🎃 Ground Zero: Fright Night | Finale Promo Thread 🎃

“Jackson Fenix…” the former president mused, with a wistful look on his orange face. “This is a guy that was all man. “This man was strong and tough, and I refuse to say it, but when he took showers with the other pros, they came out of there, they said, 'Oh my God, that's unbelievable.'"

Half of the crowd hollered and cheered, whilst the other half shuffled uncomfortably, and wondered why the former president was opining about the anatomical prowess of Philadelphia’s Jackson Fenix when he was giving a speech at a rally in Miami, Florida. Perhaps he was so used to delivering his stump speech (on Jackson’s stump) in the six swing states that he failed to recognise any of the other forty four.

“Some of you might be wondering why I’m talking about pro wrestling,” the former president continued. He wasn’t really talking about pro wrestling, but had spent the previous fifteen minutes comparing the penis sizes of various competitors in the sport. “But pro wrestlers love me. They do, they do. Lots of pro wrestlers have endorsed me, voted for me, given me their money. There was Michael Garcia. Great guy. Very respectful guy. He gave me a lot of money. Kayden Knox, also. Me and him go way back. But those guys, great as they are, they aren’t my favourite pro wrestler. No, that next honour belongs to our next speaker, a Republican senator from this great state, who just last month donned lycra and entered the squared circle to protect this country from one of its greatest threats.”

The former president paused, doing his best to affect gravitas.

“I’m talking, ladies and gentlemen, of the occult,” he said, to loud boos from the audience. “That’s right. You know, the Democrats, they don’t wanna talk about this stuff. They think it’s all a conspiracy. But you know, we all know it’s true, don’t we? Yes! We watch the television. We see what’s happening to the cats and the dogs in places like Springfield, Ohio. Which is why it gives me great pleasure to introduce our next speaker. A man who stood next to me when we won in 2016, and stood by me when we won again in 2020. He’s here for the threepeat in 2024. Ladies and gentlemen, and those are the only two genders, please put your human hands together for Senator Dwight Whiteman!!”

The Senator walked out onto the stage, a forced faux-smile attached uncomfortably to his face. Dwight had seen a lot of things: a tour of Kuwait after the invasion during the first Gulf War (where he was captured, but don’t tell the former president that), Woodstock ‘99, and the 2016-2020 administration. He was more comfortable in a crisis. He wasn’t the kind of man for a rally.

But he was a man of duty. And this was his duty. He’d made promises, after all.

He waved kindly at the crowd, pointed at a man he recognised as a campaign fundraiser from Orlando, offered a thumbs up to a young mother holding a baby in the third row. And then he was stood next to the former president, who offered him a weak and clammy handshake that felt as though he was holding a cold, wet fish. The candidate offered him a derisive look that suggested he had little faith in the senator’s abilities. Regardless, he stood aside from the podium, begrudgingly allowing Whiteman to take his place at the microphone and at centre stage, if only for a handful of minutes.

***

“How do you think it went?” the Senator asked, when the crowds had dispersed and he and the former president were standing in the general vicinity of the orange man’s plane. The candidate seemed impatient to be on his way, which he’d do by jet, despite his Mar-A-Lago abode being only seven miles up the coast.

“Fine, I guess,” the former president said, as he bit into a Big Mac. “We won’t lose here. They love me here. I’m one of them now, after all. If we were in Pennsylvania, it would’ve mattered more, and I’d feel more compelled to give you a few pointers. You’ve got to always be thinking about Pennsylvania, Dwight. That’s why I said all that stuff about Jackson’s dick. Pennsylvanians love it when you talk about Jackson’s dick.”

“And if I wanted you to give me a few pointers?” the Senator implored, somewhat desperately. The orange man was looking past him, in the general direction of the plane, waiting for the signal to board. He took another bite of his burger before he replied.

“Well, what the hell was that long pause in the middle?” the former president asked, with a mouthful of food. “Just when you started talking about the occult. Really broke up the pace.”

Just like he had in the middle of the rally, the Senator felt himself entranced by a moment of reflection, pulled back into the past by many invisible hands.

***

October 31st, 1982.

