Kingdom Occupied
Where are the paper cups I bought last night at the grocery store? I left them on the counter and now they have disappeared. Everything ends up disappearing in this house. Maybe it was those damn little Irishmen that run around stealing everyone’s goodies. The ones with the exaggerated red beards that look like the backside of a fox. The ones that smell like a European bar after a victorious soccer match. They have heavy Irish accents like they were all raised in the lavishing mountaintops of Ireland.
What? I’m talking about leprechauns? No, no. I know what leprechauns are and I’m not talking about those amateurs. I’m talking about the elite Irishmen; they make leprechauns look like the offspring of Gary Coleman and green beans. They’re fierce and steal your goodies when you aren’t looking. Trust me on this one, OK?
The paper cups are not necessary, the guest can drink out of faucet for all I care. Tonight isn’t about paper cups, it’s about more than that.
The barbecue sauces are lined up on the kitchen counter, depending on which one the guest prefers. We have the mild spicy ones and we have the sweet tangy ones. Beside each sauce is a brush and a small container, that way the guests aren’t walking around with the entire bottle of sauce gripped between their fingers.
The cheap foldout chairs are downstairs in the basement, all gathered in a perfect circle. Some of them are brand new, with the soft cushion underneath your tender ass when you sit down. Other chairs are bare metallic and if you are wearing shorts, you can feel the coldness of the metal pressing against your delicate skin. The chairs are usually tossed aside after the first twenty minutes, but there is always one idiot that likes to sit down and watch. “No, no. I rather sit down and hear what happens.” The pros usually have a little surprise for these newbies that walk in thinking they can do whatever the hell they want.
I’m running around the house, making sure everything is put away in the correct space. You put everything away and out of view for two reasons. Number one, you don’t want guests to know much about your personal life. Number two, a lot of the folks involved in this are thieves and cannot be trusted. I’ve had my remote control for the TV stolen, along with some detergent for washing clothes. Two weeks ago I had a sock stolen, not even the pair, but just the left one. I never said they were intellectual thieves.
I sent out the e-mails two days ago, so everyone should be here tonight. Tonight is my night for hosting, which is a big deal to me. Last time I was hosting, it turned out to be chaos and I was banned from hosting for two weeks. I’ll tell you about that later. One of the things about hosting is that you MUST come up with a back up story, incase some curious neighbors start knocking on the door asking what the noise and cheering is about. On the front door, I’ve posted a flyer that I made last night at 3 A.M. to hopefully prevent those agog knocks. The flyer looks something like this (excluding graphics):
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SACRED HEART CHURCH OF CHRIST
“REDEMPTION IS POWER”
The meeting for adults addicted to Asian pornography with some Hungarian influence is being held tonight at 6 P.M. in the basement.
Tonight’s scheduled:
- Introduce new members, welcome them.
- Share stories about addiction and pornography
- Comfort those around us, we are all brothers and sisters
- Play “Spin The Cross and Tell The Truth” with a partner (cannot be the same partner from last week)
- Last thoughts and mass prayer for redemption
If you are reading this as a concerned neighbor, do not worry, the chanting and noise is for those that are a step closer to redemption. God bless you and your children.
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Going to church through my entire adolescence is finally paying off now. The flyer should keep the neighbors away, since everyone values Christianity and morals. You throw in the word “redemption” and “God bless” and everyone magically understands what you are going through. You could be addicted to porn stars dressed as civil war soldiers having intercourse with wild boar and people will pity you because you are a “Christian”. Do you love narcotics and smoker’s lungs? No worries, Christianity is here to save you.
The doorbell rings. They aren’t supposed to ring the doorbell. They go straight down to the basement, take a seat, and wait till everyone else files in. The doorbell rings again. I’m going to kill whoever is on the other side of the door, unless if it’s a cop, I won’t kill a cop. Well, maybe. I’ll kill a cop if I really have to, you know? It could be one of those life and death situations and the copper is in your way. You never know with these things.
The front door creaks open to reveal a short man with bushy red hair.
Me: Are you the fucking leprechaun that stole my paper cups?
Possible Leprechaun: What? Paper cups? Uh…you have me mistaken for someone else.
Me: I see your bushy red hair and that beer bottle in your hand.
Possible Leprechaun: It’s a bottle of water.
Me: So you’re a magician, too? How tall are you? Four feet?
Possible Leprechaun: I’m 5’2.
Me: I’m going to measure you later and if you lied to me, I’ll steal your gold and take back my paper cups.
Possible Leprechaun: I don’t have any gold or paper cups.
Me: What’s your name? Bogart? Calhoun?
Possible Leprechaun: It’s Frank.
Me: Go downstairs. I’m going to be watching you.
“Frank”: Alright.
The front door shuts on “Frank’s” face.
Don’t ask me why I decided to write the dialogue as if this were a play. Also, don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen a leprechaun before. There was one at my front door and he was the scariest little thing I’ve seen since those crazed Ferbys from the 90’s.
*****
There is chattering coming up from the basement. It’s ten minutes after the starting time, which means the majority of the guests are downstairs and ready. I gather my clipboard with a black pen and start walking down the steps.
The basement is originally occupied with boxes filled with junk I don’t use but refuse to throw out. Objects with memories, you know? The boxes are pushed to one side. There are only two lights and they are the ones that are long and look like some sort of medieval weapon. The lights are placed on either side of the circle of chairs. The chairs are perfectly aligned, leaving an opened circle in the center. In a dark corner of the basement are cages of all shapes and colors, rattling and shaking from side to side.
There are roughly fifteen men in the room. There are tall ones and short ones (the leprechaun from earlier). There are skinny ones and there are fat ones that look like they swallowed an elk whole. They probably use the elk’s antlers as bras to support their massive breasts (the men, not the elk). There are men in business suits holding a briefcase, there are men dressed as if they mistaken this for a homeless shelter. Tonight there are no upper and lower class. Tonight there are no judgment and criticism based on appearance (unless you look like a fucking leprechaun). Tonight is about talent, strategy, and savage beasts.
I blow on my rape whistle (it’s not mine, I found out) to quiet everyone down and bring order. The chattering slowly comes to halt. There are still a couple that are still chattering. You can hear still hear random phrases if you listen closely.
“I left her there naked and thinking I was going to marry her.”
“ Did you watch MTV the other night?”
“ I punched him in the face and told him to send his mother to fat camp.”
“ He started accusing me of being a leprechaun and stealing his paper cups.”
