I made my name in the deejaying world by being bizarre. I mean, even my name, DJ Marilyn Grotesque, offers the punters a clue to the sort of show I put on.
I’ve modelled myself on Marilyn Manson in his Tainted Love video. I stride into ordinary, regular parties and turn them into freak shows. Party hosts who want to shock their guests, love me. I always give them a show they’ll never forget.
Tonight’s booking is my best payday ever, so I’m determined not to disappoint.
My black 1970 Lincoln Continental low-rider scrunches to a halt on the gravel drive at the front of the impressive mansion. Tonight it’s going to be DJ Marilyn’s mansion. My driver hits the pneumatics and the front of the car bounces like a kangaroo on steroids. A low banshee screech emanates from under the hood. I want everyone to know that the main act has arrived. Be scared party guests, be very scared.
I look out through the black tinted windows and smile. People have streamed out of the house to see what the commotion is. They gasp and point as my car goes through its routine of bounces and bumps and grinds. I’m nearly ready. The scene is primed and set for another spectacular entrance.
I slip in my thousand dollar false fangs. They look so real; worth every cent I paid. Mind you, no one will see them until the moment is right. I shove open the car door and glide out onto the steps which lead up to the house. I can feel every pair of eyes on me. Do they think I’m a dead man walking? My white make-up, blue lipstick and black eyeshadow would even fool a qualified pathologist, well at a distance they might. Dressed in black from head to foot, I stride up the steps.
I feel the mood change when my girls emerge from the car; my five beautiful, sexy vamps strut up the steps behind me. Their skimpy black leather outfits look as if they’d be more at home in a brothel rather than this posh person’s party. The girls have only one job; tease the guests, men and women, and draw them into an intimate web of expectation. Later, when the tension is at its height, and I give the signal, my little darlings will scare the life out of everyone around them with a show of their fangs; not as realistic as my thousand dollar pair, but real enough to freak most normal folk.
Me and my entourage bundle our way through the entrance hall. I’m heading for the little stage which houses my turntables and the controls for the lights, and fog machine, and flash bang maker. As I push my way through the gaping guests, my girls peel off and start seducing their victims. By the time I’ve reached the stage, all my girls are already hard at work, flaunting their leather clad bodies in the faces of their unsuspecting prey.
“Okay people,” I shout into the mike. “I’m DJ Marilyn Grotesque, let’s get this parrrr-teeee started.”
The party atmosphere’s building to a frenzy, my careful choice of music has seen to that… well, I guess my girls working the floor has also helped to stoke the fires. Now it’s time to crank up the vibe and spring our nightmarish surprise.
I dim the lights to almost pitch perfect darkness and hit the play button. The air vibrates and throbs as I unleash Led Zepplin’s Immigrant Song on the crowd. Aagh Aagh Aagh Aaghhhh. The eerie screams and haunting guitar riffs slice through the atmosphere like an assassin’s blade. Aagh Aagh Aagh Aaghhhh. The room is under my control. I ram the volume up to eleven. This is the cue for the girls to ready themselves. Halfway through the record, I’ll shine one bright white spotlight on my face, I’ll flash my magnificent faux fangs. My girls will snarl and cackle and expose their fangs. Chaos will reign supreme. Welcome to my house of horrors.
Aagh Aagh Aagh Aaghhhh Aaaaggghhh! A bloodcurdling scream rips through the air.
Hold on. Too soon. What the hell is that? It’s not a scream from the record. I know every word, every sound from my favourite track ever. I fire up the house lights. A frantic buzz is coursing round the dancefloor; an excitement which isn’t focussed on me. My eyes scan the room. Where are my girls? I see Francine. She’s prostrate on the ground. My God, is she lying in a pool of blood? The people around her are laughing. Why aren’t they helping her?
Another chilling scream. It’s Jane. She’s squirming and wriggling frantically, trying to rip herself free from the clutches of a woman who appears to be biting her shoulder. Why has no one leapt to her defence? Where’s her saviour? I scour the faces of the people around her. I see evil, staring eyes and fangs; fangs everywhere. Fangs more realistic than mine. I shriek into the mike.
“Thank you ladies and gentlemen, DJ Marilyn is leaving the house.”
I run. I sprint. I barge and push my way through the sea of smirking faces. I cross the entrance hall in twelve giant strides. I lose my footing and tumble down the steps, rolling to a halt at the side of my car. Thank God I made my driver stay out front to show off the limo and entertain guests with bounce performances. I rip the door open and scramble in.
“Go. Go,” I shout.
“Hold on, boss, Laurie and Precious are coming down the steps,” he says. “They look terrified.”
“They’re staying here,” I scream. “Go. Go.”
The Lincoln pulls off and picks up speed once it gains traction on the gravel. I peep over the seat and peer out the back window. A feral pack of guests has surrounded Precious. I can’t see Laurie any more.
We drive out through the big front gates and race off into the dark night.
“How’d it go, boss?”
“Well, they’ve had a party I’m guessing they won’t forget in a hurry.”
“So job done,” says the driver.
“Yep, job done.”
Yeah, job done, but I think I might give up this deejaying malarkey and go back to my story-writing career.
This short piece was written as a ‘guest appearance spot’ for the book Happy Halloween, a collaborative publication by authors
The fabulous picture above was photographed by Justine Davinia Simone and the amazing fangs are from Teeth By Dnash.
I’ll be publishing another short story soon