Johnny

Johnny leaned against the sticky bar counter, his thick fingers wrapped around a sweating bottle of cheap beer, his dark eyes tracking the fresh-faced college kids as they spilled into the dimly lit dive like lambs wandering into a slaughterhouse. The jukebox blared some twangy country tune, but Johnny barely heard it—his attention was locked onto the loud, laughing group of out-of-towners, their designer jeans and crisp flannels sticking out like sore thumbs among the locals’ worn denim and grease-stained work shirts.

One girl in particular caught his eye—a blonde with too much lip gloss and a laugh like a wind chime, batting her lashes at some lanky frat boy who was already three drinks in and slurring his words. Johnny’s lips curled into a slow, ugly smirk beneath his mustache. Ain’t she just precious? He could already picture her screaming, could already imagine how that pretty face would twist up in terror once she realized what kind of place this really was.

"Y’all ain’t from around here, are ya?" Johnny drawled, loud enough to cut through their chatter, his voice like gravel dragged over dirt. The group turned, some grinning, some wary, but none of them smart enough to be afraid.

The blonde giggled, tossing her hair. "What gave it away? The fact that we don’t all smell like motor oil and bad decisions?"

Her friends erupted in laughter, but Johnny just stared, his grin widening until his yellowed teeth showed. "Oh, darlin’, you got no idea what kinda decisions get made ‘round here." He took a slow swig of his beer, never breaking eye contact. "But I reckon y’all’ll find out soon enough."

One of the guys, a beefy kid with a popped collar, puffed out his chest. "Yeah? And what’s that supposed to mean?"

Johnny chuckled, low and dangerous, before pushing off the bar and stepping closer, his boots thudding heavy on the warped floorboards. "Means maybe y’all oughta be careful who you talk to." He leaned in, close enough for the blonde to catch the stench of sweat and something metallic clinging to him. "Some folks in this town… well, let’s just say they ain’t as friendly as me."

The frat boy scoffed, but there was a flicker of unease in his eyes now. "Whatever, man. Come on, guys, let’s find a table."

Johnny watched them shuffle away, still grinning. Oh, they’d learn. Sooner or later, they all did. And when they did, he’d be there—waiting, watching, ready to show them just how deep the darkness in this town really ran.

He turned back to the bar, signaling the bartender for another drink.

Johnny leaned against the hood of his battered pickup, the Texas sun beating down on his broad shoulders as he wiped imaginary grease from his hands with an old rag. He had taken extra care with his appearance today—his hair slicked back just right, his mustache neatly trimmed, his best denim jacket hugging his frame. He looked every bit the rugged, charming stranger stranded on the side of a lonely backroad, the kind of man who might make a woman slow down just to get a better look.

A slow, wolfish grin spread across his face as he heard the distant hum of an engine approaching. Right on time. He straightened up, rolling his shoulders and putting on his best "aw-shucks" expression—the one that made folks think he was just some harmless good ol’ boy in a tight spot.

As the vehicle rolled to a stop, Johnny tipped his hat, his voice smooth as honey laced with poison. "Well, howdy there! Sure am glad to see a friendly face out here." He let out a sheepish chuckle, scratching the back of his neck like he was embarrassed. "Damn truck just up and died on me. You wouldn’t happen to know a thing or two about engines, would ya?"

He kept his tone light, disarming, but his dark eyes flickered with something predatory beneath the charm. Every word was calculated, every movement practiced—just enough helplessness to make them feel safe, just enough confidence to keep them from driving off too quick.

"Now, I hate to be a bother," he continued, flashing a crooked smile that had worked on more than one poor soul before, "but if y’all could spare a minute, maybe give me a hand—or hell, even just a ride to the nearest gas station—I’d be mighty grateful." He let his voice linger on mighty grateful, laying it on thick, knowing exactly how to play the part of the grateful, handsome stranger.

Johnny stalked through the shadow-choked halls of the Sawyer house, his boots creaking against the warped floorboards, his meaty fingers flexing around the handle of his rusted cleaver. The air was thick with the stench of old blood and rotting meat, the walls whispering with the echoes of past screams. Somewhere in the darkness, the guests—those ungrateful little runts—were hiding, thinking they could slip away from the family’s hospitality. Johnny’s lips curled into a grin beneath his mustache. Oh, they’d learn. They’d all learn.

"Now, now, darlin’s," he called out, his voice a sickly-sweet drawl dripping with false warmth. "Ain’t no need to be shy! We was just gettin’ to know each other real nice down in the basement, wasn’t we?" His chuckle was low, guttural, the sound of a predator playing with its food. "Y’all come on out now, and I promise ol’ Johnny won’t be too rough with ya."

A floorboard groaned somewhere to his left. His head snapped toward the sound, his grin widening. There you are.

Leatherface’s chainsaw roared to life somewhere deeper in the house, the metallic snarl shaking the walls. Cook’s voice barked orders from another room, grizzled and impatient. But Johnny? Johnny wanted to play.

He crept forward, his steps deliberate, his breath coming slow and steady. He could smell them—sweat, fear, the acrid tang of desperation. It made his pulse quicken.

"Aw, hell," he cooed, dragging the tip of his cleaver along the wall, letting it screech against the wood. "I know y’all hear me. You think hidin’s gonna do ya any good? You think we ain’t found every last one of you before?" He paused, tilting his head as if listening. Then, softer, almost tender: "I’m bein’ real nice right now. But Bubba? Oh, he ain’t in such a forgivin’ mood."

A whimper. Faint, but there. Johnny’s grin turned wolfish.

"There you are, sugar," he purred, stepping toward a half-cracked closet door. He could see the tremble of fabric inside, hear the ragged, panicked breathing. "Now, don’t you go makin’ this harder than it’s gotta be." His free hand reached out, fingers curling around the doorframe. "Come on out, and I’ll make it quick. Stay hidin’…" He leaned in, his voice dropping to a whisper. "And I’ll make it fun."

The chainsaw revved again, closer this time.