Fucking Irish bigot that is good for nothing and deserves to have all this potatoes stolen. He thinks I can’t hear him when I’m standing three feet away from him, the actual height of his birth mother back in Ireland.
I blow on the whistle again and all chattering and side conversations come to an end. The fifteen eyes are on me, awaiting the match orders and the regulations for tonight. I clear my throat with an “ahem” and open my mouth in a loud, authoritative voice.
The following is a rough version of my opening speech:
"Welcome.
Tonight is Wednesday night, which means no leashes and BBQ sauce. I’ve posted the flyer on my front door and tonight is Asian pornography night with Hungarian influence.
All newcomers stand to the right and I’ll jot down your name and information. Have your license and certificate of ownership. We aren’t sloppy with this and we don’t allow those rotten bastards that steal to enter this ring.
Everyone else step to the left and take a sit while I take care of these new pricks. Have an idea for your challenger you want to take in. I’m jotting down suggestions and if you’re lucky, you’ll get your pick. We’re doing matches based on weight, so don’t think you can cheat your way into an unfair match.
I want to announce that our special guest will not be here tonight. He’s tied up in court hearings and we’re not sure if he’ll be returning anytime soon. May the falcons guide him through this mess.
Opening match is host versus newbie, which makes it me versus Irishman over there. Future announcements will follow. Let the good times roll and let the beasts have their blood."
The dogmatists stand up with their backs slumped and their heads tilted down. They walk towards left with their hands quivering and sweat dripping down from each finger. The rest of the elitist take seats and chatter about the weakest competitors. The room is filled with egomania circling the air above the guests, striking down every body that has a beat inside of their chest. You are no longer the CEO of the company. You are no longer the handsome attorney. Your reputation before tonight is nonexistent. Your reputation tonight is based on victories and failures. Your looks and social statues are as useless as a prisoner’s planner at the local county jail. “To Do List in August: rot away.”
The newbies, the fresh-out-of-the-oven kids step forward in a single file line. There are four of them, all looking more terrified than the kid behind them. The each hand me their driver’s license and certificate of ownership. Most certificate are damp from their sweaty palms. I run upstairs and make copies of each license and certificate. I place the copies in folders and the players name on the label. The clipboard is pinching a database with a few spaces near the end, to write down the players’ name and the weight of their fighter. I walk downstairs and glance over the staircase’s railing and see them standing there, huddled together like caribou hiding from a pack of wolves.
“Alright. One of you is going to be going up against me. Two of you will be fighting each other and the left over newbie will be fighting the winner of the host versus newbie match.”
They put away their driver’s license while the hands shake. They fold the certificate into a small rectangle and stuff it into their pockets. Besides the terrified caribou, the pack of wolves are laughing and chattering as if they were guaranteed a win. Most of these bastards are so cocky that they walk in here thinking they are going to win every match. When they lose they blame it on either their fighter or the host’s choice of regulations. The rape whistle is placed between my lips.
“Listen up. The first match is going to commence in ten minutes. The BBQ sauces are upstairs in the kitchen. Remember to laver up your fighter and opponents in matches MUST use different sauces. You use the same sauce and the fighters will just end up attacking themselves. Ten minutes.”
The chattering ends quicker than the audience’s perversion once they realize that King Kong wasn’t a porno. Everyone scatters around, most of them retreating to the rattling cages in the dark corner. Each guest grabs their cage with both hands and runs upstairs to the kitchen. I sit down in a chair (the one with the cushion) and wait for them to file out. I’m downstairs by myself and I take a look at the center circle. A few minutes from now, this basement is going to be a bloodbath. The chairs will be pushed to the walls. The chanting and yelling will erupt faster than Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii. Chaos will reign and the winner will be glorified.
*****
My kitchen is a mess. BBQ sauce is everywhere, as if a blind juggler decided to show up and prove his skills with opened bottles of sauce. There are handprints of sauce smeared on the refrigerator door. Fighters are running around with BBQ dripping from their bodies. They’re growling at each other, smelling the sauce on the opponents body. The smell is overpowering and it’s acting like a pheromones during mating season. I stand in my kitchen and watch them destroy my kitchen with sweet and tangy sauce. I feel a drip on my head and look towards the ceiling. BBQ sauce is dripping from my ceiling. Sometimes I don’t even know how these guests can be lawyers by day and acid-filled retards by night.
“Put your damn leash on your fighter and get your ass down there! You are acting like war veterans let loose with finger painting!”
A rush occurs through the guest and they all scurry downstairs. BBQ sauce leaving a trail on the carpet and dripping from every corner of the kitchen like it were a fucking cave. Bad choice for BBQ sauce night. Damn it.
*****
The match is starting in five minutes. I’m using my Akita tonight. I’ve been training him for five years and he’s a born killer (except those times he cuddles with me watching TV). He has five wins and one lose under his belt. We try to forget that one lose. He’s grey with a mix of black. His eyes are dark and full of hate (except when he is whining for some treats, they tend to become watery). He loves raw steak and will bit the head of anything that is moving (especially those squeaky toys you buy at the pet store).
I bring out my Akita out of his cage and I covered him in BBQ sauce before the guest arrives. He looks angry and ready to kill. He starts licking my hand while I pet his forehead and give him pep talk.
“Alright listen up, Gonzo. This leprechaun has been stealing our paper cups and he smells like Guinness. I don’t know what fighter he is using tonight, but you must tear him apart. Bring him down like Lassie did to those criminals.”
Gonzo starts barking at me and pacing back and forth. The leprechaun walks up and looks me in the eye. Once I catch his eyes and give him a stare to burn right through him. He tilts his head down and I open my mouth to ask the question everyone has on their mind.
“So Frank the Leprechaun, which fighter are you making your first lose with?”
A sudden laughter erupts around the basement, followed by several guests asking, “What did he call him a leprechaun?” The little Irishman walks back to a dark corner and brings out a fighter on a leash.
“An Irish terrier.”
That son of a bitch. “I’m not a leprechaun.” He’s trying to play like he’s never been to Ireland and he rolls up to the match with an Irish terrier. He comes to my house and disrespects me first by stealing my paper cups and now with this? Gonzo is going to rip apart that Irish, potato-loving family.
“You’re going to wish your ancestors died during the potato famine. The match is fifteen minutes long or until a winner is pronounced. The whistle blows and you take off the leash. There is no intervention. You can’t throw beer bottles at my fighter. You got that Frank the Leprechaun?”
Frank looks around at the other guests as if they knew the answer or some sort secret password to winning. He opens his mouth, but closes it right away. He opens it up again after stuttering for a few seconds.
