Über Jason electric blasts

"Where is he?" roared Busch.

"Oh, you mean our friend, Mr Personality? Hang on esse, I'm searching. Okay, here we go. Jason Voorhees is currently cutting a bloody swathe through Sector 4G, which is..."

Gonzalez carefully scrolled across the holographic map that blossomed in rainbow hues under his fingers, "which is here, right here. See where I'm pointing?"

Busch nodded.

"Right next to the main power station for Moon Base. Which gives me an idea." His face lit up like NeoMayan digital mystery caves.

Busch blinked. "What kind of idea?"

Gonzalez smiled. "I'm glad you asked. Why don't we turn this entire corridor into an electric fence?"

"Yeah, that'll do it."

"You're fcking right that'll do it!"

Gonzalez scrolled his datagloves through the Unix-based system, grabbed a series of yellow rectangles that floated even with his chest and squeezed like a Carlos Casteneda guitar solo. The rectangles lit up in true Christmas style.

"Now all we have to do," said Gonzalez slowly, "is sit back and watch the fireworks display."

And added, with emphasis, "You fucking corporate drone."

Busch cracked an odds-defying smile.

"I still don't like you, but I like you, man."

"Just watch out. Patronizing mtherfucker."

He feint-swiped Busch's neck. They both looked up at the monitors. Jason was having one hell of a time. A kid in a candy store. A candy store that only stocked human limbs. Fresh, human limbs.

In one hand he held Lisa Foxx's head. Before him lay the shattered, bloody bodies of Samantha and Yvonne. He strode past the bodies. And hit the wall like a shortsighted mime. His body blazed with blue light. Hands clasped the air. He fell smoldering, a blue blob with a fluctuating outline.

"Cracks me up, man," said Gonzalez, laughing. Then Jason got back up. He invariably does.

"Oh, no." Busch clenched a meaty paw around Gonzalez's shoulder.

"What do you mean, oh no?"

"Oh, fck no."

"Give me a clear answer, soldier!"

Gonzalez shot out of his chair. He stood face to face with Sgt Busch. "Let's get one thing straight, okay Johnny. " He placed a single index finger on Busch's collar. "I ain't a soldier in your fcking army. I am not a soldier in anybody's army. I work for myself. Do we understand each other?"

Busch felt for his fission pistol. "Get your hands off me, you little punk!" he roared. "And my name's not Johnny!"

Gonzalez backed off. "Okay, easy now. Gentle. The white man has centuries of rage to overcome. I understand that. Believe me. But now is not the time or the place. As you can very clearly see, we have bigger problems."

The bigger problem took this cue to punch through the wall.

In 1854, a British classics scholar and rhetor named Thomas De Quincey published an essay that would make his permanent reputation. Together with Confessions of an English Opium Eater and its sequel, Suspiria de Profundis (subsequently a classic horror film by Dario Argento).

The essay was entitled "On Murder Considered As One Of The Fine Arts."

According to this aesthetic codified by De Quincey, the terminally cranky upgraded semi-android psycho serial killer, Jason Voorhees, was starting his Blue Period.

"Stand back, everyone!" roared Busch. But it was too late. Voorhees was throwing firebolts like they were going to stop making them.

Funerolopis. Planet of the dead.

The blue balls crawled over men and women, shimmering, encasing them like insects in gasoline bubbles. Rats under glass. Peasants on napalm death. Running. Glowing. Burning. Dying.

The wall in front of him started to buckle and strain. A lightning crack ripped through the metal like a razor through wrapping paper. Busch looked up. A machete blade thrust through, clearing passage for a huge, bulky form.

Jason glared down at Busch with a zombie's canceled eyes. The meatball was trying to communicate, sounds Jason heard as pure white noise, signifying nothing worth the effort to decode it. Slow, bubbling froth of eldritch semen.

With the iron-jawed gravitas of a man trained to shit on command, Sergeant Busch released the safety on his BFG and trained the laser site on Jason's forehead.

"Stand DOWN, motherfucker!"

Jason turned his head quizzically. More static from the meat? Its jaws opened and shut, its color turning a deep, parboiled red. The meat was locked into the usual premortem subroutines, peaks and valleys on a voice track.

"Got a fcking hearing problem?" Busch blared. "I said, assume the position!"

Jason raised his machete.

Busch addressed the mic on his headset. "Okay, dancing kings, I need you to rendezvous back here. We've got ourselves a situation." The order exploded through the soldiers' headsets like a percussion grenade. Wincing, Fosse and Nijinsky shouldered their weapons and met at the hallway divider.

On their audio feed, shredding metal ripped through the haywire spikes of static bleeding from Busch's command. Followed by a sort of odd pulping sound, like mangos being chopped for fruit salad.

Busch saw a ripple of silver move through the air around him. Tiny pricks of pain erupted through his body.

"Assume-the-motherfcking-position," he said through a scrambled mouth. His vision was narrowing to a dark blur. The words came out in bubbles of foam and blood.

Busch clutched his throat. Blood from his cut outer carotid geysered through his hands in thick, bright red jets.

His legs were stalks of melting sludge.

"Glorp," he managed, his throat bubbling out the sound, as his neck slid away from his shoulders. As his ribcage descended into his thorax, his stomach spilled to the floor like a punctured hot water bottle filled with marinara sauce.

Actors in an early, pre-sound comedy film, Nijinsky and Fosse stormed through the door, weapons at the ready. As the grunts hewed to their military training, they saw, to their dismay, Sergeant Busch falling apart under the stress of battle. Literally.

Nijinsky's boots hit the slick, squishy trail of viscera and set him slipping and sliding, struggling to regain his balance. He yelped and stumbled backwards against Fosse, who propped him up only to himself slide forward into the bloody muck. The two soldiers went down like a chain of dominos.

Jason cocked his head to one side, as though bemused by this breakdown of esprit de corps. His machete arm went up, and down, up and down, swift and efficient as a threshing machine. The mound of carnage grew and grew, a wet, steaming mass of human compost. When he walked away, some of the mass was still twitching.

   Jason X: Death Moon, chapter 13