Chucky and Tiffany is filmed in front of a dead studio audience.
The front door opened with a loud squeak and Chucky spilled into half of a brightly lit suburban style, retro looking living room, like the set of the Brady Bunch or something. A splattering of applause came from nowhere and it made him almost jump out of his trench coat with a bit of fright. When was the last time he, Charles Lee Ray, the Lake Shore Strangler himself, felt fright?
“What the hell is this?” He said, looking around for the source of the cheering.
“Hell,” Tiffany sat, sitting in a chair by the connected kitchen, filing her nails and done up like a housewife from the sixties. “You were right the first time.”
The invisible studio audience laughed and Chucky flinched again. “We’re in hell?”
“Worse,” Tiffany said. “We’re in Jersey.” Again, phantom laughter echoed around them.
Chucky crossed the set-like living room and hurried over to Tiffany, his wife, his… what the hell was all of this? How did he get here? “Tell it to me straight, Tiff,” he said. “What the [BLEEP] is going on here? Wait, was I just bleeped? Am I [BLEEP]ing being censored? What the [BLEEP]! You can’t [BLEEP]ing censor the Chuck. [BLEEP]- [BLEEP]- [BLEEP]!”
“Your language isn’t fit for broadcast,” Tiffany said, stirring more laughter.
“Fit for broadcast,” Chucky grabbed his hair. “Are you listening to yourself? Broadcast? BROADCAST!? What are you talking about? When did this happen?”
Tiffany blew a bubble with some chewing gum. “We’re in syndication.”
The audience laughed and Chucky kicked the couch. “I’m going to kill you, you bitch!” The audience cheered loudly at that, and Chucky furrowed his brow. “What the [BEEP] is that?”
“You said your catchphrase, doll face,” Tiffany said, going back to her nails.
“My catchphrase? I don’t have a catchphrase.”
“Sure you do,” Tiffany said. “All great sitcoms have a catchphrase.”
“Do not.”
“Do so,”
“Do not,”
“Do so,”
“Would you shut the [BLEEP] up! I’m going to kill you, you bitch!”
The invisible audience erupted with cheers and laughter, whistling and hooting and hollering. Chucky fumed, sighing and falling onto the couch, head buried in his hands. He struggled to think about the last thing he remembered. How did he die this time? How did he end up back here? All thoughts of life were futile, though, all he had was death and hell.
“Charles,” Tiffany was no longer in her seat but was pulling dinner out of the oven. “I think the roast might be a little overdone.” The meat she pulled out was charred and indeed smoking. She turned to face him and smoke bellowed up from it, blotting out her face. “Maybe we can fix it with a little bit of catsup.”
The laugh track kicked in.
“That’s it,” Chucky got up, stormed through the kitchen and went right through the back door. Maybe something out there would give him some relief from this torture. Backyards sometimes had things worth stabbing, but when he went through the backdoor he came right back in through the front door, spilling into half of a brightly lit suburban style, retro looking living room, like the set of the Brady Bunch or something. The audience clapped and Tiffany was back in her chair, filing her nails as she was before. “What the hell?”
“Hell,” Tiffany said. “You were right the first time.” The studio audience laughed. Chucky grumbled and stormed back toward the kitchen. “I hope it’s okay, but I invited Fido over for dinner.” Chucky stopped in his tracks.
“Who the [BLEEP] is Fido?” Chucky asked.
“He’s our ethnically ambiguous neighbor,” Tiffany looked back at him as the audience laughed again. “Meant to keep the show from feeling too white for the woke audience, but his role is downplayed enough to not make the racists in fly over country uncomfortable.”
“Tiff, what are you [BLEEP]ing talking about?” Chucky screamed.
“Gotta keep the ratings up, dear,” Tiffany said. “It’s almost sweeps week.”
“I’m going to kill you, you bitch!” The audience cheered and Charles stormed off, trying to repeat his exit through the backdoor and escape this self-aware sitcom nightmare. He walked out the backdoor and came right through the front, spilling into half of a brightly lit suburban style, retro looking living room, like the set of the Brady Bunch or something. The audience cheered for him. Chucky took a breath to contain his anger. It took almost a minute before he could calm himself down. “Honey, I’m home,” He sighed.
“Of course you are, darling, this is a rerun.” The audience laughed as Tiffany filed her nails in her usual chair.
Chucky plopped himself down on the couch and rubbed his temples. “Tiff, how long have I been here?”
“Sitting on the couch?” She squinted. “I don’t know, like three or four seconds.”
The audience laughed.
“No you--!” Chucky calmed himself down before getting too heated. “That’s not what I meant. How long will we be trapped like this?”
“Hard to say?” Tiffany paused her nail filing. “Roughly twenty-two minutes without commercials, for four or five seasons if NBC doesn’t cancel us first.”
“Oh brother,” Chucky buried his face in his hands and melodramatically whined, “I’m going to kill you, you bitch,” and the audience cheered and laughed at the line delivery. He kept his head buried, waiting for the next joke, waiting for the next piece of hell to come his way, but he didn’t have the strength to feed into it anymore. But, as he sat there with his head down, the room went quiet. Tiffany kept her trap shut, the audience stopped laughing, even the ambient noise drifted away. Looking up, everything was frozen like someone hit the pause button on a VCR. Tiffany was stuck in place, caught at an unflattering angle mid-blow on her nails. Chucky stood up and furrowed his brow.
“What the f*** is happening now?” he asked. “F***… I said f***. They let me say f***!”
“They didn’t,” a deep voice spoke from the front door. “I did.”
Color came back into the room. In fact, the room itself shifted and shaped into something new—dark and red and yellow. Chucky stood up from the couch and faced the tall man with the dark skin standing a few feet from him. He was sharply dressed, handsome, and everything about him made Chucky lower and raise his guard all at the same time.
“Who the f*** are you?” Chucky asked.
“You know who I am,” he said, his voice as deep as a crater. “You’ve called my name enough.”
Chucky sucked in a breath through his teeth. “Damballa…”
“How many deaths is this for you now?” Damballa, the voodoo god of the gods, stood there and smiled. “How many hells have you seen, sweet Charles?”
“Not as many as I deserve,” Chucky admitted. “Because of you.”
“Because of me,” Damballa nodded. “You’ve begged for my power and I’ve answered.”
“Is that why you’re here now?” Chucky asked. “Here to bail me out of Hell? Again.”
“Not for free,” he said.
“Hate to break it do you, Balli, but… I’m a little light on the coin here,” Chucky laughed and padded his empty pockets.
“I’ve gifted you my endless power,” Damballa said, as he drew a gnarly curved dagger with a handle of bone out from behind his back. “Now it’s time you pay up.”
“What’s that thing?” Chucky pointed.
“The Damballa dagger,” The Loa said. “Made from a bone of my forgotten father. A god killer.”
“God killer?” Chucky smirked and raised an eyebrow.
“You gotta do what you do best, sweet Charles,” Damballa said, handing him the knife. “I’m gonna need you to kill for me.”
“Name the god,” Chucky said. “And get me the hell out of here.”
“Saturday,” Damballa said. “It’s time to kill my brother Saturday.”
Chucky grinned and turned the dagger over in his hand. He never killed a god before. This was going to be the easiest debt he ever paid off.
