The Y2K Naked Chainsaw Massacre

It must have been six years ago when I was living out in a place called Pocket Canyon near Forrestville, California. The date would stick for me, because Y2K was all the rage and it was actually the night of the great turning over. People in the area had ordered 5 gallon buckets of beans and other “staples” (since when are hard beans, staples, these days?) and the mood was apprehensive at best. I lived on a property that was “just remote”, meaning you drove two hundred feet up a snaky driveway and you felt like you were in the middle of nowhere. Good for solace and privacy, but not so good when oddballers found your driveway and came up to have a look around.

On the property was a four person hot tub that always functioned. There was a fifth wheel trailer and a nice lawn always well manicured. In the back was an outbuilding that had an office and a shower and toilet plumbed into a septic tank. Down the hill a bit, sort of tucked into the trees, was a storage shed where I kept all my expensive tools.

The nearest neighbors were another quarter mile up the driveway.

I stayed home on Y2K and enjoyed the company of two twin airline stewardesses from United. They were both tall and well-configured-- almost a cliche in the industry-- with reddish blonde hair of remarkably equal length and style. I had brought back an assorted case of boutique wines (all in the 30-50 dollar range) from the wineries I was servicing with my skills back then.

The hot tub was frothing over with excitement as we rode out the tail end of the old year in fine aquatic fashion. I kept trying to piece together a bad pun using four gorgeous-- almost identical-- boobies and the word “fourplexing“, but it just wouldn’t come.

The thing about these girls that was truly amazing--besides their looks and their twinism-- was their names. Their last name was Kane. Their parent’s had named them Sugar, and Candy.

I’m not kidding.

That night was an oddly surreal, foggy one, and as I kissed and shared myself and partied like it was 1999, I missed the fact that someone had come onto the property and was rummaging around in my tool shed.

I mean, with the tub bubbling, and my wits about me unkempt and fraying by my circumstances, there was no way I was going to hear a guy stealthily checking out my stuff. Even the flashlight he held would not distract me from the charms and attentive delicacies placed within my mouth as I tried bad pun after bad pun to see which of my pegs would fit which hole and who would comment on it.

And the guy would have got away with his stealthy Y2K break-in, had it not been for the fact that I owned several chainsaws-- six, to be exact, all Stihls, all functioning just fine.

Only this guy apparently didn’t know it.

He was going to steal one, but he had no clue which one to steal!

He started one up.

Now let me tell you, even with two twins from Delta sucking on your earlobes and the hot tub going at full bubble, I was gonna hear a chainsaw running.

I was. I swear!

And I did.

The knucklehead was revving the high screaming motor and I was now running naked down the sixty wooded feet to the shed where I burst naked inside to confront a big guy with a running chainsaw.

AND THERE I WAS, feeling all shriveled and diminished and suddenly very cold and insecure, and this guy looked me in the eye and waved the bar with the chain gliding around it at me, feigning a strike to one of my arms.

I grabbed another chainsaw off of the floor near the door and ran outside, my bare feet taking stickers like a school boys’ lunch box.

If I could just get the damn thing started!

I pulled and pulled on it, then I choked it and pulled some more. The guy in the shed had come out waving his chainsaw at me like it was an electric meat-slicing knife, only bigger, and my only hope appeared to be the presence of gas, a spark and good timing, which I luckily got.

The motor caught and screamed. The chain raced around the bar like a drunk computer geek on vodka, and I waved my bar back at the intruder and his menacing machine.

The posturing lasted several minutes. Neither one of us wanted to commit to a plunge at the other, as the machines were heavy, and a counter plunge was more likely to take off an arm then a first swipe. We revved our motors and watched the eyes of the other, looking for a weakness, a distraction, anything.

Then they came. Naked and giggling. Candy Kane and Sugar Kane. They came down the forested path to see what all the commotion was about. Their fourplexes jiggling in the cold night air, which affected their nipples in hard and bitter ways....

The chainsaw wielding intruder took one look at these girls and lost his focus for...

well, forever, as it turns out.

I took off an arm.

Nrrrrrrrnrrnrnrnrrrmmmm.

Then another arm.

Nrrrrrrrmmmmrmrmrmrmr.

Then both legs at one swipe.

Nrmmmmmmmrrrmrmrmrrmm...

Blood was spurting in spatters like a Gallagher show.

Candy and Sugar were now coated.

Yes, Candy coated and Sugar coated Kane.

The clock clicked over, and the ball dropped.

“Welcome to the new millennium!” is what I shouted in the gray mist as the first of the year dawned.
The three of us went back to the hot tub, and toasted.