Blue Banshee: Manhunt

Comedy Short - A Long Night at Camp Shikawa

Blue Banshee stood outside the mess hall’s screen door, his sheep mask muffling every breath. Inside, a lone chef prepared tomorrow’s meals while a stockpot simmered on the stove. Blue Banshee began tapping the head of his axe against the concrete.

The chef looked up and spotted the massive figure behind the screen.

There’d be nowhere to run.

Blue Banshee tightened his grip and nudged the door open with the axe head.

The chef set the knife down. “You must be Henri. Come in, come in.”

Blue Banshee stopped, then answered in his most menacing growl.

The chef squinted. “From Montreal, right?” He appraised the big man. “I heard you were eccentric, but…I think they undersold it.”

Blue Banshee raised the axe.

The chef sighed. “We can’t have that in the kitchen.”

Before he could react, the chef grabbed his axe, kicked open the screen door, and tossed it into the night.

“There.”

Blue Banshee’s jaw dropped.

“Insurance, liabilities,” the chef said. “You get it. Now, go grab me a squash.”

A minute later, the would-be slasher returned carrying a pumpkin.

The chef frowned. “Close enough. Start by peeling spuds.”

Blue Banshee looked around the kitchen.

“Over there.” The chef pointed to a 50-pound bag of potatoes.

Blue Banshee grunted and reached for the peeler.

The chef nodded and went back to seasoning the stockpot. “Say. What’d you do before this?”

“Aspiring murderer.”

“That the barbecue joint by the highway?”

*****

Later that evening, flashlights bobbed between the trees.

“I hate this game. It’s scary out here this late.”

“That’s the point, Crystal. It’s called manhunt. If it were daytime, we’d just be playing tag.”

Blue Banshee watched from behind an oak, happy to be free from the cursed potato bag and finally back in his element. He spotted a lone camper standing nervously beside a bush. His pulse quickened as he stepped forward. Just then another camper sprinted from the shadows and slapped him on the back, knocking his axe to the ground.

“You’re it! Run, Julie. Lurch is it!”

The two disappeared into darkness. Another camper sprinted past. “Can’t catch me, cement legs.”

Blue Banshee looked around. “I’m what?”

In the distance someone shouted, “Come on! Let’s hide by the creek.”

Blue Banshee sighed and left the forest.

*****

Crickets chirped as a Hyundai Sonata rolled over the air hose at the old gas station.

Ding ding. Ding ding.

“Yeah, yeah,” said Edgar, the elderly gas station attendant. He sat outside watching a possum crawl into a bucket of fried chicken.

“Well, look who it is.” Edgar smiled. “Blue Birch Tree, right? How’s all that murdering coming?”

Blue Banshee climbed out of the car and leaned against a pump. “Slower than anticipated.”

“Is that right?”

“The other day I got conked with an oar. And I’ve spent most of today making soup.”

Edgar nodded. “Never had a taste for conch soup, but s’pose everybody’s gotta eat.”

“Maybe this isn’t for me,” Blue Banshee said.

Edgar shrugged. “How long you been at it?”

“Few days.”

“Ain’t nothing. My first month, I pumped diesel into a Buick.”

“Did the car make it?”

“Engine rattles and smokes when there’s frost, but she’s still on the road.” Edgar paused. “Kind of like me, now that I think about it.”

Blue Banshee kicked some gravel.

Edgar scratched his chin. “You’ll be alright. My grandpa always said, ‘If you step in a mud pie, just throw a little whipped cream on it.’ Now head on back and wrangle yourself a camper. We’ll celebrate with a couple of cherry slushies.”

Blue Banshee looked up. “You have those here?”

“No.”

Blue Banshee opened his car door.

“Before you go,” Edgar said. “Mind shooing that possum off my fried chicken? He’s a slippery son gun.”

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—Ricky C.

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