Author's Notes: Thanks MetalMyersJason for pointing out my little blunder.

Disclaimer: I own NOTHING of NOES or any other aspect of the 1980s… ok ok I'll say it. I don't own any of the hair bands mentioned in this story. Happy now that you've dampened my day?

I Love the 80s'

Freddy awoke back at his computer desk, relief evident in his motions as he looked around and recognized the furnishings of his home. "Thank Satan." He muttered.

Deciding to end his little fanfiction/decade mishaps, Freddy attempted to turn off the computer once again. Of course, it should come to no surprise to the reader that he failed. If it does, this is not the story for that reader. Back to the point, Freddy again found his world draped in black, the sensation of unconsciousness all too familiar with him at this point.

Like, long, long, like ago, in the um…good ol' days of like valley girls

Flamboyant was what came to mind when he found his way back to consciousness. For, he awoke in a mall littered with humans decorated in the most obnoxious of oranges, magentas, and violets. Which could only indicate one thing…

Freddy Krueger was in the 1980s.

After cursing until his hearts content, Freddy picked himself up off the floor, disgusted. The only factor that redeemed this decade from being any worse than the 70s' was that this was his decade. He, Freddy Krueger, was king. He smirked at this, knowing full well he would be causing uproar among the people of the mall. His steps were noticeable in their cocky pace as he passed by dozens of people, the majority of that population female. It was disappointing to him, the sight of them. He had no inclination of checking them out, because, as we all know, it was the 80's, and fashion, perhaps, was the most damaged of the victims of this era. It was sad really, to see them in their brightly colored shirts, their leggings and/or acid washed jeans, as well as their hair, tossed and teased to the high heavens. Freddy simply cringed as they walked by him.

As he was caught up in trying to find women (more specifically teenagers), it took Freddy a while to realize that something was very, very wrong. He stopped suddenly, as it finally hit him what was wrong; he was Freddy Krueger, he was in the 80s', and no one was startled by him. What in the hell was wrong with them?

Merciful fucking Christ… Freddy felt again the terror the 70s' brought with them; cautiously he glanced down, afraid of what he might find.


He had every good reason to shout. One look at his appearance, and the violent outburst of his screaming was explained; he was dressed in pants of…yes, spandex, more specifically, lycra. They were black in color, with the most annoying shade of green running up the sides as flames. On his feet were sneakers with an odd pair of squiggles on the side of them, identifying them as L.A Gear. His shirt was hidden underneath a sleazy, brown colored Member's Only jacket. Of course, these were little annoyances compared to what came next.

Being a mall, there were plenty of display cases around. And of course, as we all know, these are transparent, similar in structure to the mirror and window. As Maeve would have it, Freddy just so happened to be near a display case, rather large in size, at the very moment he was discovering his new look. And it just so happened, a rather random moment, that he turned his head in that direction.

He didn't scream when he saw it, though, Lucifer knows he was desperate to. No, he kept what remaining dignity (minimal in amount) he had as he stared on in horror, oblivious to the weird looks the passer-by were giving him most generously. "I look like David Lee Roth." Now, what caused Freddy to compare himself with the lead singer of Van Halen was the…thing he called his hair. In the seventies, he dubbed the afros the mullets of that very decade. And now, he had a bleached blonde mullet flowing down his shoulders, somewhat resembling David's.

Freddy would have stayed in that spot, enraptured by the horror nesting upon his once hairless head, if not for the blaring music coming from the interior of the store he was standing in front of. TVs were present in the display case, and from which was the source of the atrocious excuse of music. Freddy took one glance at the TV, and immediately felt ill; what was on at the moment was the video for Twisted Sister's "We're Not Gonna Take It". Upon seeing Dee Snider in full, drag queen gear, Freddy felt dizzy with déjà vu of the "Time Warp". Goddamn Transvestites…

He immediately walked away, desperate to get away from the hair bands that continued to haunt him to this very day. One would think that Freddy, being the perverse, serial killer that he was, would be fond of some sort of heavy metal, Metallica per say. Ironically enough, the dream stalker preferred Frank Sinatra, the works of Mozart, and even, Barbra Streisand. Of course, no one would EVER know this, for he kept his musical tastes well hidden.

To get back to heavy metal, it was the least favorite musical genre of Freddy, coming in a close second was hip-hop/rap, but that's beside the point. Part of which made the 80s a living hell for him were the bands in make-up that seemed to infest many of the dreams in which he took residence. This was what motivated Freddy to ponder about the year of which he was in. For, you see, the worst of the hair metal arrived very late in the decade of excess, and was the very favorite of all the 'bimbo' chicks he killed. He was hoping, a rather rusted practice of his, that it was not too late into the 80s, for the sake of the ruminants of his sanity.

He contemplated this as he walked along, keeping to himself, when a rather odd store caught his eye. It appeared to be some sort of Halloween shop, what with all the cheesy witch costumes and the like peering out from the interior of the place. Most likely this is the only decent store in the whole fucking place. He thought as he entered. Out of sheer boredom (and because the music in that particular store was half-way tolerable) he began shifting through the various costumes.

