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August 2nd, 1977
They called him Crisp. Actually, that's what everyone called him, because no one knew his actual name, except for his therapist. He was an enigma. Michael Myers was not a fan of the cryptic. It conflicted him.
There was no time to concern himself about that today though. Today was Michael's day to stand outside in the hot, cemented courtyard. They made his own square outlined in a red color. His favorite color.
No one would disturb him here, at least until they came to retrieve him. He didn't care that the summer sun was beating down on him relentlessly, causing salty sweat to drip into his eyes, which he was unable to reach up and wipe away. His wrists were chained to the anchor hammered into the ground. He didn't even mind that his breath intake became faster, increasing his dehydration. He just wanted to enjoy his temporary moment of freedom.
There were other “patients” in the courtyard with him today as well. But he usually paid them no mind... Except for the one they called Crisp. The man staring at him from across the yard, only ten steps away. His feet and hands were also chained to his own personal anchor in the ground.
Michael tilted his head curiously. Why was Crisp staring at him like a juicy, peace of meat? His eyes shifted up and down the youthful frame, eyeing Crisp in return, but with a bit more subtlety.
Crisp couldn't have been older than eighteen or nineteen. His face was handsomely chiseled, as if God himself had blessed the boy at birth. His eyes were a brilliant, sky blue, his skin tanned to a crispy gold. His dark, blond locks were thick and wavy, cut just above his jawline.
'You're the perfect specimen,' Michael thought to himself. 'I want to stab your lungs, and drain your blood dry.' His thoughts faltered as soon as the youth took a step forward, the chains holding him in place abruptly. It only startled Michael slightly, but he held his ground.
“You,” Crisp started softly, a grin breaking across his striking features. “You want to kill me. I can see it in your face.”
“Shut up!” A guard shouted, his dog growling shortly at his feet. “No talking, Crisp.” The man glowered at Crisp before looking at Michael suspiciously. “Michael isn't going to say shit to you anyways.”
Crisp laughed. “I don't care. I can read his expression just fine.” There was a sort of a demented expression on the youth's face, which sent a thrill through Michael's bottom half. That was a new feeling.
Michael turned his head just barely to the right; away from the guard, and away from the youth. It was time to ignore the other's existence.
“Ah!” Crisp gasped. “That hurts, Michael! Acknowledge me! Acknowledge me!” It started off as just an annoying chant, but quickly progressed into a tantrum. “Don't ignore me! I'll kill you! I'll kill you!” His blue eyes were dilated, becoming small, black flecks of outrage.
“Enough!” The guard barked before the doors behind him burst open and the orderly dressed in their mint-green scrubs hurried out to collect their kicking and screaming charge.
Crisp managed to wriggle free from a huskily built woman, hitting her in the temple with a sharp elbow before lunging past the other faculty to knock into the steadily built serial killer, Michael Myers.
Michael merely peered down at the younger man, whom to his surprise stood just a few inches below his nose. A smell of blood from the youth aroused something in him, something akin to lust. He clenched his fingers tightly into fists until he could feel his fingernails bite into the flesh of his palms. The pain only momentarily distracted him before the faculty finally got Crisp back under their control and dragged him back into the asylum. That was the last he would see of the unruly youth for at least a month.
September 3rd, 1977
The weather was slightly cooler now, and the leaves were changing their annual, autumn colors before falling the ground to never be remembered again. Except to help Michael recall the upcoming Halloween season.
Michael was being lead down the asylum hall by a short, stout man back to his room. He was slightly disheartened from his short time out in the courtyard, but his quite interest was renewed by the presence of that familiar mop of blond hair. Crisp.
The youth was being lead in the same manner, but in the opposite direction. He was probably about to have his own moment of freedom. At least until he saw the familiar, lumbering frame of his favorite serial killer.
Like a giddy child at Christmas, his face lit up. And, again, he somehow managed to wrestle free from his captors just to bowl into the taller man.
Michael managed to hold himself steady. With clasped hands, and with their limited range of movement, gripped onto the other's slimmer waist, and successfully held Crisp in place. As if scolding an unruly child, which technically Crisp was, he leaned forward and whispered huskily into the youth's ear, “stop.”
It seemed to have the desired effect. Crisp completely stilled at this. He looked up at Michael with calculating, steely blue eyes. “Acknowledge me,” he murmured. “Acknowledge me.”
Michael stared back just as steadily, their noses inches from brushing against one another. Without saying another word, he pushed the youth away just before an orderly yanked Crisp abruptly down to the linoleum, and Michael was able to continue on his path back to his room. The stout man stumbled after him in complete shock.
“No,” Crisp shouted from his prostrate position the ground. Blood dripped from his broken nose, garbling his voice in the process. “Acknowledge me! Acknowledge me!”
Oh, Michael would definitely 'acknowledge' him. In due time.