“I got it.”
The other guest line up around the center circle and Gonzo and the Irish terrier stand on either side of each other. I can smell the spicy and thick BBQ sauce from the terrier. I went with the sweet and tangy, it’s easier to wash off afterwards. The basement is silent, except for the growling of the fighters. The lights are dim and the whistle is pressed in between my lips. I glance over at Gonzo, give him a nod, and blow the whistle.
*****
The BBQ sauce on Gonzo is dripping onto the concrete and leaving a trail. The chanting is increase and the anticipation is growing. The Irish terrier is looking at Gonzo like he was a Nazi turned social worker with horrible intentions. Gonzo is using a warrior’s tactic and baring his sharp teeth. Wet drool is dripping down and sticking to anything it’s flung upon. If he has rabies than every sucker in this place is walking away with a consolation prize.
The bets are being placed in a dark corner, with a man wearing a bowler hat and a faded jean jacket. An opium pipe is fashioned between his lips and the smoke rises towards the ceiling. He is counting the money, jotting down names, and thinking about which drug he’s going to indulge in next. His hair is greasy, as if a fast food restaurant decided to rub their famous burgers on this poor man’s head. I’m a few feet away from him and I can smell his pungent order. I’ll slip him a bar of soap after the match.
Gonzo takes a bit into the terrier’s neck. The terrier squeals like a pig being tossed onto the buffet table at a cheap restaurant filled with greedy, fat Americans. Gonzo is biting down hard. Blood is oozing out of the neck and encasing Gonzo’s white teeth. The terrier begins shaking violently like a fish out of water by the hands of a seven-year-old boy fishing with his grandfather. The chanting is fierce, piercing through the sound barrier.
There is a smirk on my face, the kind where you feel this rising satisfaction that you accomplished something important. Whether it’s winning a match or lighting someone’s house on fire, you feel that your life finally has purpose. Seeing Gonzo dropping the body of a limp terrier is like watching your child walk towards you for the first time. It’s like winning the lottery and not having anyone else know. The satisfaction is yours. The means of satisfaction are unimportant. You roll around in your glory like it is a pool filled with money and immortality.
Frank the Leprechaun kneels down and wraps his arms around his Irish terrier. His arms are covered in blood and his face is lifeless. I look at him like a king sitting on his throne looking down at a pleading peasant. As he looks at me, my smirk is in position and ready to attack. Something changes. He’s silent. His eyes are watery like a translucent dam holding back gallons of water. His arms are shivering and his terrier is limp, with the eyes rolled back like an out of order slot machine. The blood is dark red and slowly creeping onto my shoes, like a burnt pasta sauce spilling over the pot onto the kitchen floor.
Gonzo stands next to my side and I look at his face. His tongue is rolled out like a carpet at a Hollywood movie premier. The look on his face is the same look he has everyday. The same look when he is playing with a tennis ball, the same look when he’s drinking out of the toilet. This very moment, with blood covering his teeth, he has the same look he has when we’re laying on the sofa and watching primetime television.
He’s the civilian in a small third world nation run by a dictator. He’s the mentally disabled child placed in a specialty center because his parents don’t want to deal with him. He’s the handicapped man strolling by in his wheel chair while society looks down on him. He's the puppet and I’m the puppeteer with strings attached to his limbs.
I look around the room and the man in the bowler hat is standing on a chair, collecting money and shouting over the eager to feel the green bills against their palms. I’ve lost my train of thought, I’m wandering through empty halls. I hear someone shout my name from upstairs and I return to back to the power hungry host of the night.
******
“What do you want?”
There is a teenage boy standing in my kitchen, nervously looking around and his arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing dark blue jeans with small holes over each knee. His t-shirt is solid red and the V-neck exposes his bare, hairless chest. The boy keeps pacing back and forth, as if he has just murdered someone and doesn’t know what to do with the body.
“At the front door…I didn’t know what to do. They knocked a few times and started yelling. I….I tried calling you but everyone was chanting and I guess you couldn’t….well, I guess you couldn’t hear me…”
This boy is extremely nervous. I want to run down, snatch the opium pipe from the bowler collector, and give this kid a few hits to calm him down. I want to slip something in his drink later and make him loosen up for once. I try keeping my voice clam, as if I’m trying to get a very valuable secret out of a two-year-old.
“Listen kid, calm down. No one is going to know where the body is if you chop it up and then stuff it down the chimney.”
The boy’s eyes widen as if Bigfoot himself walked in the front door wearing an expensive suit, holding a bottle of whiskey, and yelling “Party time starts now!”
“Wh…what body?”
I step closer to him and he steps back. He presses his back against the kitchen counter. His t-shirt is probably soaking up several different kinds of BBQ sauce. He’ll need a good excuse to explain that to his parents. Maybe a cookout with a friend, maybe he couldn’t find a napkin while eating BBQ wings. A fist bangs against the front door. I step closer.
“Who’s knocking on my front door? Tell me without stuttering this time.”
The boy swallows, takes his deep breath, and cleared his throat.
“The police.”
*****
I’m rushing towards the front door. I look through the little hole dripped in the door. There is a cop standing on my front porch, looking directly at the flyer I posted earlier. He is wearing the typical blue uniform, not very fashionable if you ask me. His head is completely shaven, like a pale, white bowling ball with wrinkles. I look passed him and see a police car pulled up in front of my house with a cop in the passenger seat. The cop in the passenger’s seat looks bored. He’s holding a newspaper in front of his face as if he’s calming sitting on the toilet without single worry.
I make a quick turn and shuffle myself over to the nervous teenager with the confidence of a blind person at an art show. I get as close as possible I can to the boy without leaving him with the thought that I could possibly be seducing him.
“This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to go to my room for a second. Make sure no one opens that door. If they keep knocking, ignore them. I’ll be out in two minutes. No one touches the doorknob. Are we clear or do I have to get Gonzo to bit your ankles off?”
This kid is sweating balls of salty sweat that could refill the Atlantic. He swallows, making that “gulping” sound. He looks at the door, he looks at me. His eyes are lowered and his mouth opens as little as a professional ventriloquist performing his act.
“Yes…yes, sir. No one touches the door.”
This kid deserves a round of applause. He’s obedient and follows orders. He does what he is told and doesn’t question it. He is the mafia boss’ shaky secretary that empties the body bags into the shredder. He is the butler that cleans the vomit stains off his master’s designer suits after a midnight rendezvous with a woman of the street.
