This Story About This Guy and His Guns

     He had poison ivy all up and down his fuckin' arms. Itched like hell.
He lay there against the hill side, took another beer out of the cooler.
Put the old lady in his sights for the last time (no wind), and fired.
There appeared a hole in her forehead, while the gun recoiled, and
made a noise. She fell over.

     The other people in the park were screaming, and running around.
He took another hit of beer, and began to reload. "Where is it coming
from?" some panicked bitch's voice wailed from over by the swing set.
He finished reloading, and found the source of the comment. Aimed
deliberately, and fired. BANG. She made no more panicky comments.
Killing people was cool, uh huh huh.

     Women were tripping on their sundresses trying to escape, and little
babies were a' crawlin' away as fast as their little undeveloped legs
could carry them. He thought about blowing one of the little shits up,
but poured a can of beer over his head instead. No, that would be just
plain wrong. Best to find another full-grown tart. Despite their
awkward, ineffectual flights, most of them were putting moderate
distance between themselves and the shooter.

     "Listen up, y'all!" he drawled from his hillside. "I got poison ivy,
and I'm takin' it out on you! Jim says, 'No One Gets Out Of Here
Alive', and he means it!" He unwrapped the Holy Hand Grenade, and
lobbed it at a passing motorist. The car's parts all leapt away from
one another as if embroiled in some bitter marital dispute. Where the
fuck were the cops? Eating donuts, and giving speeding tickets to
senior citizens. Jack the Ripper could be shish-ka-bobbing Mother
Theresa in the town square, and the cops would continue writing their
parking tickets. He reloaded.

     Goddamn fuckin' women were really getting out of range. Getting on
his nerves. "Where the fuck y'all goin'? We're just getting started here."
He strapped the rifle to his back, grabbed the cooler in one hand, and
started to jog towards the nearest yenta doing her best to imitate a
run. "oooOOOOOOooooooo," he moaned in the boogey man voice ,
gaining on her. She turned around with a twisted, unattractive look of
terror on her face, and fell over. "I'm comin' to GIT ya," he cooed.
Fifteen yards. She got up again, and fell over again, then repeated the
exercise once more. Ten yards. "I'm COMIN'.I'm COMIN'," he warned.
Now within range of hand-to-hand combat, he impaled her on the end of
the rifle, swung her around like a flag, and flung her into the

     "Freeze!" came the cop sounds, and then he got shot in the shoulder.

     "Cut it out," he said.

     For trained fighting men, the men in blue were poor shots, and missed
the next volley. He unslung the rifle, and shot two. They fell over
like sacks of potatoes.

     "I don't think I'm going to let you kill me today," he announced, and
shot the rest. They all died.

     One stupid woman had gotten disorientated, and was running back in his
general direction. "You thought THAT was a gun, wait 'til I show you
THIS one!" he trumpeted, and unzipped his fly. All five inches sprang
to life, and he commenced chasing her around the park with it, the
little head dancing merrily to and fro as it led the way. 'The Little
Head That Could'.

     He got tired of that, and sat down on the thing in the park that is like
a disk, and has bars, and spins in a circle and gets all the kids
nauseous. There was nothing else to do. He had killed all the cops,
and intimidated all the women.

     More cops showed up, like an army of them. They were shouting orders in
a very regimented way at him. He took out a beer. The new bunch seemed
to have a healthy respect of him, evidently wary of the manner in which
he had disposed of their friends.

     "You killed Johnny, you sick shit! I'm gonna get you!" One of them

     "Suck my long fat, tube-steak shlong, you fuckin' hick inbred reject!"
He countered. Not overly imaginative, but he had half a mouthful of
beer in his mouth at the time. "Get the fuck out of here, already! I'm
enjoying my day off."

     He lay back on the disk-thing, and tried to relax.

     The cops came up and took him away.

Scott Taylor is 30 years old, and lives in Denver, Colorado. He is a writer and a
musician. Among his literary influences are Charles Bukowski, William Burroughs and
William Vollman.

2004 Underground Voices