When I first founded Camp WannaDieo, it wasn’t to create a horror environment stylistically suited to murdering teens on the cusp of adulthood. It was to bring a safe, adventurous environment for the youth to explore not just nature, but also themselves. Though my camp philosophy remains the same (Canoeing, Campfires, and brief moments of self exploration in a loosely supervised summertime wonderland), I would like to tack on that whoever has been systematically hunting down and brutally murdering my campers, please stop.
It all started on a Friday. I think the 11th, but I might be wrong. I had this great batch of youngsters, and even though they all looked to be in their mid to late 20’s, I cared for them the same. As they frolicked, I took pride in knowing that without my rustic retreat, these whippersnappers might not be able to fully express themselves, leading them to a life of secret shame that forces them to open a summer camp in order to live their fantasy through the next generation. Then they all went and got murdered real bad.
I don’t know a lot about this fella, but he’s a real Nasty Ned for going and chopping up my prides and joys like that. Where did he learn manners? It certainly wasn’t at Camp WannaDieo, where I now teach every camper not to slash their peers to death like a psychopath. Perhaps he could’ve picked up some stabbing technique from my evening knitting sessions, but considering how I take the time during Knit Night to talk to every camper about their deep personal thoughts and feelings, I doubt any of them is the gory fetish monster we have on our hands here.
I’m a modest man. I could have chosen any life, but I choose to lightly and lovingly guide the teens of today through their developmental days. What I didn’t choose was to be some sort of organ pooper scooper, forced to clean camper blood off the pine boat dock I handcrafted two years ago. I didn’t choose to be the guy who has to drive into town because all our kickballs were replaced with missing camper heads the day of the big game. And I certainly didn’t want to tell these hopeful young crackerjacks that the ice cream social is cancelled because I found a collection of dead camper feet in the freezer.
To deter these “summer bummers,” as I’ve been calling them, I have taken a number of steps. First, I have renamed “Murder Lake” to “Don’t Murder Lake”. Second, campers will not be allowed out past 10pm, unless to experience a rebellious explosion of youth they’ll remember for years to come. And third, and most unfortunate, I have been forced to disband the machete club, otherwise known as “The Gentlemen’s Society For Long Knives”.
All I ask is for a summer of fun campers won’t forget, with the last part not hinging on them experiencing the terror of death first, or secondhand. So please, stop murdering my campers– nay, my family. I understand your bloodlust, I do, but admissions are down ever since the media got a hold of things and I can’t keep selling dead camper bodies on the black market to pay off the bank. It just feels wrong.