Crystalized: Part 2 - The Colossus of Rhodes

Blake Beland was living the dream.

Unfortunately, his "dream" was a stereotypical, testosterone-fueled delusion which had taken on viral attributes, infecting its host with a sudden surge of self-importance, entitlement and an overwhelming desire to inflate their biceps to diesel truck tire size. Other symptoms included the urge to force shirt collars into gravity defying angles up around ones ears, and a sudden predilection for styling gels which rendered ones hair indistinguishable from a porcupine on full defensive alert. Blake's biceps had not touched the sides of his torso for well over four years. His upper body was 60 pounds of pretentious muscle packed into a 40 pound capacity T-shirt. His six-pack was obscene, entering a room before he did, thrust out so far and proud that it ought to have been led by a team of white stallions. His face was arrogantly angular, hawkish, an attempt by the gods to physically personify the word "Duh!" He was the Colossus of Rhodes: muscular, majestic, dumber than a bucket full of rocks. When he spoke, it was in a patois of truncated slang that caused every spellchecker within a one hundred mile radius to curl up and die.

In the exclusive world of celebrity Boo Counters, the name Blake Beland was synonymous with "legend." He'd been the first to breach Haddonfield and live to tell the tale, emerging triumphant with his crew intact and seven plus hours of video footage that he'd pared down to a turbo charged 46 minute pilot entitled "The Night WE Came Home!!!" (and yes, he'd really used three exclamation points). He'd gone on to spend a successful night inside of the abandoned sorority house in upstate New York, the Valentine Bluffs coal mines (on Valentine's Day, of course) and a particularly exciting, fast paced all-nighter aboard Canadian Pacific Railway No. 1293, currently cordoned off in a train yard in Sugarcreek, Ohio. Now he was gunning for the Big Game. Having spent the entire summer addicted to a punishing cardio regime, Drake was out to conquer the most notorious Zone in the United States: Camp Crystal Lake, New Jersey. He had the latest in lightweight camera technology, a fresh haircut and the perfect bait: 17 year old Tiffannee Ainsworth - "Tiffy" to her friends - a caramel-haired, snub-nosed, blue eyed cheerleader, wholesomely cornfed and pure as milk straight from the pinkest udder of the most prized cow. Her Tumblr page was a cheery, diamond sparkly pink paradise of puppies, happy emoji, and her favorite Boo Counter: "Dreamy" Drake Beland.

The month of October had been devoted to research and set-up: the stakeout of the Zone that was Crystal Lake, the avoidance of surveillance devices and sensors, the mapping out of best points of entry and exits, the establishment of a crude home base which consisted of an oversized van driven by a slightly less muscly version of Drake. On the night before the final Friday the 13th of the year, phase one was launched. A particularly handsome couple (18+ only) had been obtained, had signed the waivers and had agreed to infiltrate the Zone for the sole purpose of engaging in premarital sex. Beer and marijuana was supplied by Blake and both he and his van driving protege dutifully sat at the bank of security cameras rigged up around the camp, watching with deadly seriousness as the couple smoked, drank and began to screw. No less than three cameras had been trained on the lake itself. At the first sign of awakening ripples on the usually glassy surface, the couple were alerted via walkie and summoned back to the van before the last strand of gelatinous seaweed could catch itself on the underbrush and slide off of the muck-drippy surfaces of the blocky boots which encased the rotting feet of one Jason Voorhees, Class A Threat, deemed indestructible in 1986, fully contained since 1989. Status: dormant unless provoked.

Now he was awake. Drake and his team were holding off full entry into the Zone until 3:26pm, one hour before official sundown. Tiffy, outfitted in sensible shoes and skintight jeans, was giggly with anticipation, eager for the night to be over so she could lose her valuable virginity to Drake. And eight hundred miles to the south, Republican Senator Ephraim Ainsworth awaited word from the special ops team deployed to fetch his stunningly stupid, rebellious daughter and return her safely home to Georgia before her latest stunt ruined his chances for reelection.

TO BE CONTINUED...