HAPPY HALLOWEEN, Weenies! I hope everyone is having fun, candy and the urge to dress in silly costumes, as, this is one of the few times a year that adults are allowed to have FUN.
This year, I repost a story I wrote.
I originally posted this puppy in 2009 on Halloween from my old DeviantArt space.
I really enjoyed writing this, and it still, to this day, the most faved/commented piece in my DeviantArt acount.
WARNING: if you value your childhood memories of Scooby and the gang, ya MAY wanna skip this one.
What happens when man’s best friend contracts rabies?
If it were any ordinary
dog, that would be horrific enough, but, when that dog is quick, sly, resourceful, and as intelligent as a human, then the threat becomes so much more potent.
No one outside the group ever found out how Scooby contracted the mind-warping, insanity inducing malady, but his psychosis hit quickly and deeply.
He went berserk in the back of the Mystery Machine on the way home from Mystery Inc’s latest case: “The Wild Werewalrus of Wendigo Gulch”.
The outdated blue and green flowered van rattled and swerved across the all-but-deserted road. They crashed into the gatepost of the old silver mine outside of Coolsville. The front end of the poor, put-upon van was totalled.
Everyone made it out of the crash more or less unharmed, saved for minor cuts, bumps and scratches, but that bit of good fortune was short lived. The relief died when they’d all gotten a good look at Scooby Doo.
His eyes were bloodshot red and seem to bulge slightly from their sockets.
His breathing was heavy and labored.
He snarled and a sickening yellow foam frothed around his lips. He seemed to almost vibrate with a palpable derangement… and he stared at his dear friends with a look in said bloodshot eyes that just screamed “destroy”.
Shaggy never believed that his old buddy would ever hurt anyone, and the poor hairy beatnik had to be dragged away from his sick, afflicted dog, upset and screaming, even though his oldest friend had just recently tried to bite his arm off.
The four terrified post-teenagers frantically ejected themselves from the delapidated wreck of a van and all ran for their very lives. They didn’t even bother to close the doors behind them. Fred, of course, thought the best idea was to split up, but a quick slap across the face from Velma FINALLY drove home the notion that splitting up in a dangerous situation was an asinine idea. The anachronistic teens ran up the small hill leading across the dusty drive-yard and into the darkened, hollowed out silver mine for cover.
The gang crept and sprinted back and forth through the hollowed out halls of the old mine trying to avoid the deranged Great Dane for what seemed like hours.
Poor Daphne Blake got it first.
“Danger-prone Daphne” tripped over an obscured bit of track and fell into a mine cart. On her way into the bucket, she reached out for leverage. Luckily, she’d grabbed the throw-switch that activated what was left of the lighting system that the miners had installed far too many years ago. As the rusty wheeled cart began rolling, the ancient flourescent lights buzzed to half-hearted life. Only about a fifth of them actually still worked at all, let alone properly. Most of them issued a pathetic, dim, purplish glow that fluctuated and looked as though there were tiny people within, made of grey shadow, passing each other on a busy, crowded sidewalk. The cart darted down an incline with a surprising speed that defied its age, and after a few twists and turns into the shadows of the mine, crashed into a dead end wall, throwing the perky redhead from the bucket. She’d ricocheted of the wall and crashed to the craggy floor in a bleeding heap. She’d fractured her left forearm, and apparently broken her ankle.
Daphne was now the weak, injured lamb in the herd, and the predator was closing in, fast!
The rest of the gang gave chase into the barely receding darkness. Deeper into the tunnel, there was a bloodcurdling scream, and the gang arrived at the dark bottom of the incline just in time to see Daphne have her slender throat gnawed from its moorings and devoured by the perpetually hungry monster that had once been everyone’s favorite dog detective.
Scooby Doo licked most of the crimson evidence from his vile chops and let out that snickery laugh of his that now echoed through the mine and sounded almost demonic as it reverberated from the dirty walls.
