~*Author's Note*~

The End Has Come! After a year I have finally completed my masterpiece and I am proud of what I have accomplished. So much has transpired in my life since I first began composing this story and I have grown with the plotline. I wanted to finished before my 24th birthday this week and before I depart for the Bahamas (where I don't think Michael can find me) so consider this my Valentine/Birthday gift to all of the people who have supported my work thus far! I want to thank those who favorite my work, who kept alerts and who sent in feedback and questions and kept prodding me to keep at it until I produced this rather interesting ending. But is it an ending? What will happen? Oh, the suspense!

"Fucking hell man! You didn't hit it!"

"Nah, I didn't but you know how I like them butch-bitches. They just need a good size cock to set 'em straight."

The two morons nearly choked on the unintended pun as they cranked up the volume on their radio. They had driven pass the Haddonfield border and had entered the next rural county over. For miles there were fields and farms along long stretches of road. The coroner's office had planned for Michael's remains, once Sheriff Brackett brought him down, to be transported to Chicago for forensic and other testing. Chances were that once the laboratories finished with him parts like his brain would be preserved for posterity. The rest would be dumped or taken as prizes for freak shows and eccentric millionaires. But first the body had to arrive safely and timely and the task had been left to Cordy Ricks and Brian Cross.

Neither had graduated, both lived proudly in close proximity to thriving and combustion-prone meth labs. Their teeth were atrocious, they were filthy, unkempt and ill-mannered. But somehow both had found the connections necessary to land these jobs and spent their money on loose women, drugs and cheap booze instead of soap, water and deodorant. This was undoubtedly the most important duty the two had been assigned yet they were extremely high and their blood alcohol levels was ridiculous.

"Shit, I would have loved to get my hands on that sweet little bitch with the blond hair. Y'know, Laurie Strode—"

"You mean the freak's kid sister? Yeah she looks like a squealer but she's probably crazy as hell since she's related to that dead fucker." Brian said as he tossed another empty bottle behind the seat, not caring that it hit a corpse. Even though he was supposed to be driving he cradle an unopened bottle of Jack Daniels between his legs and twisted the cap while maintaining a hand on the wheel. His watery eyes darted back and forth between the road and his liquid sustenance, his clammy hands slipping on the cap.

"Damn it, man! Let me open it before you get us killed." Cordy shouted, grabbed the bottle and handed it back after he removed the cap and tossed it nonchalantly out of the window.

"Thanks man," the rim hit his lips and after a long rough swig that coated and burned its way down, "now you might like that little slut but I want the other one."

Cordy raised one brow and took another hit of his joint and coughed against the potency.

"Oh yeah, Angie, the one Myers took and raped."

"The very one, I mean she's had that crazy fucker all inside her and looked like she enjoyed it."

Brian felt the familiar and welcome ache in his loins but he would satisfy that particular urge as soon as they dropped off the cadaver. The Flea Box would have women from wall to wall in smoky rooms and up at the bar. He licked his lips and made a mental note to find a nice brunette to relieve his woes. The only downside to this position was the fact that it took precious time from their 'extracurricular activities'. Because the Haddonfield coroner's office still did not administer drug tests he could still indulge during the day, but in a town where almost sixty percent of the population was over fifty-five and had three nursing homes, their nights were seldom their own. Even if no one died they were expected to report for duty. Michael Myers had given them more trouble than they preferred and they didn't receive over time. No one was more excited to see that murderous rampage end than they and both intended to make up for lost time.

"If I could get a handle on Myers' girl I'd be in Heaven," Cordy muttered as he tapped the joint's edge on the glass of the window and the ash flew away. "I mean now she's primed to have a big man. She may get lonely now that her psycho is gone."

"Not like he could stop either of us, I mean pretty soon these eggheads are gonna slice him up worse than he did Robertson."

The two chuckled together but the idea was beyond appealing, and could serve as the perfect solution to avenging their lost time. Michael had stood in their way and without his presence Angie truly was fair game. Brian grumbled about changing the subject should the two find themselves in an uncomfortable position. The pressure against his filthy trousers was building and Cordy was the last person he wanted to know, yet his comrade was simply too inebriated to care and continued to muse about what Angie hid beneath her clothes. Brian took another swallow of the amber liquid and clenched his teeth as the conversation shifted to a darker place.

"Look at it this way; you know how black people always wanted compensation for shit that happened hundreds of years ago?" Cordy began as he looked out at the trees as they rushed by.