“Go on, I dare you,” Nancy said, with her arms folded and a smug pout on her face. Dwight looked over his shoulder at the decrepit sign, ‘Maggie’s Swamp’ painted onto old, rotten wood in black paint. The cold, October rain continued to drive down around them, both of their costumes now sodden and stuck to their skin. “Unless you’re scared.”

“I don’t see you rushing to go in there, either,” he answered. Even at ten years old, he was beginning to negotiate his way out of difficult positions like a politician would. He pulled his cape more tightly around him, hoping to shield from the cold. His fangs dug into his chin.

“I already did it, years ago,” the girl - dressed as Wonder Woman in an overcoat - answered, with a roll of her eyes. It was true. She was eleven and three quarters, and never afraid to use his lack of experience against him. “Look, you can either do it or not. But if you don’t, then I’m going home.”

He was sure of one thing: that he didn’t want her to go home. He steeled his resolve.

“You’ll wait here for me?” he asked. She nodded his head, her smug pout maturing into a grin. He took a deep breath, and walked into the swamp.

Looking back, he didn’t know how long he stumbled through the undergrowth of the dark, dense forest that surrounded the swamp. It could’ve been a few minutes or it could’ve been an hour. It was impossible to be certain, owing to the sudden and overwhelming sense of terror that gripped him. Every whistle of the wind against the branches sounded like the howl of a wolf. Every bristle of a root against his ankles was a slithering serpent with a forked tongue. Every autumnal leaf that fell on his shoulder was a hand, ready to pull him down into the Earth. That night and that place never really left him.

An undetermined, indeterminable period of time later, he emerged onto the shores of the swamp. What he saw there, under the pale light of a full moon, would never leave him, either.

A man in a business suit with a USA pin in his lapel was tied between two trees, his wrists bound in rope and extended either side of him. He was bleeding and on the edge of consciousness, surrounded by a trio of pale, ghoulish figures who seemed to belong more to the world of the dead than the living. Somehow, he knew that they weren’t in costume, and suddenly felt as young as he was.

Even in this petrified state, however, he recognises the man that was tied up as the former Governor of Arkansas. Bill Something? He had more than a passing interest in politics, and a good mind for faces, if not names. What the ex-Governor was doing in a small, backwards town like Micanopy, Florida, Dwight couldn’t even begin to guess. He didn’t look as though he’d come here freely.

He didn’t have time to make any further observations. He was hit on the back of the head by a fourth ghoul, and lost consciousness as the others began a chorus of incantations.

***

Surprising even himself, the Governor found that he had been speaking his reminisces aloud. This was the former and future President of the United States of America, after all. Dwight felt he owed him at least a certain degree of candour. The other man balked at the story, pulling a face that suggested he wasn’t overly impressed with Dwight or how he’d handled himself as a young man. Never one to mince words, he let him know as such.

“You got captured? Like McCain?!” the orange man in the suit said, with a facial expression that suggested something rotten had crawled up one or both of his nostrils.“I like people that weren’t captured, okay?”

Dwight didn't offer a response to that. McCain had always been a hero of his, rest in power. A lot of his earliest influences had been neoconservatives, and he had a tattoo of a hawk waving an American flag on his lower back.

“You ready for the final?” the former president asked. “You know, there will be a lot of eyes on you on Thursday, less than a week out from election day. We don't need any bad press, Dwight. I'm trusting that you're going to bring home the W, for the party.”

“I'm counting on it too, sir,” he said, as resolutely as he could manage.

“You lost last episode,” the other continued, almost as though Whiteman wasn't there. He was up there with the very best world class monologuers. The Senator almost fancied he could give Cyrus Truth a run for his money. “I don't like losers, Dwight. And I've endorsed you publicly now, so… you really can't afford to lose. And if you do, we'll be forced to pretend that you won. Rudy will hash out the details with you, should it come to that.”

“Don't worry, Mr. President,” Dwight said, in an attempt to sound confident and assured of himself. “I still have one or two tricks up my sleeve.”

The orange man narrowed his eyes as he surveyed Whiteman, curious about his cryptic allusion to a hidden ace. It was clear that the candidate didn't really believe him. Dwight, though, wasn't one to boast when he couldn't back up his words. Once again, he was drawn back into the past, only this time refrained from verbalising it, keeping this memory for himself.