The mad dog swabbed the rest of the ichor from his face with his grotesquely large paws and a leer toward the others, then started up the steep incline in order to visit horrors upon the rest of his former friends. This time, it was Fred who had to be dragged away, crying for his now-dead girlfriend, as the hellish hound drew ever closer.
“Rred?!! Relma?! Rum out wherrrever you arrrre“, Scooby called out into the barren, whistling caverns. He perked up his pointy ears and listened for the sounds of quick, fearful breathing or morbid sobbing… anything that would lead him to his next meal, but he heard nothing. His madness and annoyance would have been visible to anyone suicidal enough to be near him in the anemic light of the hellish caves, via a series terrible facial tics and viscous drool that looked almost like pancake batter.
“Shaaaaaggy? Rrere arrre you? rI’m hungrrrry
Still no giveaway noises, but his sense of smell perked up at very familiar scents. Terror, the sweat of natural flight instinct on teenage brows and… Scooby Snacks
Shaggy, Velma and Fred had been running the dimly lit mine for what seemed like hours.
“Daphne!”, Fred sobbed, “Oh Daphne! My god! What the HELL?!! Why her??”
“Calm yourself, Fred. This is no time to go to pieces.” Velma said, matter-of-factly.
“Goddammit, Velma”, Fred shot back, “This is exactly the freakin’ time to go to pieces! Daphne’s dead! DEAD!! We’re next! I’m too good looking to die! This is all Shaggy’s fault!”
“ME?!!”, Shaggy sputtered, standing up to confront Fred, “Like, how the hell is this MY fault, man?!! Scooby’s off his rocker, I had nothin’ to do with that!”
“It’s all that food you feed him! Dogs aren’t supposed to eat chocolate! Much less, tuna sandwiches, ice cream, cherry pie or frickin’ triple bacon cheeseburgers, you beatnik idiot!! Something’s broken in that mutt, and he killed my Daphne! If you’d have gotten off your lazy, scrawny ass and taken him to the vet or something, we wouldn’t be in this mess and Daphne would still be alive!”
“Don’t you yell at him!”, Velma barked at Fred and punctuated it with the second slap across his hysterical face that he would receive this night from her dainty, freckled hands.
“It is NOT Shaggy’s fault!! If you hadn’t sent Scooby out as bait for the so-called ‘Werewalrus of Wendigo Gulch’ earlier this evening, he wouldn’t have been bitten by that raccoon! It’s YOUR fault, you egomaniacal prettyboy douchebag!! And don’t pretend you cared so much about Daphne! You only wanted to be seen with her so all those dicks on the Mystery Inc Internet Forums would stop accusing you of being a homosexual! Sure, we know you’re NOT, because God KNOWS you kept trying to get beneath MY pleated skirt often enough when Daphne wasn’t around, but you won’t let yourself be seen in PUBLIC with the “Nerd Girl”, Oh goodness, NO…”
Fred, red-faced and angry as he’d ever been reached into his pocket and pulled out a handful of Scooby Snacks.
“Hey, Shaggy”, he said with a snarky smirk and eyes gleaming with tears and a not inconsiderable amount of fear-induced mania, “I’ll give you FOUR
whole Scooby Snacks if you FINALLY find a way to shut this nerdy, know-it-all, four eyed little loudmouthed midget up for GOOD
Freddy Jones’s left hand and the Scooby Snacks it held were gone. In their place was a geyser of bright red blood and splintered bone, as Scooby devoured his favorite snack and part of Fred with it. Fred didn’t even register his injury, it took place so quickly. He was staring at the sudden appearance of the large brown demon with the foaming mouth with fear clouding his synapses when his brain finally registered the stinging sensation in his left forearm and the horrified screams of the beatnik and the nerd-ette he was insulting just seconds ago. He examined the weird, now shooting pain in his left arm. There he stood, staring at the sanguine stump in shock, actually wondering what happened to, not his missing appendage, but the Scooby Snacks he was just holding and using to snark at Velma with.
