CATverse A/N: This story is part of the massive fanfiction project known as the CATverse. You can find the list of stories in chronological order at http: / w w w. freewebs. com/ catverse (remove the spaces!)
A/N: None of this is my fault. It's all Monty Python. All of it. EVERY WORD.
Incidentally, I will never be able to listen to the Lumberjack Song ever again.
Hick. Hillbilly. Redneck. White trash. Trailer trash.
To many people, these are some of the worst insults known to man. Sometimes for good reason, sometimes not. Contrary to popular belief, the entire population beneath the Mason Dixon line is not made up of uneducated drunken rednecks with shotguns and confederate flags; indeed, many people in the south are quite nice, quite smart and just as civilized as the rest of the world (which, considering the state of the human race, probably isn't saying much).
Glen-Troy Morrison however, wasn't one of them. In fact, he lived up to--and even surpassed--every single southern stereotype in recorded history, with the exception that he didn't like shotguns near as much as he liked axes.
Now, Glen-Troy lived a nice, quiet life, as far as redneck lives go. He ran a rundown no-tell-motel in the south which took up quite a bit of his free time, but left him with enough to pursue his favorite hobby.
In this, Glen-Troy was different from ordinary rednecks. He liked to hunt and fish as much as the next man, but his favorite pastime was by far the fine art of serial murder. Glen-Troy couldn't tell you where the compulsion to kill his motel tenants came from, I highly doubt even a licensed psychologist could do that, but he took as much pleasure from it as a regular Joe might take from a weekend in the Caribbean.
Glen-Troy's constant companion (and in his warped opinion, his only true friend), was an axe his daddy Louis had given him as a boy. When Louis had bestowed this treasure to his son, he most likely thought that Glen-Troy would be a good boy and go help with cutting cords of wood for the family.
Naturally, it came as quite a surprise to Louis when Glen-Troy buried his new present three inches deep in his daddy's skull. The old man had been surprised and Glen-Troy had been gleeful. He figured it was a win-win thing. Everyone likes a good surprise, after all!
Mama Dora-Lou hadn't agreed about this particular surprise being a nice one, because when Glen-Troy bounded back into the house, with his axe dangling from one hand, grinning maniacally as he left a trail of blood and brain matter behind him on her freshly scrubbed kitchen floor and shouted "Look what I did wif my new axe, Mama!", she stared first at her precious baby, then at the axe, and then past him out into the yard where his father lay slumped in a heap.
Then, the screaming started.
The neighbors heard and came 'round when they heard her hollering like a banshee, and everyone assumed Dora-Lou had finally lost it and murdered her no good cheating husband in a fit of insanity. Her incoherent screaming and babbling as she tried to scoop her husband's brain back into his skull certainly seemed to support the theory that she'd gone barking mad, though no one seemed to be angry at her for it.
"After all," Ellen Sanderson had said after the news broke, "Everyone knows he was runnin' around with that hussy from the post office. I know if my Earl ever did anythin' like that, I might get his shotgun down and do the same, can't really blame her for teachin' that man a lesson."
The Morrison family was a topic of gossip for weeks after Dora-Lou was carted away to the local insane asylum and Glen-Troy was sent to live with his aunt and uncle several miles down the road, but no one ever suspected that Glen-Troy, the little golden haired, poor unfortunate angel, was the perpetrator of the heinous crime that everyone was talking about.
How it was that Glen-Troy managed to keep the axe without anyone knowing, no one could tell you, but keep it he did, and when he was old enough to know how to read and write, he decided that his friend needed a proper name. A nice name. A good strong name.
It took him a long time to find just the right one, but when he did, he pestered his uncle Martin for weeks until he finally caved in and told him how to spell it.
He carved it into the handle proudly with the pocket knife his uncle had given him for his seventh birthday, and 'Spartacus Bob' was born.
Glen-Troy and Spartacus Bob were inseparable, and when Glen-Troy inherited his Aunt and Uncle's rundown motel (after their 'mysterious' disappearances, which strangely coincided with his eighteenth birthday), Spartacus Bob moved into the managerial apartment with his master.
Just like in a fairy tale, they lived happily ever after for about fifteen years, and by that point, Glen-Troy wasn't the little golden haired, poor unfortunate angel that most of his old neighbors remembered ('angel' wasn't exactly the term that sprang to mind when you thought of him.); oh, his hair was still just as blonde as ever, except now it was thinning and resembled filthy dishwater, and he had a nasty habit of murdering people who crossed his path that he didn't take an immediate shine to.
Of course, he killed the others too, but the ones he took a shine to got to live a little while longer…and they got special treatment from Spartacus Bob. Where his quick kills were less than skillful, if he wanted to make a very nice impression and keep Spartacus Bob happy and sharp, he'd scalp and stuff his victim of the evening, gathering a nice sized collection of 'dolls' (for that's what he called them), which lived in room 206.
Whenever Glen-Troy got lonesome and he wanted more company than Spartacus Bob (who was the strong silent type), he'd go talk to his dolls, telling them about his day and promising to bring them a new friend very soon.
Sometimes, he'd imagine their responses and giggle at them in that slightly unhinged tone he had, but mostly, he just talked to them.
He went on this way for many years, until, closing in on his fortieth birthday, on a fateful night in March, everything changed.
Strangers arrived at the motel…and Glen-Troy took a special liking to them.
Of course, that was before they axe-napped Spartacus Bob. He didn't like them very much after that.
All he was trying to do was lop off the little one's head. What was so terrible about that? It's not like he was going to make it hurt…
But she had to grab hold of Spartacus Bob's handle in mid swing and pry it from his hands. She'd caught him so off guard, that he just stood there for a split second, trying to force the rusty gears in his head into turning fast enough to grasp the fact that someone was facing him without a scream and a lot of over-dramatics--and was instead acting like a horror movie veteran.
The chase that resulted when he finally caught up with what was going on was quite impressive, but that was beside the point. At the end of the encounter, the little bitch had made off with Glen-Troy's bestest, bestest buddy in the whole wide world.
He actually saw red. In all his life, he'd never been parted from Spartacus Bob, and the sudden loss sent him over the precipice that he'd been wandering along the edge of for so many years.
Glen-Troy went from 'mildly psychotic serial killer with some control over his own actions' to 'furiously unmanageable madman with a grudge'.
The moment he'd recovered from his shock, he flew into a rage, climbed into his pick-up truck and swore to track down the axe napping bitch and kill her in the most painful way he could think of.
He made it all the way to Longboat Key without incident (that would teach the bitch to mention in passing where she was heading!), and then, by an unbelievable stroke of luck, he spotted the getaway car that they'd used to escape his clutches, and descended on them, intent on murdering them all for taking his beloved Spartacus Bob.
But then…oh, cruel fate! THEN one of them hit him with a car! Sandwiching him in between one flaming automobile and another, an event that he barely broke away from with his skin still intact.
He was badly burned, but he was still alive and kicking, and the incident made 'grudge' go to 'vendetta' so fast it made Glen-Troy's head spin.
If it was the last thing he ever did, he was going to slaughter those worthless thieving whores AND their friends!