If I come out of my room and there is a cop standing in my messy kitchen asking questions, I’ll have to make sure Gonzo rips out his liver. As I’m holding the bloody liver that looks like a dying fetus, I’ll look over at the curious cop with a gentle smile and ask him, “Have you eaten yet?”
I walk towards into my room and push open the door. There are clothes everywhere. A monkey with a head full of acid must have come in while I was downstairs. He’s delirious. I can picture the hairy little narcotics beast now. He comes in with his tongue sticking out. He’s wearing boxers he found at his last victim’s house. His eyes are full of anger and laugher. He’s angry the horrible drug is taking hold of his functions, but he can’t help but smile about the entire ordeal. He begins in my closet. Close hangers are thrown on the floor. The clothes are tossed to the four corners of the room. Piles are building up towards the ceiling. The damn money is probably hiding in one of the clothes piles waiting to leap out and sexually harass me with his jungle language.
I’m searching in my closet for a little black box. The black box is tough, as if it’s made out of alligator skin. It has two solid clips on the side to make sure it stays closed. I find a box filled with old magazines, with topics raging from computers to hunting. I lift a pile of hangers and throw them behind me. I find a half eaten bagel with enough mold to infect a nation. I move a pile of clothes and underneath it, hiding from me, is the black box.
This is one of those moments where your common sense goes out the window. You’re depending on basic motor functions and mental processes. Everything is a blur. Your heart is beating fast enough to have it explode out of your chest. You make a decision and you go with it. You don’t sit down and think about it. You don’t put common sense or go through a mental list of your different possibilities. You convince yourself that you’re making the right choice. You think you can trust your mind, but your mind turns on you. It revolts and it hates you. The mind cannot be trusted.
I open the black box and take out what’s inside. I stand up, take a deep breath as if I’m mediating on the hilltops of Tibet. I step through the open door frame. This is it.
*****
“What are you…what are you holding underneath your shirt?”
The boy’s face is covered with a greasy layer of sweat and dried BBQ sauce. He’s trembling like some fierce drug is taking hold of his motor functions. The drug is fear and his motor functions are limited. I walk towards the boy with my hand underneath my shirt.
“This has to be done. There is no other way. I’ve thought about it and this is it. You go downstairs and you tell everyone to sneak out the back door. Tell them to hop the fence and run as if Frankenstein himself was hungry for their blood. Don’t turn back. Keep forward and save yourself.”
The boy stands there, with nothing to say. His eyes look at me, they’re as wide as a New York style pizza. He blinks. We stand there for a second, looking at each other without saying a word. This is my last moment of peace. This is the last interaction with another human being before chaos infiltrates my house. I snap out of it. Time is running out.
“ Go! Are you deaf? Go!”
The boy runs downstairs as quickly as possible. He almost loses his balance on the third step descending. He’s clumsy, but he sure as hell follows orders. He disappears in the abyss of the basement.
I turn towards the door. My right hand is gripped around the handle that is hidden underneath my shirt. It’s time. Gonzo is probably outside in the cold night air running with the others. Is he thinking about me? Probably not. The BBQ sauce is hardening against his body, forming a cocoon of commercialized sauce and owner abuse. Is he going to miss eating and watching TV with me? The food, yes. Spending time with me, no. I take a deep breath. This is one of those moments I never thought I would come to.
*****
The front door opens to leave a little crack and I place myself in between the crevice. The officer is standing there, looking extremely annoyed and ticked off. He focuses his eyes on me. I fake a smile at him.
“We’ve had complaints about noise from this house the entire evening. There are rumors of illegal activities occurring in this household. We could do this the easy was and you can let me take a casual look around. Or we could do this the hard way: I call my partner, we break down this door, and make sure you spend the night in a cell. Make your pick.”
I smile at him and give a quick little laugh. I’m attempting to pull the whole “there must be a mistake officer” scenario. I’m the friendly neighbor that is simply watching the TV too loud. I’m a liar.
“Officer, there must be a mistake. What can of a man do you think I am? There are no teenagers inside of my house getting drunk off cheap beer and sniffing cocaine off the kitchen corner. There isn’t a naked teenage girl standing in my living room playing with a stolen ape. Hold on a second.”
I turn my head towards the inside of the house and yelling to an invisible teenager, “Give him the banana and he’ll stop biting you. Billy, you sniff from LEFT to RIGHT!”
I rotate my head towards the cop once again. He’s gripping his gun in his right hand. He has a stern look on his face. His forehead is wrinkled. He’s stepping towards the door.
“Sorry Officer, some kids never learn. But what is that you were saying?”
The officer unclips the holster holding his loaded gun. He looks behind him at his partner. His partner is still holding the newspaper in front of his face.
“You are going to open this door this moment or you’ll find yourself on the ground with a grown man pulling your hands behind your back.”
This is it. I take my hand out from underneath my shirt and I push the door open. I hold out my right hand and pull the trigger. A blast erupts. A tiny smoke cloud rises from the end of the barrel. The officer holds his chest with his palm as red as a grapefruit. His eyes open, as if he saw Death appear with a look on his face that exclaims “Sorry buddy, just doing my job.”
The officer is down. A puddle of a blood orange liquid stains the concrete in front of my door. His arm relaxes, his eyes stop blinking. The cop in the car throws down the newspaper and opens the door like an action hero kicking the door down to a secret gang hideout. He begins rushing towards me.
I slam the door and lock the main lock. I turn the deadlock. I slide the chain. I throw a stool from the kitchen in front of the door. I run towards my room and slam the door behind me. It’s locked. I slide a small bookcase in front of the door. I slouch down against the wall. The gun rests next to my leg on the ground. My palm is sweaty.
There is a continuous banging on the door until to comes to a sudden halt. Bullets penetrate the door and bookcase. The bullets soar pass me and it’s as if times slows down and I can see the bullets looking at me and saying “I might have missed you but my buddy back there in the clip is coming for you rotten bastard.”
If you happen to see a grey dog with a mix of black covered in BBQ sauce, that’s Gonzo. Wash him off and take him home. He’s friendly and your family will adore him. He eats any brand of food, as long as it feeds him. He likes those squeaky toys, but the small ones. The big ones scare him. He’s trained to piss outside, but leave a small container in the house just in case he has a midnight urge to piss. Take good care of him.
The door smashes open. Remember when I said I would never kill a cop? Well I guess this one was one of those moments, you know, life and death situation. I’ve already killed one and it doesn’t feel too great. I mean, the gun going off made me feel like some badass in a R-rated film, but other than that, it’s not something to look forward to.
