that bothers you, it's the vulnerability, but she views matters differently; a sense of equity, chase, struggle, and hope are of no consequence to her. Dr. Zaius twirls a three-and-a-half-inch nail over and under her fingers as you hold the boy still, shutting your eyes just before it begins. Amidst the darkness, a combination of thrusts, groans, and spasms stunts your ability to guess just what, if anything, concerns that which plays at being a woman so poorly.
When it's all over, it's just as she said it would be, yet not quite: you're still alive, as is the kid, but it's 1:23 a.m., a solid five hours before a passing farmer will discover what's been left for any and all to see. As the Sentra hurtles eastward down Route 30, Little Red Corvette seeps out from tinny, factory-installed speakers. She reminds you that it's a Saturday night, which should make it all right, but you're not so sure.
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