Vanessa first discovered Crusty Cory Jay the same way she discovered most music she enjoyed. Late at night, in front of her laptop, she let YouTube's algorithms point her in the right direction. It was cynical, but it had led to some great discoveries, including the enigmatic Crusty Cory Jay when a music channel she followed did a deep dive on the artist.
Where Internet music creators embraced a certain anonymity in creating their dreamy, derivative sounds, Cory embraced notoriety. While his face and real name remained mysteries, he put forth a brash and sometimes controversial personality. He engaged in feuds with other artists. He refused to release digital versions of his work, putting everything on outdated mediums like CD-Rs and VHS tapes that he sold through his personal website. He performed sets in venues like houses and sewer channels and always under a neon green skeleton mask.
She found it fascinating and, though problematic, also a little refreshing.
And the music was haunting. From mid-90s pro wrestling broadcasts to already heavily sampled songs to teen sex comedies, the samples came from a wide variety of places, many of them unobvious. His albums were presented as late-night television broadcasts. Imagine watching a horror movie on TV at eleven in the evening only to fall asleep and wake up in the middle of something on Cinemax After Dark. Imagine if someone had sampled what you heard, even in your dreams between the horror and the erotic, then chopped and screwed everything until it was all part of the dream.
There was a spooky sexuality to the music but also the sort of irony and nostalgia one might expect from vaporwave and its subgenres. With album titles like Vaporwave Violence and The Last Turn-On! (or Make It a Blockbuster Night), one thing was clear: Crusty Cory Jay aimed to provoke. And against her better judgment, Vanessa Hardesty fell hopelessly in love.
It was the summer after her mother's slide into the black arms of a nearly catatonic depression. The music of Crusty Cory Jay gave Vanessa a safe space to explore and indulge in all the dark feelings that came in the wake of her mother's illness. Flirtations with suicidal fantasies. Imagining herself in car crashes, burning buildings, and stalked by faceless killers. Spending countless hours looking at footage and photos of dead malls, liminal spaces, and abandoned amusement parks like the place in which she now found herself. All the while, she listened as manipulated versions of well-known vaporwave tracks came to abrupt ends, interrupted by clips of Michael Myers and Jason Voorhees hacking up hapless teenagers, and heavily reverbed quotes from Pinhead about suffering.
Some people called his stuff hellwave. On Tumblr, the only platform Cory used, he posted a long tirade about never wanting to be labeled anything, and if people saw fit to label him, they should throw all his tapes and CDs in the trash because labels were fucking trash.
His post, of course, caused a fair bit of outrage. She understood why too, but also? She liked hearing someone stick up for themselves, taking a stance on an issue that directly affected them, rather than weighing in on that week's hot button political topic.
Plus, his music was helping her get through dark times. Sure, her dad was still around then, but her mother's state left him too fatigued to be the father she needed, and her brothers had all gone off to college by then. Her friends were great, but none of them really understood what Vanessa was going through. Save for Cory's music, she was alone.
By Christmas, the right cocktail of medication, talk therapy, and meditation brought her mother seemingly back from the dead. With her mother healthy again, Vanessa stopped overindulging in life's darker dimensions. She still listened to Crusty Cory Jay from time to time, kept up on subsequent releases, and never stopped appreciating him for what his art did for her while her mother was sick, but she didn't obsess like she had before.
Through all this, she never got the chance to see him perform. Not until the night before she woke up in an amusement park's ice cream stand with five strangers.
Now, she stared at the CD Kayson held. She could almost make out the album title. Noise World Order? It must be a new one. Maybe something he'd planned on dropping at the house show. So, why the fuck was it in Cullen Whitmore's pocket?
"So, what do we do with it?" Kayson asked.
"Fuck if I know," she said. Her gaze flicked down to where Cullen lay. "Ugh, God. Can we just get away from this body?"
Kayson looked at Cullen. He sniffed and pocketed the CD without taking his eyes off the corpse. "I wonder if … ah, shit."
"What?"
"Nothing. Just wondering if he had kids and shit. Doesn't matter."
"You don't feel that way at all, do you?"
"The fuck you mean?"
"I mean you don't feel like Cullen dying doesn't matter."
They stared at each other, neither of them speaking. His eyes held a sad light. Finally, he shook his head and hardened. "I don't like people trying to read me."
"Then don't be so easy to read."
He sucked his teeth. "Yeah, whatever. Let's just go meet the others."