But, his next breath was a shriek so shrill and high-pitched, that one would indeed call his sexuality into question. The screaming was soul-crushing as Scooby took another bite, this time, gobbling down the rest of Fred’s forearm. The insane hellhound was eating the beefy blond boy alive, one tremendous, gluttonous bite at a time.
By the time Scooby’d gotten to his shoulder and collarbone, poor Freddy had already died from the shock and pain, his blood a torrential river issuing from his ruined torso and coating Scooby Doo’s busy muzzle and neck.
Velma and Shaggy ran and ran. They figured they’d gotten at least 85 yards or so away when there came an unholy wet belch from the bowels of the cavern they’d just left, followed by a short but potent coughing fit.
Their terror had been so great, that they weren’t even paying attention to their travels into the mine. They were now lost. Feeling along the jagged walls in the spots where the faded florescent lanterns had completely lost power, Velma and Shaggy had reached a dead end. They decided to rest, hoping that said dead end wouldn’t become a literal one. In the distance, they heard Scooby loping across the dirty pebbles in the mineshaft floor, searching for his next meal. Searching for THEM.
“Man, oh MAN! Why is this happening? WHY is this HAPPENING?!!”, Shaggy blubbered in a harsh, quiet whisper.
“The better question is, how are we to survive this ordeal?”, Velma interjected. “I hate to quote Fred, particularly after slapping him for his foolhardy idea, but perhaps splitting up may actually be a viable alternative at this juncture.”
“Are you kiddin’, Velma? You want ME to go creepin’ around this underground Fear Factory (*gulp*) ALONE?”
“Shaggy, if we split, we’ll double our chances of reaching the surface and contacting help. Even Scooby can’t be in two places at once. You’re the quickest, and, not to be narcissistic, but I’m the smartest. One of us is bound to reach the Mystery Machine. There is a magnesium signal flare in the glove compartment that I appropriated while we were battling the Werewalrus. Whoever reaches it can use it to call for help and surely get back in time to save the other. Makes sense, yes?”
“Well”, said Shaggy, stroking the scruffy goatee at the bottom of his rounded jaw, “I guess, but like, first, we gotta navigate outta HERE. It’s so dark, all I can see are your…. four… eyes?”
“Shaggy!!”, Velma whispered irately, “SHAME on you, making a joke about my glasses at a time like this!”
“I’m not joking, Velma… oh no. Like, Oh God, no!”
Velma Dinkley turned her head so fast, she almost lost her glasses.
” was all she said before seeing the all-but-glowing bloodshot red eyes of Scooby Doo narrow and lunge at her.
Shaggy caromed off the walls of the mine and tripped three times, skinning his knobby knees and getting jagged little pebbles ground into the palms of his hands while trying to escape.
The horror!, Oh sweet Joseph Barbera, the HORRIBLE, HORRIBLE sounds that came from that pitch dark cave behind him. Velma squealed like a bespectacled piglet being fed into a wood chipper as Scooby tore out her stomach and noshed on her sticky, flailing intestines with his big, foaming, oddly blocky and squarish teeth. The black claws at the ends of his fat, heavy, clover-shaped paws raked across the poor bookworm’s face, breasts and legs. He didn’t just rip into her, he practically danced on her prone, squirming form as her blood and organs scattered from her ruined body, and her screams came echoing from her wet, dying throat.
Shaggy ran and ran until his legs burned like molten lead and his kneecaps felt as though they’d fly off like the wheels of racecars into the grandstand.
He was a track star from way back, and had spent the better part of his whole life running from ghouls and ghosties, and long-legged beasties and things that go bump in the night. Now, he was running from his very best friend, who meant not only to kill him, but make a meal of him. There was a sick poetry in that, but Shaggy had no time to appreciate it. There was a light ahead. A real light. A NATURAL light! He and his friends had been lost in that silver mine for the entire night. The sun was coming up. A bright sunny early fall sun that, ordinarily would bring anyone else hope, but in a rare moment of insight, Shaggy knew that the very sun’s light would probably make the signal flare he was aiming for futile. He ran faster.