I grip the gun in my right hand and it’s loaded, ready to fire. My heart is beating faster than a cocaine-addicted celebrity playing the bongos in the nude. The officer steps into my room. Time stops and silence enters. This is it.
What? I’m talking about leprechauns? No, no. I know what leprechauns are and I’m not talking about those amateurs. I’m talking about the elite Irishmen; they make leprechauns look like the offspring of Gary Coleman and green beans. They’re fierce and steal your goodies when you aren’t looking. Trust me on this one, OK?
The paper cups are not necessary, the guest can drink out of faucet for all I care. Tonight isn’t about paper cups, it’s about more than that.
The barbecue sauces are lined up on the kitchen counter, depending on which one the guest prefers. We have the mild spicy ones and we have the sweet tangy ones. Beside each sauce is a brush and a small container, that way the guests aren’t walking around with the entire bottle of sauce gripped between their fingers.
The cheap foldout chairs are downstairs in the basement, all gathered in a perfect circle. Some of them are brand new, with the soft cushion underneath your tender ass when you sit down. Other chairs are bare metallic and if you are wearing shorts, you can feel the coldness of the metal pressing against your delicate skin. The chairs are usually tossed aside after the first twenty minutes, but there is always one idiot that likes to sit down and watch. “No, no. I rather sit down and hear what happens.” The pros usually have a little surprise for these newbies that walk in thinking they can do whatever the hell they want.
I’m running around the house, making sure everything is put away in the correct space. You put everything away and out of view for two reasons. Number one, you don’t want guests to know much about your personal life. Number two, a lot of the folks involved in this are thieves and cannot be trusted. I’ve had my remote control for the TV stolen, along with some detergent for washing clothes. Two weeks ago I had a sock stolen, not even the pair, but just the left one. I never said they were intellectual thieves.
I sent out the e-mails two days ago, so everyone should be here tonight. Tonight is my night for hosting, which is a big deal to me. Last time I was hosting, it turned out to be chaos and I was banned from hosting for two weeks. I’ll tell you about that later. One of the things about hosting is that you MUST come up with a back up story, incase some curious neighbors start knocking on the door asking what the noise and cheering is about. On the front door, I’ve posted a flyer that I made last night at 3 A.M. to hopefully prevent those agog knocks. The flyer looks something like this (excluding graphics):
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SACRED HEART CHURCH OF CHRIST
“REDEMPTION IS POWER”
The meeting for adults addicted to Asian pornography with some Hungarian influence is being held tonight at 6 P.M. in the basement.
Tonight’s scheduled:
- Introduce new members, welcome them.
- Share stories about addiction and pornography
- Comfort those around us, we are all brothers and sisters
- Play “Spin The Cross and Tell The Truth” with a partner (cannot be the same partner from last week)
- Last thoughts and mass prayer for redemption
If you are reading this as a concerned neighbor, do not worry, the chanting and noise is for those that are a step closer to redemption. God bless you and your children.
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Going to church through my entire adolescence is finally paying off now. The flyer should keep the neighbors away, since everyone values Christianity and morals. You throw in the word “redemption” and “God bless” and everyone magically understands what you are going through. You could be addicted to porn stars dressed as civil war soldiers having intercourse with wild boar and people will pity you because you are a “Christian”. Do you love narcotics and smoker’s lungs? No worries, Christianity is here to save you.
The doorbell rings. They aren’t supposed to ring the doorbell. They go straight down to the basement, take a seat, and wait till everyone else files in. The doorbell rings again. I’m going to kill whoever is on the other side of the door, unless if it’s a cop, I won’t kill a cop. Well, maybe. I’ll kill a cop if I really have to, you know? It could be one of those life and death situations and the copper is in your way. You never know with these things.
The front door creaks open to reveal a short man with bushy red hair.
Me: Are you the fucking leprechaun that stole my paper cups?
Possible Leprechaun: What? Paper cups? Uh…you have me mistaken for someone else.
Me: I see your bushy red hair and that beer bottle in your hand.
Possible Leprechaun: It’s a bottle of water.
Me: So you’re a magician, too? How tall are you? Four feet?
Possible Leprechaun: I’m 5’2.
Me: I’m going to measure you later and if you lied to me, I’ll steal your gold and take back my paper cups.
Possible Leprechaun: I don’t have any gold or paper cups.
Me: What’s your name? Bogart? Calhoun?
Possible Leprechaun: It’s Frank.
Me: Go downstairs. I’m going to be watching you.
“Frank”: Alright.
The front door shuts on “Frank’s” face.
Don’t ask me why I decided to write the dialogue as if this were a play. Also, don’t ask me if I’ve ever seen a leprechaun before. There was one at my front door and he was the scariest little thing I’ve seen since those crazed Ferbys from the 90’s.
*****
There is chattering coming up from the basement. It’s ten minutes after the starting time, which means the majority of the guests are downstairs and ready. I gather my clipboard with a black pen and start walking down the steps.
The basement is originally occupied with boxes filled with junk I don’t use but refuse to throw out. Objects with memories, you know? The boxes are pushed to one side. There are only two lights and they are the ones that are long and look like some sort of medieval weapon. The lights are placed on either side of the circle of chairs. The chairs are perfectly aligned, leaving an opened circle in the center. In a dark corner of the basement are cages of all shapes and colors, rattling and shaking from side to side.
There are roughly fifteen men in the room. There are tall ones and short ones (the leprechaun from earlier). There are skinny ones and there are fat ones that look like they swallowed an elk whole. They probably use the elk’s antlers as bras to support their massive breasts (the men, not the elk). There are men in business suits holding a briefcase, there are men dressed as if they mistaken this for a homeless shelter. Tonight there are no upper and lower class. Tonight there are no judgment and criticism based on appearance (unless you look like a fucking leprechaun). Tonight is about talent, strategy, and savage beasts.
I blow on my rape whistle (it’s not mine, I found out) to quiet everyone down and bring order. The chattering slowly comes to halt. There are still a couple that are still chattering. You can hear still hear random phrases if you listen closely.
“I left her there naked and thinking I was going to marry her.”
“ Did you watch MTV the other night?”
“ I punched him in the face and told him to send his mother to fat camp.”
“ He started accusing me of being a leprechaun and stealing his paper cups.”
Fucking Irish bigot that is good for nothing and deserves to have all this potatoes stolen. He thinks I can’t hear him when I’m standing three feet away from him, the actual height of his birth mother back in Ireland.
I blow on the whistle again and all chattering and side conversations come to an end. The fifteen eyes are on me, awaiting the match orders and the regulations for tonight. I clear my throat with an “ahem” and open my mouth in a loud, authoritative voice.
