Strangest fan experience

Antipax (José):
I read somewhere that during a book signing a fan came up to Clive Barker with a knife and he cut his own hand. Clive grabbed the guy’s bloody hand and asked “Do you want this on your book?” and he pressed the bloody hand on the page of the book, instead of signing it. My question, what was the strangest meeting with a fan that comes to mind?

Doug Bradley:
Well. Rule number one when it comes to fans is never assume you know who you’re talking to. This nerdy little guy with the twitch will turn out to be a professor of English while the mohicanned, pierced punk with the ripped jeans and the Metallica t-shirt is almost certainly an independent movie producer with a script to offer you. Truth is you never know how the next conversation is going to go. At Monstermania last month, a girl came to the front of the line at my table. I offered the usual greetings and held out my hand. She burst into tears. ‘Are you OK?’ I said. ‘Yes…No…It’s just…’ she spluttered. ‘Has someone upet you?’ ‘No, not at all. It’s just…It’s you!’ Never easy to know where to go from there. I don’t think I’m that bad-looking.

Of course I’ve signed tattoos on heads and legs and arms and backs (and had some of them come back with the autograph tattooed on) and I’ve signed thongs (on and off bodies) and bras and breasts and cigarette ends and dollar bills and Freddy posters, pick-up trucks and Harleys.

There was the girl at a convention in North Carolina some years ago who confronted me in the hotel corridor and announced alcoholically: ‘Misser Bralley, I want you to tell me that I’m the best fucking dancer you ever saw’ and promptly ripped her top off, as though her admittedly attractive breasts would put all question of her terpsichorean superiority beyond all doubt.

I recall a confused young man at Spookyworld near Boston. He said to me:
‘Gee, you were great in that movie.’
‘Thank you.’
‘Yeah, Hellraiser, man, I seen that movie. Yeah, when you threw that silver thing.’
‘When was that?’
‘In the movie.’
‘I don’t remember…’
‘Yeah, you do. That silver ball you made chase the guy and the girl and it had a knife coming out of it, and…’
‘Ah, I think you may be mixing me up with someone else.’
‘No, man. Hellraiser. Doug Bradley, Pinhead, right?’
‘Right. But I think you’re thinking of Phantasm: The Tall Man, Angus Scrimm .’
‘Who? No, I never saw that. It was you, It was Hellraiser. I saw it.’
Best not to argue.

It’s always odd when I get stopped in my local shopping mall.
‘Excuse me, are you Doug Bradley, Pinhead, Hellraiser?’
‘No kidding. What the hell are you doing here?’

How about the man who stopped me in London’s Soho. ‘Excuse me, do you have a pen?’ ‘Yes, I think I do.’ I rummaged in my jacket and handed it to him. ‘Thank you,’ he said and then gave it back to me with a piece of paper. ‘I was wondering if you’d mind signing that?’

Most recently, at Jason’s Woods haunted house in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania, I was just finishing signing something when a voice off to one side said quietly, ’Would you sign my cock?’ ‘No, I wouldn’t’ I said. ‘Not even if you washed it recently.’ I looked up. Non-descript guy: denim jacket and baseball cap. ‘Anyway,’ I added, ‘I doubt whether I could fit my signature on it.’ And bit my lip. I had no idea how far out of whack this guy’s meds were. Who knew what was coming next? ‘Oh. OK.’ He said, quietly, and walked away.

Will you sign my c...?

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