Halloween 1977
Halloween day was when Michael discovered why the younger, mental patient was called 'Crisp.' Information was inexplicably provided to him by his psychiatrist, Loomis. Probably because Loomis couldn't help but notice Michael's curious gaze upon the younger man. Prying old geezer.
Crisp was a pyromaniac. He set fire to his house, then to his family, and then lit his whole fucking hometown up in flames. He was from some little, isolated country town of Illinois. A town that now laid wasted away in ash. It was a name Michael couldn't really have given a shit about.
Michael sat quietly; patiently in the corner of the common area by the window, observing the younger male carefully. Crisp was drawn like a moth to anything that burned; whether it was the fireplace protected by a metal grate against the wall in the common room, or a fire blazing brilliantly in black and white on the television set, he was there to take in every movement of the flames; to imprint every little flicker into his memory.
Michael gazed cautiously at the older man sitting across from him at the table, scribbling something down in his notebook. Whatever reason Loomis had to spend 'quality' time with Michael on Halloween was beyond the killer. He hardly paid attention to anything other than moving bodies on this special occasion anyways.
Loomis gazed at his notes long and hard, as if expecting something to reach up and smack him in the face at any moment. “Well, Michael.” His tone gave off a defeat that almost broke Michael's heart...almost. The old man's age started to show on his wrinkled, decaying face more than usual. “I'm sorry to break this news to you, my boy, but they'll be moving you to a new facility next year. I'll no longer be your psychiatrist, I'm afraid.”
Michael's fists clinched under the table. Why did this perturb him? It's not like Loomis was getting anywhere with him anyways.
With a heavy sigh, Loomis stood and gathered his notes. “I'll be back, Michael. Stay here for the moment.”
Where the fuck was Michael going to go? He was chained to the table that was nailed to the fucking floor. For Christ sakes.
It wasn't until Loomis disappeared behind a door leading into his office, that Crisp decided to make his presence known to the taller man.
Michael pretended to not see him there.
“Michael,” Crisp started. “I know I'm not worth your time.”
'Don't ever think that,' Michael thought unflinchingly. 'Your presence is too overbearing for me, you have no idea.' His chains rattled softly as he leaned back in his chair, his gaze determinedly remaining focused on Loomis' office door.
“There... There's something in me...telling me to find you... Like it wants you to...to hurt me. Kill me. Like I don't have a reason to be here anymore. I've accomplished what I was set out to do. Do you ever have that feeling, Michael?”
The way Crisp said his name was too familiar, too comforting. His words before that though, shook him to the core. Michael was itching to reach out and strangle that slender, smooth neck. It was an aching so strong, and familiar. He felt it when he brutally plunged the kitchen knife into his older sister, Judith.
“I killed everyone I knew,” Crisp continued. “My family. My friends. It was like I wasn't even there myself when I did it. Something was possessing me. And now, it's drawing me to you. You have that same thing inside you, right?”
It was at that moment that Michael realized he never felt such a longing to touch someone so tenderly, man or woman. And then quite possibly tear through their flesh with the sharpest utensil he could find. Michael was only half-way conscious of the young pyro's hand lifting to touch him. It never made contact though.
Someone called out to Crisp, successfully drawing his attention away from the older man. He walked away, never noticing Michael's hand reaching out, ready to grasp him.
Michael never saw Crisp again for a whole year. There was gossip amongst the noisy faculty that he had been moved to another asylum in Missouri.
1 Year Later
Michael was on the border to Haddonfield when he pulled the station-wagon off the road. His memories were flooded of a baby crying in a crib, and his parents who had loved him unconditionally. Who had eventually stopped coming to see him in his prison. They died in a car crash of course, and he had come to terms with that a long time ago. There was nothing but spilled blood calling out to his tormented soul now.
He numbly put the vehicle back into gear and pulled onto the road again. The lights of Haddonfield leading him on.
As the sidewalk of his home from long ago came into view, so did the distorted visions of a younger man crying out for him to 'acknowledge him'. He slammed the breaks and put the car into park in front of his old residence. He grasped the mask over his face with both hands as he slammed his face into the steering wheel, and silently screamed out in torment. Why were these thoughts haunting him now? Michael remained in his current position until the visions and voices stopped. And they stopped abruptly. He stared at the wheel numbly before lifting his gaze to the figure standing outside in front of the vehicle.
A man called out to him desperately, his hands slamming against the hood of the car.
Michael stepped out of the station-wagon and approached the assailant with malicious intent. His hand grasped the other male's windpipe, successfully cutting off the airflow, but he faltered, much like he did when he met Crisp for the first time. Crisp.
The street lamp above their heads illuminated the younger man's smiling face; smiling despite how Michael's vice-like-grip was effectively choking him.
The older killer released his grip immediately, letting Crisp crumple to the ground like a sack of potatoes.