The following is a rough version of my opening speech:
"Welcome.
Tonight is Wednesday night, which means no leashes and BBQ sauce. I’ve posted the flyer on my front door and tonight is Asian pornography night with Hungarian influence.
All newcomers stand to the right and I’ll jot down your name and information. Have your license and certificate of ownership. We aren’t sloppy with this and we don’t allow those rotten bastards that steal to enter this ring.
Everyone else step to the left and take a sit while I take care of these new pricks. Have an idea for your challenger you want to take in. I’m jotting down suggestions and if you’re lucky, you’ll get your pick. We’re doing matches based on weight, so don’t think you can cheat your way into an unfair match.
I want to announce that our special guest will not be here tonight. He’s tied up in court hearings and we’re not sure if he’ll be returning anytime soon. May the falcons guide him through this mess.
Opening match is host versus newbie, which makes it me versus Irishman over there. Future announcements will follow. Let the good times roll and let the beasts have their blood."
The dogmatists stand up with their backs slumped and their heads tilted down. They walk towards left with their hands quivering and sweat dripping down from each finger. The rest of the elitist take seats and chatter about the weakest competitors. The room is filled with egomania circling the air above the guests, striking down every body that has a beat inside of their chest. You are no longer the CEO of the company. You are no longer the handsome attorney. Your reputation before tonight is nonexistent. Your reputation tonight is based on victories and failures. Your looks and social statues are as useless as a prisoner’s planner at the local county jail. “To Do List in August: rot away.”
The newbies, the fresh-out-of-the-oven kids step forward in a single file line. There are four of them, all looking more terrified than the kid behind them. The each hand me their driver’s license and certificate of ownership. Most certificate are damp from their sweaty palms. I run upstairs and make copies of each license and certificate. I place the copies in folders and the players name on the label. The clipboard is pinching a database with a few spaces near the end, to write down the players’ name and the weight of their fighter. I walk downstairs and glance over the staircase’s railing and see them standing there, huddled together like caribou hiding from a pack of wolves.
“Alright. One of you is going to be going up against me. Two of you will be fighting each other and the left over newbie will be fighting the winner of the host versus newbie match.”
They put away their driver’s license while the hands shake. They fold the certificate into a small rectangle and stuff it into their pockets. Besides the terrified caribou, the pack of wolves are laughing and chattering as if they were guaranteed a win. Most of these bastards are so cocky that they walk in here thinking they are going to win every match. When they lose they blame it on either their fighter or the host’s choice of regulations. The rape whistle is placed between my lips.
“Listen up. The first match is going to commence in ten minutes. The BBQ sauces are upstairs in the kitchen. Remember to laver up your fighter and opponents in matches MUST use different sauces. You use the same sauce and the fighters will just end up attacking themselves. Ten minutes.”
The chattering ends quicker than the audience’s perversion once they realize that King Kong wasn’t a porno. Everyone scatters around, most of them retreating to the rattling cages in the dark corner. Each guest grabs their cage with both hands and runs upstairs to the kitchen. I sit down in a chair (the one with the cushion) and wait for them to file out. I’m downstairs by myself and I take a look at the center circle. A few minutes from now, this basement is going to be a bloodbath. The chairs will be pushed to the walls. The chanting and yelling will erupt faster than Mount Vesuvius over Pompeii. Chaos will reign and the winner will be glorified.
*****
My kitchen is a mess. BBQ sauce is everywhere, as if a blind juggler decided to show up and prove his skills with opened bottles of sauce. There are handprints of sauce smeared on the refrigerator door. Fighters are running around with BBQ dripping from their bodies. They’re growling at each other, smelling the sauce on the opponents body. The smell is overpowering and it’s acting like a pheromones during mating season. I stand in my kitchen and watch them destroy my kitchen with sweet and tangy sauce. I feel a drip on my head and look towards the ceiling. BBQ sauce is dripping from my ceiling. Sometimes I don’t even know how these guests can be lawyers by day and acid-filled retards by night.
“Put your damn leash on your fighter and get your ass down there! You are acting like war veterans let loose with finger painting!”
A rush occurs through the guest and they all scurry downstairs. BBQ sauce leaving a trail on the carpet and dripping from every corner of the kitchen like it were a fucking cave. Bad choice for BBQ sauce night. Damn it.
*****
The match is starting in five minutes. I’m using my Akita tonight. I’ve been training him for five years and he’s a born killer (except those times he cuddles with me watching TV). He has five wins and one lose under his belt. We try to forget that one lose. He’s grey with a mix of black. His eyes are dark and full of hate (except when he is whining for some treats, they tend to become watery). He loves raw steak and will bit the head of anything that is moving (especially those squeaky toys you buy at the pet store).
I bring out my Akita out of his cage and I covered him in BBQ sauce before the guest arrives. He looks angry and ready to kill. He starts licking my hand while I pet his forehead and give him pep talk.
“Alright listen up, Gonzo. This leprechaun has been stealing our paper cups and he smells like Guinness. I don’t know what fighter he is using tonight, but you must tear him apart. Bring him down like Lassie did to those criminals.”
Gonzo starts barking at me and pacing back and forth. The leprechaun walks up and looks me in the eye. Once I catch his eyes and give him a stare to burn right through him. He tilts his head down and I open my mouth to ask the question everyone has on their mind.
“So Frank the Leprechaun, which fighter are you making your first lose with?”
A sudden laughter erupts around the basement, followed by several guests asking, “What did he call him a leprechaun?” The little Irishman walks back to a dark corner and brings out a fighter on a leash.
“An Irish terrier.”
That son of a bitch. “I’m not a leprechaun.” He’s trying to play like he’s never been to Ireland and he rolls up to the match with an Irish terrier. He comes to my house and disrespects me first by stealing my paper cups and now with this? Gonzo is going to rip apart that Irish, potato-loving family.
“You’re going to wish your ancestors died during the potato famine. The match is fifteen minutes long or until a winner is pronounced. The whistle blows and you take off the leash. There is no intervention. You can’t throw beer bottles at my fighter. You got that Frank the Leprechaun?”
Frank looks around at the other guests as if they knew the answer or some sort secret password to winning. He opens his mouth, but closes it right away. He opens it up again after stuttering for a few seconds.
“I got it.”
The other guest line up around the center circle and Gonzo and the Irish terrier stand on either side of each other. I can smell the spicy and thick BBQ sauce from the terrier. I went with the sweet and tangy, it’s easier to wash off afterwards. The basement is silent, except for the growling of the fighters. The lights are dim and the whistle is pressed in between my lips. I glance over at Gonzo, give him a nod, and blow the whistle.
