Elm Street sure got dark at night, especially during a blinding rainstorm. Tash found that out first hand when she left the hospital in a frenzy and ran away back toward town. After about twenty minutes of running, then jogging, then walking and panting, she was soaked to the bone. Had been since she stepped outside. But she didn’t care. The only man she truly cared for in life had been taken away from her in a flash, and all the doctor could say was “I’m sorry.”

Tash continued to whimper and catch her breath as she finally turned the corner back onto Elm Street. When she did, she noticed that the street lights were barely lighting up the street at all and the road, save for a bunch of leaves blowing around, was pitch black. The tall elm trees that bordered the sidewalk were to blame, suffocating the street in their nocturnal dark shadow. Staring up, all Tash could see through the trees were more raindrops hitting her eyes, washing away the many tears she had shed.

Her thoughts remained with Quinton as she passed in and out of the lights and their midnight blue gaze. How could he have died? Tash thought. He was the strongest player on the whole damn team, and then he takes one bad hit and he’s dead? No, there was no way that explanation would do, even if it’s all she’d read in the Springwood Gazette the next day (right below the final score of the football game, whatever the fucking final ended up being. For all she cared, she hoped Springwood lost. There were more important matters to attend to besides some stupid football game).

Tash continued to walk toward her house, with Quinton’s voice haunting her mind, saying ‘No Sleep!’ ‘No Sleep!’ As she looked into his eyes for what would be the last time, she could tell he was terrified, and it damn sure wasn’t from the pain. That boy could handle pain like no one’s business. He could have literally got one arm cut off and stood right back up and caught a pass with the other. It was a bad analogy, but it was true. Which led her to her other theory, the one that plagued her mind the entire jaunt home— Krueger was responsible for Quinton’s death.

It was the only explanation that made sense. That son of a bitch was the only one who could scare Quinton like that. And considering her drawings, everyone’s nightmares, and Quinton’s mysterious disappearance, it all started to make sense. It was Fred Krueger alright. But how could she convince the authorities of that? She couldn’t and she knew it. They would think she was crazy for sure. If she even mentioned that bastard’s name to them, she’d end up in Westin Hills staring at four padded walls for the rest of her life.

Knowing that, Tash finally came to a clearing just before her house. Surprisingly, she spotted someone walking in the front door. She couldn’t quite make out who it was, but she immediately recognized the number on his kelly green jersey— number 81. Confused, Tash followed behind him slowly and entered her house about thirty seconds after the number 81 guy. Just what the fuck does he think he’s doing? Tash thought. If this guy thinks he’s gonna parade around in Quinton’s jersey, he’s got another thing coming. Oh hell naw.

But as Tash closed her front door and turned back around, she was shocked to see not the number 81 guy, and not even her own house, but a long, dark walkway, complete with dim lighting and what appeared to be paintings hung to her left and right and statues directly in front of her. If she didn’t know any better, she could have sworn she went through her front door and came out in the Metropolitan Museum of Art in New York City. However, any thoughts of the MMOA came to a screeching halt when she saw the plaque with the gallery introduction.

Scratched onto the wall in what appeared to be dried blood, it read:

Metropolitan Museum of Freddy
1428 Elm Street
Springwood, Bitch
View More Than 25 Works Of Art From Freddy’s Permanent Collection


Freddy’s Permanent Collection? What the fuck? Tash thought, as the reality of the situation struck her. She must have fallen asleep and was now drawn into Freddy’s world somehow. Just like all the others. Careful at every step, she proceeded forward, passing the first work of art on the wall.

Entitled “Thompson Tongue Action,” Tash just snarled at the sight of it. It showed what appeared to be a young girl, eyes wide in shock, answering her phone, only to have her lips licked by a tongue protruding from the receiver. Tash might not have recognized the girl, but she knew that tongue. It was Krueger’s tongue. The bastard had rolled it at her in one of her past nightmares, mumbling something about wanting a taste of “dark meat.”