“You acknowledged me,” Crisp wheezed. “Finally.” He reached up toward the other man with a trembling hand, almost not expecting Michael to grab it and hoist him back onto his feet. “I-I know you aren't much for words, Michael, so I'll just explain why I'm here, yeah? That day I talked to you in the common room, they were transferring me that day. I had hoped you would stop them... by killing me.”
Michael turned his head sharply toward the younger man, as if disgusted by the thought of it, but it was quite the contrary. The idea of slicing this man down the middle excited him...if the erection growing between his legs was any indication.
Lights lit up the upstairs window in the house next door, signaling that Crisp and he were disturbing the peace. Without hesitation, he grabbed the other's wrist and pulled him into his decomposing house. He closed and locked the door behind them. Michael never released the other's wrist, gripping it so tight he was leaving a bruise around the sensitive flesh.
Crisp cringed and clenched his teeth. To distract himself from the pain, he continued with what he was saying. “On the way to the new facility, the driver got into a wreck. I got away as fast as I could. I came here...for some reason. I guess I was thinking about you at the time.”
Michael reacted violently then, shaking the youth in his grasp and then pushed him away into the railing of the staircase. This man had been on the run for almost a whole year. Crisp had been here the whole time...waiting for him!
The younger man hardly flinched at the impact as Michael closed in on him in one, simple stride. Their chests pressed intimately together, and Michael's heated breaths coming out in faint pants through the small holes of the mask. Crisp could feel it across his face. “Are you mad at me?”
A tender hand came up to the youth's cheek, the pad of his thumb brushing over that plump, bottom lip. An ache in his loins made him desire to kiss those lips. Without a second hesitation, he pulled the mask up over the bottom half of his face and kissed his younger charge.
Crisp didn't fight it. He returned the kiss just as passionately, bringing his arms up around Michael's neck and shoulders. His clothes fell to the floor, one article of clothing at a time under the older man's nimble hands. He was somewhat concerned when Michael unzipped his coveralls, and pulled out his dripping prig.
Michale lifted the other's hips and positioned himself at the twitching sphincter. Through his daze, he faintly heard Crisp state, “S-Spit.” Michael growled impatiently as he spat into his hand and coated his manhood with saliva. He hesitated for only a moment, knowing he was going to rip the younger man's passage. He knew there was another important step to take before penetrating the man in front of him, but he couldn't wait. The call for blood was deafening. The heat of the other's passage was clenching around his tip enticingly. While kissing Crisp deeply again, he plunged into the vice-like cavern.
The young pyro cried out into the other's mouth, biting Michael's tongue in the process. He could taste the coppery fluids flood into his own mouth, causing him to become queasy, followed by him losing his stomach contents all over the older man's chest. It was mostly just water since he really hadn't been able to consume any necessary sustenance for the past few days.
Michael didn't seem perturbed by this at all. It was merely warm water being splattered across his flesh. He immediately started to thrust his hips against Crisp's backside. As expected from not properly preparing the young pyro, blood started to coat his erection from the torn passage. The smell of it was driving him on like a wild stallion.
It was excruciating for the younger man. Crisp cried out, tears rolling down his cheeks in fat droplets. This wasn't his first rodeo though. His older brother had raped him when he was only fourteen, but it didn't hurt quite this much. He had honestly enjoyed it then too.
“M-Michael... Stop... It hurts,” Crisp pleaded weakly. Wasn't this what he wanted though? The little demon that sat on his shoulder like an annoying parrot had been whispering for him to end it all. There was nothing he needed in this life anymore.
Why was it so hard to breathe now? It wasn't until he felt two thumbs press hard into his larynx that he became aware of the older man strangling him. Michael was most definitely trying to kill him.
Crisp grasped the older man's wrists, his grip tightening with each desperate breath he tried to take. Drool, sweat and tears dripped down his face as if still in the throes of passion. With his last exhale of breath, he reached his last climax, seed splattering across Michael's stomach.
Michael watched through his own tears as the life left Crisp's eyes. His rocking motion stopped, never reaching his own relief as the dead body fell from his grasp and onto the cold, hard floor. Thick dust disturbed by the corpse, rose to the air, and momentarily suffocated Michael. He brought a hand up to his mouth and wiped the blood away that he had received from Crisp's bite. He then pulled the mask back down over the lower half of his face.
Crisp was gone. He had fulfilled what the pyromaniac had desired the most from him. But all the serial killer could really feel was an overwhelming sorrow and emptiness. An emptiness he normally didn't feel when he killed someone. Was this what they called regret?
The sounds of laughing children, and muttering adults from across the street brought Michael back from his rumination. It was the night before Halloween, 1978. As if all previous activities with the young man laying on the floor never happened, he readied himself for the night of Samhain.
He would get rid of the body later.
The End