*****
The BBQ sauce on Gonzo is dripping onto the concrete and leaving a trail. The chanting is increase and the anticipation is growing. The Irish terrier is looking at Gonzo like he was a Nazi turned social worker with horrible intentions. Gonzo is using a warrior’s tactic and baring his sharp teeth. Wet drool is dripping down and sticking to anything it’s flung upon. If he has rabies than every sucker in this place is walking away with a consolation prize.
The bets are being placed in a dark corner, with a man wearing a bowler hat and a faded jean jacket. An opium pipe is fashioned between his lips and the smoke rises towards the ceiling. He is counting the money, jotting down names, and thinking about which drug he’s going to indulge in next. His hair is greasy, as if a fast food restaurant decided to rub their famous burgers on this poor man’s head. I’m a few feet away from him and I can smell his pungent order. I’ll slip him a bar of soap after the match.
Gonzo takes a bit into the terrier’s neck. The terrier squeals like a pig being tossed onto the buffet table at a cheap restaurant filled with greedy, fat Americans. Gonzo is biting down hard. Blood is oozing out of the neck and encasing Gonzo’s white teeth. The terrier begins shaking violently like a fish out of water by the hands of a seven-year-old boy fishing with his grandfather. The chanting is fierce, piercing through the sound barrier.
There is a smirk on my face, the kind where you feel this rising satisfaction that you accomplished something important. Whether it’s winning a match or lighting someone’s house on fire, you feel that your life finally has purpose. Seeing Gonzo dropping the body of a limp terrier is like watching your child walk towards you for the first time. It’s like winning the lottery and not having anyone else know. The satisfaction is yours. The means of satisfaction are unimportant. You roll around in your glory like it is a pool filled with money and immortality.
Frank the Leprechaun kneels down and wraps his arms around his Irish terrier. His arms are covered in blood and his face is lifeless. I look at him like a king sitting on his throne looking down at a pleading peasant. As he looks at me, my smirk is in position and ready to attack. Something changes. He’s silent. His eyes are watery like a translucent dam holding back gallons of water. His arms are shivering and his terrier is limp, with the eyes rolled back like an out of order slot machine. The blood is dark red and slowly creeping onto my shoes, like a burnt pasta sauce spilling over the pot onto the kitchen floor.
Gonzo stands next to my side and I look at his face. His tongue is rolled out like a carpet at a Hollywood movie premier. The look on his face is the same look he has everyday. The same look when he is playing with a tennis ball, the same look when he’s drinking out of the toilet. This very moment, with blood covering his teeth, he has the same look he has when we’re laying on the sofa and watching primetime television.
He’s the civilian in a small third world nation run by a dictator. He’s the mentally disabled child placed in a specialty center because his parents don’t want to deal with him. He’s the handicapped man strolling by in his wheel chair while society looks down on him. He's the puppet and I’m the puppeteer with strings attached to his limbs.
I look around the room and the man in the bowler hat is standing on a chair, collecting money and shouting over the eager to feel the green bills against their palms. I’ve lost my train of thought, I’m wandering through empty halls. I hear someone shout my name from upstairs and I return to back to the power hungry host of the night.
******
“What do you want?”
There is a teenage boy standing in my kitchen, nervously looking around and his arms folded across his chest. He’s wearing dark blue jeans with small holes over each knee. His t-shirt is solid red and the V-neck exposes his bare, hairless chest. The boy keeps pacing back and forth, as if he has just murdered someone and doesn’t know what to do with the body.
“At the front door…I didn’t know what to do. They knocked a few times and started yelling. I….I tried calling you but everyone was chanting and I guess you couldn’t….well, I guess you couldn’t hear me…”
This boy is extremely nervous. I want to run down, snatch the opium pipe from the bowler collector, and give this kid a few hits to calm him down. I want to slip something in his drink later and make him loosen up for once. I try keeping my voice clam, as if I’m trying to get a very valuable secret out of a two-year-old.
“Listen kid, calm down. No one is going to know where the body is if you chop it up and then stuff it down the chimney.”
The boy’s eyes widen as if Bigfoot himself walked in the front door wearing an expensive suit, holding a bottle of whiskey, and yelling “Party time starts now!”
“Wh…what body?”
I step closer to him and he steps back. He presses his back against the kitchen counter. His t-shirt is probably soaking up several different kinds of BBQ sauce. He’ll need a good excuse to explain that to his parents. Maybe a cookout with a friend, maybe he couldn’t find a napkin while eating BBQ wings. A fist bangs against the front door. I step closer.
“Who’s knocking on my front door? Tell me without stuttering this time.”
The boy swallows, takes his deep breath, and cleared his throat.
“The police.”
*****
I’m rushing towards the front door. I look through the little hole dripped in the door. There is a cop standing on my front porch, looking directly at the flyer I posted earlier. He is wearing the typical blue uniform, not very fashionable if you ask me. His head is completely shaven, like a pale, white bowling ball with wrinkles. I look passed him and see a police car pulled up in front of my house with a cop in the passenger seat. The cop in the passenger’s seat looks bored. He’s holding a newspaper in front of his face as if he’s calming sitting on the toilet without single worry.
I make a quick turn and shuffle myself over to the nervous teenager with the confidence of a blind person at an art show. I get as close as possible I can to the boy without leaving him with the thought that I could possibly be seducing him.
“This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to go to my room for a second. Make sure no one opens that door. If they keep knocking, ignore them. I’ll be out in two minutes. No one touches the doorknob. Are we clear or do I have to get Gonzo to bit your ankles off?”
This kid is sweating balls of salty sweat that could refill the Atlantic. He swallows, making that “gulping” sound. He looks at the door, he looks at me. His eyes are lowered and his mouth opens as little as a professional ventriloquist performing his act.
“Yes…yes, sir. No one touches the door.”
This kid deserves a round of applause. He’s obedient and follows orders. He does what he is told and doesn’t question it. He is the mafia boss’ shaky secretary that empties the body bags into the shredder. He is the butler that cleans the vomit stains off his master’s designer suits after a midnight rendezvous with a woman of the street.
If I come out of my room and there is a cop standing in my messy kitchen asking questions, I’ll have to make sure Gonzo rips out his liver. As I’m holding the bloody liver that looks like a dying fetus, I’ll look over at the curious cop with a gentle smile and ask him, “Have you eaten yet?”