He turned and began to walk away. She remained for a beat, then followed. As she walked, she tried to imagine what her teenage noise musician crush had to do with all this.
_______________________________
When Werth and Hannah climbed down from the roller coaster, the hooded figures were gone. Werth glared at Hannah like she was somehow responsible.
"What the hell?" Werth said.
"Don't look at me," Hannah said. "I don't know."
She grudgingly put her heels back on. If she had to run in them again, it'd be hell, but the concrete and pavement was just too damn hot. There'd be no adjusting; she already had blisters and burns on her feet. They began to climb down the reservoir and back into the dried-up wave pool. Her bright-colored dress was starting to stick to her. Strands of hair were pasted to her forehead and the back of her neck. If she made it out of here alive, the first thing she'd want was a cool shower.
"Well, where did they go?" Werth asked. "I didn't even hear them."
Still glaring at her. Still grumbling with annoyance.
"I said I don't fucking know. I didn't hear them either."
"Relax. I'm just thinking aloud."
"Whatever. Let's just get to the exit."
He stared at her another couple seconds, then nodded. She followed him across the wave pool, not sure what to make of this new development. She'd thought Vanessa had neutralized the threat of these hooded figures by playing the music. Now, she kept her eyes out for them, half-expecting one or both to jump out from somewhere.
"I hope they didn't go back there," Werth said. "The exit, I mean."
Her brain gifted her with a vivid memory of Wendy rent asunder. That poor woman's face. It wore so much agony. And fear too. She'd had no time to come to terms with what was happening to her but enough time to know she was fucked.
"Maybe we should, I dunno … arm ourselves or something."
He smirked at her. "Not a bad idea, K-Pop."
"I told you that's not my name, asshole."
"Well, my name's not asshole."
"So, don't act like one."
Werth just laughed. He was an asshole, but she'd rather be around him than near Cullen's body.
"We'll have to keep an eye out for weapons," he said. "Those things too."
"Don't forget the rats."
"Right. Those fucking rats."
They passed the scattered gumballs and shards of the broken machine.
"Bet you wish you could radio for backup, huh?" she said.
"That's only one item on the wish list. On top is the gun, of course."
"Of course."
He looked over his shoulder, eyebrow raised. "You don't look like someone who plays with guns."
"I don't play with them, but I know how to shoot, and I do own one."
"Smart girl."
"I don't relish it, believe me."
"You live alone?"
"Maybe no more personal questions, huh?"
"Suit yourself."
They retraced their steps best they could and came to the Tilt-A-Whirl with the sagging fence.
"Oh, here we go," Werth said and commenced pulling out one of the looser-looking poles.
"You gonna get one for me?"
He winced as he yanked. The metal whined.
"If you can swing it, I'll get one for you."
He peeled the chain-link fence away from the pole. Some bolts plinked to the pavement.
"I might not have a swing like Ronald Acuna's, but I can handle it. Besides, I can always poke someone in the gut with it."
He used his foot for leverage and pulled the pole all the way free. His color returned and he smiled. He looked like hell, though. Shiny with sweat and breathing heavily, not to mention that black eye. She probably didn't look much better, but … fuck it. She and the others all had good excuses. Werth held the freed pole out to her.
"Here you go, K- … sorry. Hannah."
"Appreciate it, piggy."
"Hey!"
She snatched the pole before he could change his mind.
"I guess turnabout's fair play," he said. "I call you something you don't like, you call me something I don't like."
"Yep!"
He started pulling another pole loose.
"I feel a lot better now," he said. "You and I both have weapons. Maybe Vanessa and my idiot brother will find something useful. We'll be outta here in no time flat."
"I just hate that any of us had to die." More unpleasant gifts from her brain. She'd never wipe those images from her mind.
"Yeah, well, me too," Werth said. "We had to expect it, though."
Hannah swallowed the urge to call out his callousness, lest he respond with something too Darwinist. He twisted and pulled on the second pole. With grunts from both man and fence, the pole came free. He faced her, smiling again.
"That was a stubborn one," he said.
She opened her mouth to respond but could make no words. A shadowy figure rose from behind one of the chipped Tilt-A-Whirl cups. Its hooded cloak drooped over its hulking frame. Its black-gloved hands made claws. She had so many questions. How had it snuck up on them? Was it there the whole time? Where was the other one? She gave voice to none of them. She only said, "Get down!"
"What?" Werth asked.
But Hannah already had a swing locked and loaded.
She charged. Werth ducked.
She swung the pole and prayed.