Moving on (and not noticing the eyes of the statues following her every move), Tash, not able to see much in the dark, felt her way down toward the next painting. It showed Krueger’s evil head sticking out of a television set with sparks flying around the picture. This one was titled “Welcome To Prime Time, Bitch!” Tash wasted little time and ran hurriedly past it to the next one, when she heard a mysterious laughter coming from behind her. If she didn’t know any better, she could have sworn it was coming from the painting itself. That laugh. That annoying fucking laugh. It was enough to drive even the sanest person absolutely crazy, and she’d guessed she wouldn’t be the last to ever hear it.

Continuing on, she looked down the dark hallway and saw the number 81 guy again. “Hey!” she yelled, but the guy wasn’t paying any attention to her. In fact, he was CLIMBING into the painting! Rushing to try to stop him, Tash dove at him, but narrowly missed his sneakers as he became totally submerged inside the artwork. When Tash stood back up and looked at what was there, she had to turn and puke. There, on the wall, was Quinton’s death blow. Clear as a photograph, the art showed the mean expressions of the defenders as they leveled him, and the helpless expression of pain on Quinton’s face as he caught the ball, then caught hell. Below it, the title read, “Q-Tip Gets Cleaned.”

It took all the strength Tash had left to get back up, and when she did, it wasn’t fear that was etched across her face—it was anger. Furious anger. Krueger had been fucking with her for long enough. Now it was time he got his. “Hey, Krueger! You hear me?” She yelled. “Don’t be playin’ no more. Here I am. Why don’t you fight me face to face? Come on out!”

There was only silence.

It figures, Tash thought. No balls. The bastard’s playing more mind games with me. Well I ain’t gonna fall for it. Not anymore. But just as she said that, she glanced over at the next painting and was shocked to see her original portrait of Freddy there, just as she’d left it in her sketchpad. Only this time, he was standing on top of something—somebody—and holding something. It wasn’t until she looked down at his free hand that she saw what he was holding. It was a head. Her head.

Screaming, she fell backward as Krueger came to life in the painting and slashed her across the face, leaving four distinct marks across her model-esque visage. Tash quickly backpedaled as Freddy stepped out of the painting and onto the floor. Snarling, Krueger licked the maroon blood off of his claws while Tash scurried to get away.

“Mmmm,” Krueger joked as he tasted her blood. “The darker, the better.”

This infuriated Tash, who despite the lethal cuts across her face, punched Krueger repeatedly and kicked him hard in the groin, sending him staggering to the ground. Tash, confident in herself, screamed “That’s for Quinton, you fucker!”

Clearly angered by Tash’s attack on his manhood, Krueger sprang back up to his feet. “I’ll kill you slow!” he muttered, evilly stalking toward her. Tash, however, wasn’t scared of him anymore. Hell, she even taunted the dream master. “You got a lot of nerve for a guy with no balls,” she quipped, pissing Krueger off even further. Growling, he turned his right arm into a figurative propeller, spinning it fast like a whirlwind as he charged toward her.

Tash, who thought she had it all figured out, appeared to be dead wrong. Because just as she turned to run away, she ran right into one of the statues and nearly knocked herself out. At the same time, Krueger’s charge continued, his claws ablazin’, right on her tail. Dazed, Tash backed away from the statue and noticed it was a life-size replica of Freddy, complete with claws and burned face. She didn’t waste time looking at it because she had to brace herself for the oncoming Krueger windmill. However, when she turned around, he was gone, and all she could hear was more of Krueger’s hideous laughter. Then someone tapped her on the shoulder.

Stunned, she turned around and found herself face-to-face with the Krueger statue, who wasn’t a life-size replica but the real Freddy’s hiding place. Tash screamed but was unable to avoid the deadly swipe of his blades. She lost her head— and her life— a moment later.

Freddy laughed hysterically as he collected Tash’s head and body and retreated back into the painting. Tash’s dreams had come true, sort of. She was now a permanent fixture of the Metropolitan Museum— of Freddy. Her presence was soon finalized, as her title appeared below Freddy’s new masterpiece— “Tash Gives Good Head.”

Proceed To Chapter 25
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