I walk towards into my room and push open the door. There are clothes everywhere. A monkey with a head full of acid must have come in while I was downstairs. He’s delirious. I can picture the hairy little narcotics beast now. He comes in with his tongue sticking out. He’s wearing boxers he found at his last victim’s house. His eyes are full of anger and laugher. He’s angry the horrible drug is taking hold of his functions, but he can’t help but smile about the entire ordeal. He begins in my closet. Close hangers are thrown on the floor. The clothes are tossed to the four corners of the room. Piles are building up towards the ceiling. The damn money is probably hiding in one of the clothes piles waiting to leap out and sexually harass me with his jungle language.
I’m searching in my closet for a little black box. The black box is tough, as if it’s made out of alligator skin. It has two solid clips on the side to make sure it stays closed. I find a box filled with old magazines, with topics raging from computers to hunting. I lift a pile of hangers and throw them behind me. I find a half eaten bagel with enough mold to infect a nation. I move a pile of clothes and underneath it, hiding from me, is the black box.
This is one of those moments where your common sense goes out the window. You’re depending on basic motor functions and mental processes. Everything is a blur. Your heart is beating fast enough to have it explode out of your chest. You make a decision and you go with it. You don’t sit down and think about it. You don’t put common sense or go through a mental list of your different possibilities. You convince yourself that you’re making the right choice. You think you can trust your mind, but your mind turns on you. It revolts and it hates you. The mind cannot be trusted.
I open the black box and take out what’s inside. I stand up, take a deep breath as if I’m mediating on the hilltops of Tibet. I step through the open door frame. This is it.
*****
“What are you…what are you holding underneath your shirt?”
The boy’s face is covered with a greasy layer of sweat and dried BBQ sauce. He’s trembling like some fierce drug is taking hold of his motor functions. The drug is fear and his motor functions are limited. I walk towards the boy with my hand underneath my shirt.
“This has to be done. There is no other way. I’ve thought about it and this is it. You go downstairs and you tell everyone to sneak out the back door. Tell them to hop the fence and run as if Frankenstein himself was hungry for their blood. Don’t turn back. Keep forward and save yourself.”
The boy stands there, with nothing to say. His eyes look at me, they’re as wide as a New York style pizza. He blinks. We stand there for a second, looking at each other without saying a word. This is my last moment of peace. This is the last interaction with another human being before chaos infiltrates my house. I snap out of it. Time is running out.
“ Go! Are you deaf? Go!”
The boy runs downstairs as quickly as possible. He almost loses his balance on the third step descending. He’s clumsy, but he sure as hell follows orders. He disappears in the abyss of the basement.
I turn towards the door. My right hand is gripped around the handle that is hidden underneath my shirt. It’s time. Gonzo is probably outside in the cold night air running with the others. Is he thinking about me? Probably not. The BBQ sauce is hardening against his body, forming a cocoon of commercialized sauce and owner abuse. Is he going to miss eating and watching TV with me? The food, yes. Spending time with me, no. I take a deep breath. This is one of those moments I never thought I would come to.
*****
The front door opens to leave a little crack and I place myself in between the crevice. The officer is standing there, looking extremely annoyed and ticked off. He focuses his eyes on me. I fake a smile at him.
“We’ve had complaints about noise from this house the entire evening. There are rumors of illegal activities occurring in this household. We could do this the easy was and you can let me take a casual look around. Or we could do this the hard way: I call my partner, we break down this door, and make sure you spend the night in a cell. Make your pick.”
I smile at him and give a quick little laugh. I’m attempting to pull the whole “there must be a mistake officer” scenario. I’m the friendly neighbor that is simply watching the TV too loud. I’m a liar.
“Officer, there must be a mistake. What can of a man do you think I am? There are no teenagers inside of my house getting drunk off cheap beer and sniffing cocaine off the kitchen corner. There isn’t a naked teenage girl standing in my living room playing with a stolen ape. Hold on a second.”
I turn my head towards the inside of the house and yelling to an invisible teenager, “Give him the banana and he’ll stop biting you. Billy, you sniff from LEFT to RIGHT!”
I rotate my head towards the cop once again. He’s gripping his gun in his right hand. He has a stern look on his face. His forehead is wrinkled. He’s stepping towards the door.
“Sorry Officer, some kids never learn. But what is that you were saying?”
The officer unclips the holster holding his loaded gun. He looks behind him at his partner. His partner is still holding the newspaper in front of his face.
“You are going to open this door this moment or you’ll find yourself on the ground with a grown man pulling your hands behind your back.”
This is it. I take my hand out from underneath my shirt and I push the door open. I hold out my right hand and pull the trigger. A blast erupts. A tiny smoke cloud rises from the end of the barrel. The officer holds his chest with his palm as red as a grapefruit. His eyes open, as if he saw Death appear with a look on his face that exclaims “Sorry buddy, just doing my job.”
The officer is down. A puddle of a blood orange liquid stains the concrete in front of my door. His arm relaxes, his eyes stop blinking. The cop in the car throws down the newspaper and opens the door like an action hero kicking the door down to a secret gang hideout. He begins rushing towards me.
I slam the door and lock the main lock. I turn the deadlock. I slide the chain. I throw a stool from the kitchen in front of the door. I run towards my room and slam the door behind me. It’s locked. I slide a small bookcase in front of the door. I slouch down against the wall. The gun rests next to my leg on the ground. My palm is sweaty.
There is a continuous banging on the door until to comes to a sudden halt. Bullets penetrate the door and bookcase. The bullets soar pass me and it’s as if times slows down and I can see the bullets looking at me and saying “I might have missed you but my buddy back there in the clip is coming for you rotten bastard.”
If you happen to see a grey dog with a mix of black covered in BBQ sauce, that’s Gonzo. Wash him off and take him home. He’s friendly and your family will adore him. He eats any brand of food, as long as it feeds him. He likes those squeaky toys, but the small ones. The big ones scare him. He’s trained to piss outside, but leave a small container in the house just in case he has a midnight urge to piss. Take good care of him.
The door smashes open. Remember when I said I would never kill a cop? Well I guess this one was one of those moments, you know, life and death situation. I’ve already killed one and it doesn’t feel too great. I mean, the gun going off made me feel like some badass in a R-rated film, but other than that, it’s not something to look forward to.
I grip the gun in my right hand and it’s loaded, ready to fire. My heart is beating faster than a cocaine-addicted celebrity playing the bongos in the nude. The officer steps into my room. Time stops and silence enters. This is it.
posted by EmbraceTheVultures | 10:38 PM
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