ROADSIDE MALEFACTION: CAMP KILLALOTTA

Camp Karankawa was once an idyllic place for a kid to spend a summer week or ten.  Plenty of sunshine.  Swimmin' holes.  Nature trails and singalongs and s'mores and merit badges.  Maybe even a first kiss with the brace-faced redhead from the rival camp across the lake.

But it was even better if you were a counselor for the rugrats.  Lookin' fine in short-shorts and shades, with sweet-ass whistles to command your charges...and after dark, non-stop weed and booze and playing "hunt the freckle".  As long as you avoided pregnancy and letting the little shits drown, it was a summer of hedonistic delights.

Those tube-socks go ALL the way up.  Awwww, yeah.

But then came The Thunderkiss...and with it the psychos and the gardening implements and the bloodshed and the screaming.

Sooooooo much screaming.

And the mad slashers didn't stay within the campgrounds.  Oh, no...they lumbered far and wide, racking up astronomical bodycounts (which was pretty easy, what with being supernaturally strong and nigh-invincible and prone to reincarnation and whatnot).  Soon, people were fleeing the territory entirely, leaving no one to butcher.

The denizens of Planet Motherfucker were helpless to stop the psychos.  The psychos were driving their prey extinct.  There was only one thing left to do:  strike an unholy bargain!

—

Now, every Friday The 13th (which can happen one to three times annually), all seventeen-year-olds are sent to the accursed campsite, now rechristened Camp Killalotta.  They are supplied with unlimited intoxicants, pharmaceuticals, and birth control, and given only one mandate by their elders:  

Survive the weekend...

...for the slashers are on the hunt!

"Camp Killalotta:  Experience SHEAR Terror!" -- Souvenir T-Shirt

If they make it to dawn on Monday, the campers are considered full-fledged citizens of the great state of Tex-Arcana, and granted all the *snort* rights and privileges thereof.  They're officially men and women.  Yee-haw!!!

The campers are encouraged to defend themselves by any means necessary, using whatever weapons they can find or fashion.  Nothing is off-limits:  tools, fire, pits, deadfalls; all are fine.  That said, campers can't bring their own arms, or hide them on the grounds before the big date.  Yeah, one time, some enterprising teens spent the week before the 13th stashing swords and guns and gasoline and such, and straight-up massacred the massacre-ers.  There was triumphant revelry that weekend, for certain...

...until the next Friday The 13th rolled around, and the campers discovered that the back-from-the-dead psychos showed early themselves and boobytrapped the entire camp...and the roadways leading in and out...and the surrounding countryside.  Hundreds died, and the locals got the point: play by the rules...or else.

As a societal Tex-Arcanan rite of passage, only seventeen-year-olds are required to go to Camp Killalotta.  If they survive their first sojourn, they never have to attend again.  Many teens make return trips, though!  Some become "counselors" and aid the rookies.  Some go for another chance to, as they say in the vernacular, "party hearty".  And others realize they have a taste for violence and bloodlust, and defect to the masked-and-maniacal side of things....

Survivor?  Slasher?  YOU DECIDE!!!

—

Why in Satan's majestic name would anyone tolerate this abominable tradition?

The general population likes it because the psychos go inactive for most the year.  That means no more holiday-themed kill-sprees.  No more campouts-that-invariably-turn-into-bloodbaths.  One thing less to worry about in your godsforsaken existence is a boon that can't be ignored.

And the parents on Planet Motherfucker aren't exactly the most responsible sorts.  Way they see it, if their offspring (which they never really wanted in the first place, truth be told...damned rhythm method!) are too stupid to survive some shambling, inbred landscaper with a pitchfork, they deserve to end up mulched.  Only the strongest survive...and death means no more child-support. Win-win!

The teens tolerate it because they really don't have many prospects out in the apocalyptic, monster-filled world.  After all, everyone on Planet Motherfucker is living on borrowed time, so getting your ticket punched at The Kegger To End All Keggers is a surefire way to say flip the bird to Heaven, Hell, and everyone in between.  And actually surviving?  Fuckin'-A, that means you're a living legend, maaaaannnn...and you've got a story that's guar-an-teed to get you laid forever! (Okay, okay...more likely one free watered-down shot at the roadhouse your first day back, but still.)  And you might've escaped with an awesome souvenir, like bulletproof goalie headgear, or a hatchet that slices through literally anything.  Relics like that have serious mojo, and are worth a fortune!

The conspicuous lack of stabwounds means she survived the weekend...
BUT THE HANGOVER'LL BE MURDER!!!

As for the psychos, they absolutely love it.  They have a a full weekend to run amok, with nothing between them and their victims.  It's their time to shine!  Too bad for the loonies (but great for the campers!) that they don't get along with their fellows, and generally hunt alone..."generally" being the operative word there.  [For GMing purposes, there's usually a ratio of one killer per 15-20 teens present.]

There's a particular question, though, that no Tex-Arcanan has really thought to ask:  now that the Camp Killalotta protocols are in place, what do the psychos get up to when it isn't Friday The 13th, anyway...?