The ice was the first thing to go into the cocktail glass. Next came the vodka, followed by the kahlua, leaving some extra room at the top for the half and half. Unfortunately, when The Dude opened the carton, a putrid smell came out, causing him to gag a little bit. He threw the half and half into the trash can and prepared to make the walk down to Ralph's to buy a new carton. But The Dude was a lazy man. Quite possibly the laziest in all of Los Angeles County. So, he decided to save himself the time and instead added a liberal amount of powdered non-diary creamer into the cocktail glass. After giving it a good stir, the White Russian was finally complete. It was The Dude's favorite drink.
He sipped the White Russian, stepped away from the mini-bar he had set up in his living room, and plopped down onto his comfortable brown recliner. He studied the large framed photograph he had up on his wall, that depicted Richard Nixon in the act of The Dude's favorite pastime: Bowling. He admired the former president's apparent grace and agility as he approached the line with the bowling ball in his hand. The Dude gave the White Russian a few more sips and contemplated the notion of drawing a hot bubble bath. It had been a long day for The Dude and he was ready to relax.
The phone rang suddenly, shifting the comedic tranquility that had been created inside the apartment. Ominous music slowly made it's way into the background.
The Dude sighed with disappointment and hesitated, thinking he could just let the machine take care of it for him. But he managed to work up the energy to roll off the recliner, and walk across the living room to answer the phone.
"Dude here," he said into the receiver.
"Hello," a raspy male voice replied on the other end, "Who is this?"
"Dude," replied The Dude, "Who is this?"
"Who would you like it to be?" the voice retorted.
The Dude was puzzled for a moment. The ominous music continued quietly, and The Dude wondered where the hell it was coming from.
"Well, I really don't know, man. Why don't you tell me?"
"Take a guess," the voice replied.
The Dude didn't recognize the voice as anyone he knew personally, but he decided to give it a shot.
"Uh, is that you, Walter?" asked The Dude, "It is, isn't it? What are you, drunk or something?"
"Are you alone in the house, Dude?" asked to raspy voice.
"Uh, yeah man It's just me," replied The Dude, "What's going on with you? Are we still going bowling tomorrow?"
The Dude took another sip of his White Russian and waited for a response.The voice on the other end didn't say anything for a moment.
"Hello?" said the Dude, "Are you still there?"
"You're going to die tonight, Dude."
The ominous background music reached a loud crescendo, beginning with the wavy strum of a violin and ending with a single deep bang of a bass percussion.
There was silence again from the end of the phone. The threat did not register with The Dude, who was still convinced he was talking to his friend. He walked back over to his mini-bar and gave his White Russian a top off.
"Walter, are you having one of your Vietnam flashbacks again? I'm really worried about you, man. You're fragile and you really sound like you're starting to crack."
"Maybe that's because I'm not Walter," was all the voice said.
Once again, The Dude was puzzled.
"Okay. So who are you?" he asked.
"The question isn't who am I," replied the voice, "The question is, where am I?"
"So, where are you?" asked The Dude
"Your front porch."
The same ominous crescendo was heard in the background once again.
"Okay, where the hell is that music coming from?" asked The Dude.
"Yeah, I hear it too," the voice finally said, "It happens whenever I make a phone call. Not sure why. I think it's suppose to add a sense of dread to the whole situation."
The Dude had had enough at that point. He was more irritated than frightened. He gave his White Russian another stir and took a long gulp, which gave his newly tightened throat a sense of relief.
"Look man," he said into the receiver, "I'm starting to get a little annoyed here. So I'm just going to go ahead and hang up now. This aggression will not stand. Have a nice night, okay?"
"If you hang up on me, I'll gut you like fish!!" said the voice.
"I'd like to see that," replied The Dude.
He quickly hung up the phone and stood in the middle of his living room for a moment. All had fallen silent.
There was a sudden loud knock at the door, followed by another one. Bam! Bam!
The door began to shake as each knock grew louder until they were no longer knocks, but bangs. It was clear that someone on the other side was trying to kick the door in. The Dude just stood and did nothing, his mouth agape with a confused look on his face.
The door suddenly flew open, as the background music became louder and more upbeat. Standing in the doorway was a person wearing an all black grim reaper gown and hood, with a white screaming ghost mask covering their face. The Ghostface Killer walked into The Dude's living room and pulled out a large hunting knife. The Dude was still too perplexed to move, and the confused look on his face had not yet dissipated.
"Heythis is a private residence, man," reasoned The Dude.
The Ghostface Killer suddenly ran at him with the knife in the air, tackling The Dude into the wall. They struggled for a moment, as Ghostface attempted to stab The Dude with the knife, while The Dude attempted to fight him off with one hand. His other hand was still holding the White Russian, and The Dude was very careful not to spill or drop his treasured drink.