As he scoffed and scorned at the pathetic excuses of Grim Reaper guise, the song on the radio faded into another. This may seem trivial, for the beginning of the song was undistinguished and rather unknown, simply another song. But those avid 80s fans would know, simply from the light guitar intro, the song that had sparked was none other than…

" Jenny, Jenny who can I turn to?"

Fuck. If there was one song that held all even more annoyance than all hair bands combined, it was the horrible melody of "867-5309/Jenny" that plagued the air waves of the early 80s'. The only good news it brought with the EVER annoying and repetitive lyrics was that it was the early 80s; therefore, the horrible hair band aforementioned couldn't have existed. What Freddy didn't know about that particular radio station was that it played hits from ALL of the decade, and his current position wasn't exactly in 1982. Despite his ignorance, Freddy assumed he would be able to manage through that one song.

"867-5309! 867-5309! I GOT IT (I GOT IT) I GOT IT!"

Freddy, of course, was ALWAYS among the musically inclined, wasn't he? Well, he knew how to solve this little problem…


But while he had been pondering over the decade in general and its music, a crowd had quickly begun to filter into the store, blocking any hope for escape. Now, had they not been singing and dancing along with the horrendous sound that was the one-hit wonder, there would have been room for him to leave. And so, with his hands (reduced to normalcy yet again) over his ears, Freddy desperately tried to block out the horrible noise.

"867-5309! 867-5309!"

Obviously, this attempt wasn't much of a match for the volume of the song, as an employee cranked it up upon seeing the customers it was drawing in. "Stupid fucking telephone numbers." He grumbled, annoyed with his state of entrapment. Although Freddy wouldn't admit it to anyone, he had (while extremely bored) dialed that very number. Ironically enough, that number in his little area of the woods was for some female violence support group. When he had asked for Jenny…let's just refer back to his 60s' experience.


Much to the relief of Freddy, the song finally came to a close. But the crowd refused to leave the store, leaving him with no way out. Cursing in hurried breaths, he reluctantly went back to his critique of the various costumes. But the temporary reprieve wasn't for long, for as soon as the miscellaneous radio babble had ended, another song, one even MORE frustrating than the previous, came on.


Merciful fucking Satan. He had thought his situation couldn't have possibly sunk to depths lower than "Jenny"; oh, but how it had. It was, quite possibly, the worst excuse of a pop song to have EVER come into existence. Its beats were MUCH more irritating than said "Jenny"; the vocals were FAR more obnoxious than "Girls Just Wanna Have Fun". It was the goddamned cheerleader song that had plagued the nightmare king since its birth in the early 80s; which did, to some extent, provide him with some reassurance that it was the early 80s.


Freddy, being far too concerned with his thoughts, did not take notice of the figure behind him. And so he screamed when he was pulled into the crowd of dancers, though the song was at a volume much too loud for anyone to hear his pleas. Thrust among them (his term for the weirdoes dancing and clapping along with the songs) he had no choice but to dance; a rather pitiful option.


The dance was compiled of the most common of stereotypical cheerleading moves; with the conventional "pom pom" motions leading the way. Of course, Freddy was doing these as well, for he had long since lost control of his free will. This very reason explained why he was in cheerleading memorabilia. His dance steps were…clumsy, to say the least. Which is why it was inevitable that he would look down and discover… "Holy shit." He was wearing a mini-skirt of flamboyant "magenta" (let's face it: dark pink) and "light violet" (otherwise known as: magenta). His top, which exposed more skin than Freddy had ever seen, even on those sluts which plagued his dream world. And of course, what cheerleading costume would be complete without the girlishly pink pom poms?


So, utterly humiliated in his little 'get-up', Freddy was forced by some higher deity (his computer) to shake his ass (among other things) like some common bimbo. And, despite his clumsy footwork and motions, he was actually quite good at it. And for those concerned for the mullet- don't worry. It was still neatly perched a top his head, and no damage was done.

As soon as the last of the chants of "Mickey" had died and had settled nicely into a coffin, Freddy was finally capable of his own movements. He ran as if he was the one being hunted by some demonic figure in his sleep. Panting as he was in human form, meaning that he had to breathe, he collapsed pitifully next to some bitch on a bench.

She tilted her head as soon as she was alerted to his presence. "Hi!" She eagerly greeted, in a nasally voice that made the squeal of an Orlando Bloom fangirl sound deep and rich in its timbre. Holy shit, he thought, slowly inching away as he noticed the girl was garbed in a Care Bears shirt. His face showed no signs of emotion, though inside he was praying for the return of his bladed glove.

"Hello?" She stuck her face in his, as she was expecting a reply. "Like, I was saying, you'd be perfect for this contest." She looked as if she were about to leave as she hastily got up. Thank God. Freddy only thought to soon.

"Come on!" She tugged at his hands, trying to move him from his perch. Strangely, despite her rather petite appearance, her grip was rather strong. He was up on his feet in less than five minutes. Great.He grumbled. Where am I off to next?