Dale sighed, set down the eggs, and said, “Look. We’re not killers. We’re just… incompetent homeowners. I’ve never even jaywalked. Tucker once cried because a possum looked sad.”
“So… no torture dungeon?”
The bees took that personally.
“The cellar floods every spring,” Tucker said. “It’s more of a mosquito sanctuary.”
“I think he’s hurt,” Dale said, already waddling toward the kid. “Hey there! Don’t you worry, we’re here to help!” tucker and dale
By evening, the body count was zero—but the accident count was legendary. One kid jumped out of a second-story window because he saw Dale holding a sickle (it was a weed whacker). Another ran into a closed bear trap (the non-lethal, jaw-spreader kind) and limped around howling for an hour. A third tried to “stealthily” cross the murder swamp and sank up to his waist in muck.
An hour later, they had a bonfire. The rest of the college kids, untangled and de-mucked, sat sheepishly around the flames. Chad, sporting a bruise shaped exactly like a two-by-four, shook Tucker’s hand. Dale sighed, set down the eggs, and said, “Look
The college kids—Allison, the sensible one with the glasses; Chad, the self-appointed alpha with the perfect hair; and three others whose names were lost to screaming—had decided to go camping near the “notorious Spruce Creek Killer’s territory” for fun. When they saw Tucker and Dale’s beat-up pickup parked outside a crooked cabin, they assumed the worst.