"Careful man," said The Dude, to Ghostface, "Easy! There' s a beverage here!"
Ghostface managed to slide the blade halfway into The Dude's lower abdomen, before pulling it back out. The piercing pain shot through The Dude's body, and his gut reaction was to give Ghostface a good, hard knee into the crotch. It was out of character for The Dude to hurt anyone, physically. The Dude was a lifetime pacifist, and had never even so much as thrown a punch at someone. But this was the first time anyone had stabbed The Dude, so he felt justified in defending himself. It worked well, and Ghostface fell to the ground, out of commission for a moment.
The Dude doubled over, and looked down to examine the stab wound he had just received. The sight of the blood pouring out of his stomach and all over his white shirt and plaid shorts took The Dude by surprise. He started to freak out, and instinctually realized he needed to get out of there and find help. The front door was still open, and The Dude quickly made a break for it. The Ghostface Killer had managed to pick himself back up and gave chase with the knife in hand.
The background music remained fast-paced and exiting.
Outside, The Dude attempted to run as fast as he could. But The Dude was a lazy man. Quite possibly the laziest in all of Los Angeles County. Even if he didn't just have a sharp object pierce his stomach, The Dude was not accustomed to running. He pressed his left forearm against the wound, and quickly hurried to the nearest house. Luckily, The Dude's landlord, Marty, lived right next door and his lights appeared to be on. The Dude ran to the front window and began banging on it with his left hand. His right hand was still holding the White Russian.
"Marty!" he screamed, "Open up!! Someone's trying to kill me!!"
The Dude looked in through the window and saw Marty alone in his living room, dancing around in his underwear. Marty performed in dance quintets as a hobby, and appeared to be rehearsing his moves for an upcoming venue. Unfortunately, Marty was in the zone and had very loud instrumental music blasting out of the stereo. He had his back turned and could not hear The Dude screaming, the banging on the window, or the fast paced music that continued to dominate the background, outside.
"Marty, turn around!" The Dude screamed, "It's me! Come on, man! Call the pol."
The knife sank in to The Dude's lower back, until the blade almost disappeared. Then came the twisting. Ghostface twisted the handle of the knife, first one way and then another, causing a wet, grinding sound that could only be heard by the two of them. Blood bubbled in The Dude's stomach, up through his throat, and he began coughing it out of his mouth. It dripped down his lips, staining his thick goatee. After a few minutes, Ghostface finally pulled the knife out.
The fast paced background music shifted to the tragic sounds of a woman's chant.
The Dude fell to the ground. Ghostface grabbed him by the legs and began dragging his body back into The Dude's house. Once they had made it to the living room, Ghostface let go of the The Dude for a moment, shut the door behind them, and got down on his knees, raising the knife in the air and savoring the moment before the final kill.
"Why are you doing this to me?" asked The Dude, slowly, in between his bloody coughs.
Ghostface turned his head one way and then another, trying to think of a good answer. Finally, the raspy voice The Dude heard over the phone spoke from behind the screaming ghost mask.
"It's called a fan-fiction cross-over," replied Ghostface, "Very popular on the internet."
The confused look on The Dude's face never disappeared. He looked up at the masked killer in complete bewilderment.
"Where's the music coming from?" The Dude managed to force out.
Ghostface shrugged his shoulders.
"I'm confused about that too. It follows me everywhere I go. I think it's a copyright issue. It's like my image and likeness can't be used unless the music accompanies it."
Ghostface tightened his grip on the knife and stared right back at The Dude for one more moment. Finally, the knife came down, again and again, until The Dude knew no more.
The music slowly faded out.
Early next morning, The Dude's best friend Walter Sopcheck, showed up at The Dude's house, carrying a bowling ball. His pomeranian dog followed closely behind him. Walter began knocking on he front door loudly, waiting for a response from inside.
"Dude!" yelled Walter, "Hey Dude! Come on! We got bowling practice!"
He continued to knock, hearing nothing but silence from the other side. Eventually, Walter grew impatient and decided to go inside and investigate. The door opened easily and he spotted damage to the entryway, quickly concluding that someone must have kicked the door open. An alarm went off inside Walter's head. He knew something was wrong. He opened the door and peered inside. What he saw made his stomach churn.
The Dude's body had been slit open from end to end and his insides were completely hollowed out. He was lying on his stomach in the center of the living room, arms and legs spread out, so he resembled a bear rug, that really tied to room together with blood and entrails strewn all around.
The Dude was still holding the White Russian in his right hand. He never spilt a drop.