When I was six, I saw you on a TV spot for Child’s Play 2 chasing people with a knife. After that, all I could think about for the rest of my childhood was your butt-ugly face and that god-awful outfit.
You made my generation wary of their favorite toys. I grew cautious over how I treated my stuffed animals, and you made me distrust my beloved Ninja Turtle action figures.
Well, I’m back and as an educated adult, I realized something: you’re just a doll! You’re not even a creepy doll and, trust me, I know creepy dolls.
My grandma had porcelain dolls with big glass eyes that followed you across the room. My aunt collected antique dolls, the ones that wore frilly white dresses and big bows and stared at you with empty black eyes. She even had those little weird naked dolls you got at the fair.
My great-great-aunt made porcelain dolls and she made one that looks just like me. I don’t know where she is but you better hope she stays lost because it would be double-trouble for you.
If I could speak to my six year-old self, I would pull her out from under her Mickey Mouse bed sheets and tell her, “One day, you’ll be bigger than Chucky and you’ll kick the ever-loving shit out of him.”
Today’s the day, you little bastard.
Guess who thinks it’s okay to interrupt my wet dream about Alex Trebek?
Oh, it’s that Freddy punk.
I’m trying to score a Daily Double and you’re coming through my wall? That’s not scary; that’s rude.
I lost a lot of sleep as a teenager because every time I nodded off, I would remember that your scrawny ass would be waiting for me.
Well, I’m not a kid anymore and you’re not that complex. Cheap Wolverine glove. Knock-off Indiana Jones hat. Linus Van Pelt sweater. Are you even trying?
Your backstory is inspiring though. I, too, would like to burn pedophile child-killers alive in their murder-shack!
There are movie monsters that deserve our sympathy and respect, like King Kong or Godzilla. I respect the hell out of those legends, but you’ll be a legend soon, Fred…a legend at getting your ass handed to you.
Because I can lucid dream now. I’m in the driver’s seat of my subconscious, and I’ve been practicing for this day. You wait till I can astral project; I’ll take you for a ride through the cosmos.
Interrupt one my Pat Sajak dreams. You won’t be pushing through my wall again.
The Overlook Hotel
Jack Torrance isn’t the monster; it’s you, Overlook. You manipulate everybody inside you, dead or alive.
Jack is a recovered alcoholic who wants to do right by his family, so he takes a well-paid job of taking care of you. And how do you repay him? By having your buddy Lloyd give him a free round of ghost booze!
Only a monster would do that.
Do you think it’s fun storing blood in that elevator just so you can dramatically spill it all over the carpet? Wendy just shampooed!
This poor woman’s husband gets possessed, she runs up on a room full of skeletons, and her kid is talking to his finger. Leave my girl alone! She’s going through it!
I know those twins were murdered by their ax-wielding dad (because you fucked with him, too) and that’s horrible, but that’s not an excuse to make them scare Danny when he’s playing on his Big Wheel.
And that moldy dead chick in the bathtub? And what you made Jack do with her? You’re sick!
Speaking of sick, what the hell is this?
You think you’re big and bad? I read the book and, let me tell you, it doesn’t end well for you and your spooky Hellfire Club orgy.
Excuse me. I have an appointment with the boiler downstairs.
I was never afraid of vampires. I love you, Count Dracula. However, you are really close to getting staked for all the years you never bit me.
According to lore, vampires won’t come into your home unless they’re invited. I’ve had all my doors and windows open for years! Where the hell are you?
I want to be immortal. I want to be young and sexy forever. I want to sleep during the day.
So, I’m giving you once more chance.
I’m not talking to those Twilight synthetic blood drinking fools; do not interact. I’m talking to the big boys.
Bela, baby. I’m begging you. Stalk dramatically into my bedroom as I pretend to be asleep. I will set up a runway of bright lights leading directly to my neck.
You never forget your first Count Dracula. Please, Frank. Carry me into the foggy night. I won’t resist; my bags are packed.
I wouldn’t even pretend to be asleep, sir, because I would be climbing you like a goddamn tree the moment you walked through my window.
Those are my offers. Make me your eternal slave or else it’s garlic bread for dinner.
Before you correct me with the whole “it’s not Frankenstein, it’s Frankenstein’s monster,” I’m here to tell you that Dr. Henry Frankenstein is the damn monster!
Listen, Doc. Your creation (and parts thereof) did not consent to being reanimated in an egoist’s sick experiment. It’s fine to want to advance science, but you don’t do it by exploiting your physically disabled assistant into robbing graves and stealing brains!
While we’re on the subject of Fritz, do you even pay him a wage? Does he have benefits? Stop hitting him! None of this is his fault! If you hadn’t decided to play God, Fritz wouldn’t have dropped the genius brain in the first place.
The entire point of the novel is that the real monster is man, but it’s your creation that is recognized as the horror element. Why? Because they’re obscenely tall and react violently when attacked by an angry mob with fire?
They are an innocent victim and the fact that you created life but didn’t want the responsibility of nurturing it, in my opinion, is grounds for an ass-whooping.
Disclaimer: The author is a horror movie fan whose favorite franchise is A Nightmare on Elm Street, who totally would with Peter Cushing, and who for real loves that little bastard Good Guy doll. If you would like to get in contact with her, please turn the Lament Configuration box until it opens, and a mutilated corpse named Frank will take your message and probably your liver.