Brian grunted and the stoned philosopher started explaining how reparations for slavery were identical to their duel raping of an innocent teenage girl. The town had suffered and they had missed out on raves and pre-game parties because of Michael's heinous crimes. They believed in their alcohol and drug-addled minds that they deserved something for their trouble. The thought of going back to that cemetery in the middle of the night in order to make terms even was appealing and never did her pain and trauma play into their fantasy.

"Hell we'd have to make those masks and do it to her so she'll scream for us like she probably did for him."

"She'll probably have one stretched out cunt by the time we're finished with her. But she'd probably tell the whole fucking town." Brian cautioned.

"Not if we're wearing the masks. No one would believe her anyway. Who would? I mean what's she gonna say? 'Two Michael Myers were fucking me hard, sucking on my tits and smacking me on the ass?' Nah, they'll just put her away and we'll get off scot free."

The two erupted into hoarse laughter and decided to seal the deal with an impromptu toast. Cordy pulled a bottle of malt liquor from a brown bag and quickly opened it.

"Oh, first I gotta pour some out for my dead hommies." Cordy said with a fake urban accent and turned to look over his shoulder and poured some of the contents on the body bag.

They chuckled again before tapping their bottles together and gulping down as if they were drinking water. Cordy gave up the rim first and croaked for Brian to keep an eye out for the road.

"Shit, man, I got this calm down," Brian grumbled as he licked his lips.

"Well then watch how you're driving limp dick!" Cordy bellowed back.





Brian blinked for a second and tried to register the insult but Cordy's eyes were as large as saucers staring straight ahead, and when the former followed the latter's line of sight the headlights shone upon a white and black object standing directly in their path. Instinctively he slammed on the breaks but he had been traveling well over the fifty-five mile limit. Cordy braced himself against the dashboard and pressed his feet into the floor as if willing the vehicle to stop.

"Fuck we're gonna hit—"

Cordy bit down on his tongue, severing the tip at the same time his wrist bones cracked against the impact. The dashboard was pressed into them, the grill crushed into the cow and killed it instantly and the van's horn sounded long after the great beast ceased twitching. The entire front of the van was smashed inward, the hood crumpled and yet a headlight still worked on one side. The steering wheel had deployed an air bag but did little to stop the impact of Brian's face bouncing and breaking into a bloody pulp. The blare of the horn droned on while Cordy tried to lift himself but found his situation uncompromising and dire. Despite the blood in his mouth and the crimson stream that coursed down one side of his head, he could see the damage done to the van.

The pain was near blinding and when he tried to maneuver his hands and legs he cried out at the resounding hot agony that seemed to paralyze him.

"Brian? Brian, man is you okay?" Cordy shouted with his body pinned at an awkward angel.

"Come on man, answer me! You okay?"

Again all he could hear was the horn and his own wheezing. His nose was broken and he choked on the blood in his mouth but couldn't find the strength to move against the pain in his limbs. He tried to access the situation and find a solution to getting help. Basically he was on a lonely road miles from the next house, gas or police station; suffering from broken and fractured bones, lacerations and a possible concussion. Physically incapable of ejecting himself from the passenger seat, Cordy began to absorb the possibility that his companion was dead. And worse of all the crash had completely killed his buzz. To move his mangled hands in search for a cellular phone was useless and the chances of service or even functioning were slim to none. A cold numbness was beginning to wrap around him and he vaguely remembered the pretty blonde in First Aid training talking about shock. Cordy had joked later to Brian that he'd like to put her body into shock. Now he wished he'd paid more attention to what her instructions were otherwise he was stuck there until someone happened upon them. Then he would need to call for a second coroner to retrieve two corpses, three if he didn't stop his bleeding. The horn was deafening and he could feel himself beginning to lose consciousness. He had wished the drugs and alcohol would have helped staved off some of the pain, but that was not the case.

"M-Maybe someone heard the crash," he pondered aloud as chills began to envelop him. "Someone will come."

Cordy muttered that mantra to himself as he blacked out and awakened periodically over the next two hours. Each time he was nauseated and in desperate need to relieve himself. The horn had finally died and the headlight was blinking but there was no telling what time it was. Any hope lay in someone from the coroner's office in Chicago having called the one in Haddonfield, informing the latter that the van carrying Michael Myers hadn't arrived on schedule. In that instance someone would make inquiries and begin searching the route that Brian and Cordy were traveling. The only drawback was that the authorities would learn of their drunken debaucheries while on duty, thus forcing Cordy to lose his job. He would lose everything and be incapable of working for months. He could be charged for a bevy of offenses that would easily lead to ten years in jail for careless behavior. Not only that his best friend was going through rigor mortis at his side and the grief was almost more consuming than his pain.

"Fuck, fuck, fuck, fuck!" he shouted against the remnants of the dashboard.