The dog was hot on his heels, despite the smorgasbord of flesh, blood and bone he’d consumed tonight. A few things Shaggy shared with his once beloved dog were an almost supernatural metabolism, an all but bottomless appetite, and an adrenal gland that wouldn’t quit. It was now a flat-out footrace to either salvation or damnation, and worse yet, Scooby had not only the advantage of FOUR feet to Shaggy’s two, but the accursed dog had had himself a mouthful of Scooby Snacks (and Freddy Fingers) earlier.
Shaggy’s sweat fell like flood waters, drenching his back and armpits, his hair swirled in the wind he was kicking up, but he could not, WOULD NOT quit. His feet were aching, and possibly even bleeding as he felt a warm, horrid squishing between his toes with every footfall. He was almost there. Almost OUT! He could see the dawn sun peeking over the horizon just outside the mouth of the cave which he approached with a speed almost cartoonishly superhuman.
SCOOOBY DOOOBY DOOOOOOOOOOOOOO!!! came the horrendous cry from just over his shoulder. Jackrabbit fear an bile welled up in his throat! Norville “Shaggy” Rogers ran faster than he’d ever had in his life that early morning, rocketing from the mine like the Hounds of Hell were nipping at his heels, which wasn’t far from the truth!
Sixteen steps into sunlight, Scooby Doo chomped down on his old pal’s left calf, which sent the both of them tumbling, turning and rolling down the somewhat steep incline of the driveway in the dust and rocks on the outskirts of the mine. Scooby hit his head on the stainless steel bumper, just behind the painted hubcap of the Mystery Machine’s driver’s side back wheel. Shaggy came to rest on the runner by the passenger’s front wheel. Getting his bearings, he remembered what Velma told him before she was disemboweled and quickly scrambled upward and into the left-open passenger door. Blood trickled down his face like punch sloshing over the rim of a hairy punchbowl. He reached the glove box, wrenched it open, grabbed the rusty flare gun, and threw himself backward out of the van, onto his back in the dust and aimed the gun at the sky.
Scooby stalked around the back of the ugly old van with a limp, snarled and barked out gobs of yellow slime in hearty coughs. Spotting his old friend, he ran and leapt at Shaggy in a macabre parody of every relieved reunion they’d ever had after a night of ghost-hunting, his dripping, drooling maw now wide open and ready to clamp down in the scrawny jugular of his only remaining friend. At the last possible second Shaggy spotted the malicious mutt. Pivoting and pulling his knees to his birdlike chest, he caught Scooby with the flats of his bleeding feet in the crest of his short flight of doom, and used his spindly but powerful legs and the demon dog’s own momentum to launch him forward like a shot, far past the Mystery Machine’s door, face-first into a fence post. There was a heavy, dull ‘THUNK’. The dog was dazed, but still on his feet. He glared back at Shaggy, his eyes a haze of hate, insanity and a hunger apocalyptic. Scooby Doo, the lovable mystery solving clown of a hound was gone. All that was left was madness and murderous appetite.
Shaggy was exhausted. He could barely will his arms to once again raise the gun to the heavens.
Scooby slowly began to lope back toward the beaten beatnik with a dazed weave in his steps. His oversized paws thumped heavily on the dusty terra firma as he increased speed. Shaggy knew he wouldn’t be able to defend himself this time. Still on his back, he saw his former pet charging at him, upside-down to his visual perspective, which made the creature even more unnerving, like some manner of reddish-brown, spotted giant spider, practically vomiting frothy yellow venom from its fangs. With his last iota of strength and will, Shaggy rolled over, off his back, got to his shaky knees, leveled the flare gun at the crazed canine and squeezed the trigger.