***

October 31st, 1982.

When he awoke, he couldn't quite be sure if it was still October, or if the night had progressed into November. He tried to ascertain this information from the angle of the moon, which was full and bright above the swamp, but found his celestial knowledge lacking. He would only retrospectively work out that it was still early, and that he couldn't have been away from Nancy for more than a couple hours by this stage. He imagined she'd have gone home by now. She wasn't very patient, and her word meant nothing.

He half-hoped that she'd have come after him when he didn't return, but that seemed unlikely. Probably unwise, too, given his current predicament. The four ghouls stood behind him in a horse shoe, whilst in front of him - sitting on a rotting throne on the banks of Maggie's Swamp - was a middle-aged woman. He knew that it wasn't Maggie, given that the woman the swamp was named for died before the town was settled three hundred years ago. But the authoritative way that she surveyed the scene suggested that the spirit of the dead woman lived in her. She appeared like a spider, observing the flies caught in her web.

One of the ghouls standing guard behind him let out a shrill series of whispers in a language that the young Dwight didn't speak. I will translate for you now, though, my dear reader, for I am a kind and benevolent narrator. He's seen too much. Everything. He has to go.

“I'm unsure,” the woman on the rotting throne said, in English. In hindsight, he knew this was deliberate. She wanted him to understand. She was pensive, and glanced at the boy with great curiosity. “I see big things in his future. Wonderful, bold things. Terrifying things. If he would agree to remain a servant to me, even when he reaches places of great power as a grown man, then I think I could see a way to spare him tonight.”

The offer hung in the air. The young boy knew not to answer straight away.

“Do you know who I am?” she asked. Dwight shook his head. “My followers call me Ma E’. You should probably get used to doing the same.”

“What exactly did I see tonight?” he asked, feeling the grip of the ghouls loosen upon him and suddenly finding his voice.

“Deep down, you already know,” E’ answered. “The former Governor will be Governor again, and much more, but not in the same way that you shall achieve your highest offices. He is no longer himself, and never will be again. This is another way, but puppetry should never be the first option.”

“What’s in this for me?” he enquired, eliciting a wry smile from his captor. “Not a puppet, you say. But not all strings are literal.”

This brought a laugh from the woman, who shuffled in her rotting throne.

“Spoken like a true politician,” she replied, warmly. “Okay, young man. As a demonstration of my power, I will grant you one transformative wish. The parameters of which insist that it is yourself that is transformed. I see that you are dressed as a vampire, albeit a crude one. If it is your wish to become one, you only need to say the word.”

Dwight thought for a moment. Not a vampire, he knew. Nothing so… permanent. He did want to include his interest in the occult in his wish, but knew that his appreciation for the Grand Old Party - already a large part of his personality, even in those formative years - should also be considered. After this brief period of contemplation, followed by an internalised eureka! moment, Dwight blurted out his request.

“Were-elephant,” he said.

E’ smiled, and within a moment she had launched into a sequence of elaborate, guttural incantations. His hands were bound in ropes by the ghouls, who were suddenly close around him, pulling him in opposing directions. Soon, he was tied up in the trees like the Governor had been, his grasp on consciousness loose and thin, until the power of the spell overwhelmed him.

He awoke in darkness, alone.

The moon was full.

His muscles began to shift. His bones began to grow. His skin hardened and greyed.

He was becoming something else. Something much larger. Much angrier.

Trees fell around him as his transformation completed, forcing their roots out of the ground. He crunched them into dust beneath his heavy feet, before clearing the ground around him with his long, steel tusks.

Above the forest, his shrill, deathly cry pierced the air, and the rumbling of trees disturbed by a stampede was carried across the forest by the wind.

Across the forest and towards the town, which quaked before him.

***

“Full moon, tonight,” the former president said, punctuating the silence as he stood at the base of the stairs that led onto the plane. He was looking up at the sky. It was already dusk. “Will you come for dinner at the club?”

“Not tonight,” the Senator said, absently. “Tonight I must rest. But you still intend on coming to the final? It’s tomorrow night.”

“I wouldn’t miss it,” the former president said, beginning to ascend the stairs. “You know, I almost lost my hair in a wrestling match, once. Seems a lifetime ago, now…”