"What in the holy fuck am I supposed to do now? Man am I in the shit, nothing could be worse than this,"

Hot fresh tears trailed down his bloody face and he considered if he could possibly hemorrhage to death before the awful events in his mind were able to play out. Cordy lowered his head and tried to remember the prayers his grandmother had taught him as a child but they came out jumbled and with a frustrated sigh he gave up.

"It's coming for me Brian, I can just feel it coming man."

At that moment he felt the van shake and he opened his one good eye with the flickering hope that perhaps Brian wasn't dead. However his head remained crushed into the steering wheel and deflating air bag. Then for a brief second he thought perhaps it was help finally arriving or the cow was still crazily twitching. But deadly silence permeated and he concluded he was mistaken. Only the van went from a slight shudder to shaking and rocking until Cordy feared an earthquake had hit the center of Illinois. He could hear the sound of metal whining and equipment in the back being thrashed around, the jostling was painful to endure and as quickly as it began it ended.

"What the fuck was that?"

Cordy swallowed as bile rose up in his throat and a cold shutter spiraled down his back. If someone was trying to rob that van he would have more trouble to account for but the incessant shaking didn't feel like it was coming from outside or in a particular corner. Cordy felt sweat prickling across the bridge of his nose and his upper lip, a sign of his anxiety heightening as the unthinkable and impossible blossomed in his mind.

"Shit, no!" he whispered and heard the distinct thud of heavy footsteps on the asphalt of the road.

"No, no he's dead, he's fucking dead!"

The steps drew closer and his mind raced to find a way to escape; he'd rather tangle with the police than what he feared was coming. The thumping of his heartbeat echoed in his ears in perfect time with each footfall and tremors engulfed his broke body. After a tortuous gaze at his deceased friend came the realization that he was crying but hadn't the ability to wipe them away. And then the footsteps stopped.

"Do it, you fucking bastard, just fucking do it!"

He couldn't look to the crushed window and there was no need. Cordy could hear the thick breathing and now he knew what all those previous victims had felt in the moments before he acted.

"Do it or I'll fuck your pretty bitch! What's her name? Ang—"

Cordy didn't get to finish his mocking his retort dissolved into deep gurgling as the door was wrenched away and the knife torn jaggedly through soft flesh, tissue and muscles. His vocal cords snapped and his head lolled as he struggled to breathe and swallow. The blade was cold but it was swamped in warmth soon enough when it was finally withdrawn. Only a few threads of bone and skin kept the head on the shoulders and blood gushed in a black cascade down the dashboard and all over the corpse and seat.

Onyx eyes looked on and then turned away as he slipped the knife into the side pocket of the soiled uniform. The autumn air was cool against his exposed face and yet he didn't feel vulnerable, just awkward to not have his mask. But he would reclaim her. The deputy who foolishly placed the evidence bag with his knife in the van had done him a favor. As Michael walked rigidly around the front of the crumpled vehicle and the mutilated cow carcass he remembered how he had come to be there. His intention was to die, pure and simple. The bullets should have killed him and he still felt the burning sting from where each piece of hot metal had pierced, seared and torn through him. But he had healed or at least began to while lying in a dormant state for most of the ride until the van hit the unfortunate bovine and the impact awakened him. Now he stood virtually in the middle of nowhere and the bastard that had threatened his precious Angelina was dead.


The thought of her made him feel alert and hungry in a primal way. It was her face and voice that filled his head and caused a warm feeling to spread through his limbs and surge into his bullet-riddled chest. She had cried to him to not abandon her, to remain with him even when guns were pointed in their direction. She had cared when no one else, not even Loomis, in those last moments before the darkness swallowed him and he had regretted their parting. Now the residents of Haddonfield would have her and would probably be unsympathetic to her needs and would treat her as an outcast because she had survived him, because she had loved him. The best of them would become a pariah and that made his blood run cold.

Michael turned in the direction of his hometown and took in several deep breaths. He needed to clear his head and place his own death aside. He began walking past the van not caring if his carnage was found and walked with no sense of how far the distance was or for time. He only stopped when he saw a green sign that read in white bold letters:

"Now Entering Haddonfield: A Tranquil Community"

For the first time in years without the mask his eyes blackened and a small smile curled his mouth. Despite the dry ache in his throat he murmured hoarsely.


The End.

The End! The End? Oh, I just don't want to let this go! Be cool and be patient because I think a sequel is definitely in order! Tell me what you think should happen, what elements from the movies should I borrow from? What do you think should become of Haddonfield's most infamous couple. I'm waiting to hear from you and remember I am a career woman now so I will try my very best to deliver quality work to the best of my ability. Until next time…xoxox Petite!