There was a surprisingly subdued “PAF”, as the smoking projectile left the barrel and wound it’s way in a low flight pattern to the open, shrieking gob of the galloping Great Dane. The phosphorous explosion happened inside Scooby’s esophagus, and, for a split second, it was almost as if the light of Heaven and the flames of Hell co-existed simultaneously inside a lunatic talking dog.
The howls of pain and pseudo-human screaming of the dying dog bore into Shaggy’s poor traumatized brain like termites into floorboards. It seemed to just go on forever. Poor Scooby was not going to die easy. During his happier, more vibrant days of play, and even retreating from Mask-wearing miscreants, Scooby always seemed to almost be made out of rubber. He’d survive falls, intact, that would shatter human bones like glass. He could squeeze himself through the smallest of crawlspaces and, if Scooby Snacks were involved in the equation, he could pull off acrobatic stunts that would make even the most experienced Hollywood wire-walkers and martial artists green with envy. Many were the times Daphne or Velma would comment that Scooby was practically indestructible. What bitter irony.
Now, on fire, and burning from the inside out, it seemed that such a notion, for all it’s horror, may have been true. Shaggy jammed his dirty, bleeding palms into the sides of his bushy, sweating head, trying desperately to mash his ears into his skull and drown out the mind-melting cacophony. Still, it was almost as though he could hear his best friend’s howling lament in the pit of his very soul. Scooby squealed and burned and thrashed and screamed for almost a full minute before he finally stopped moving once and for all.
The charred, reeking husk of Scooby Doo’s incinerated corpse lay just beside the ruined grille of the crashed Mystery Machine. The legal owner of the mine was one Jeremiah Wickles. Ironically, he had actually been the first costumed criminal the gang had brought down in their high school days. The Black Knight Ghost. He’d been up in his office when the Mystery Machine crashed into the gates of his property. Seeing the van, he just figured the little twerps were here to harrass him again with the “we’re watching you, Wickles” routine, as they sometimes did when mysteries were few and far between. He’d seen them run onto his property. After twenty minutes or so, when the oddly dressed kids hadn’t burst into his office and accused him of anything, he began to get worried, and called the police. The cops arrived, led, also rather ironically, by Shaggy’s own father, Officer Samuel Chastain Rogers. The boys in blue had been searching the other side of the property, hoping/believing that no one would be dumb enough to go down into an abandoned silver mine in the middle of the night, and were on their way back when they heard the noises of Scooby’s attack on Shaggy.
They’d arrived just in time to see the deranged dog immolate.
Poor exhausted Shaggy spent the next three hours explaining the night’s soul-warping events to the Coolsville Police Department and another hour after that, retelling it to his parents and his younger sister, Maggie.
All cried out, he slunk to the kitchen, claiming he was going to fix himself one of his patented Super Shaggy Sandwiches to calm his nerves. After a few minutes of awkward hemming and hawing, Maggie and her husband, Wilfred, came to check on him.
Norville Rogers stood at the counter next to the stove, his shoulders trembling, softly sobbing to himself.
“Hey… hey, like, you okay, big brother?” Maggie asked, crossing the kitchen and braving the stench of terror-sweat and dried blood on dirt to give him a hug.
“Don’t sweat it, Mags”, Shaggy said, turning to face her, holding his mother’s best and sharpest meat cleaver, his dirty face animated by the shakes and a nervy twitch in his left eye and the corners of his mouth, “I’m just groovy!”
The poor girl had just enough time to see the cleaver at the apex of it’s arc before it was imbedded in her forehead.
Wilfred screamed like a little girl, noting that Shaggy’s eyes were a large and bloodshot with deep, darkened bags beneath them, and somewhat bulging. A thick yellowish froth oozed from the corners of his deranged, grinning mouth.
The beatnik’s nebbish brother-in-law never did get to see the deep and gaping crescent moon shaped wound on Shaggy’s left calf where dear, departed Scooby had bitten, and INFECTED him hours earlier. And he never WOULD.
Story © 2009 by Johann-Octavius Xailenrath Gans
revisions = 2011, 2013
Characters created by Hanna-Barbera Animation