I’m going to dress like a pervy yoga instructor all week. Heat Dome!
Category: Uncategorized
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Chainsaw Mouth
A man goes to the dentist and has a chainsaw installed in his mouth. The chainsaw is not something he specifically asked for, it just works out that way. Leaving the dentist’s office, he tries to say “Thank you” to the receptionist but the only sound that comes out is the deafening rev of the chainsaw.
He gets home early and decides he can probably get some work done. The man is a salesman. Grabbing his bag of merchandise, he heads out to the neighborhood, going door-to-door. Whenever he has something new, some kitchen gadget everyone needs, he always starts in his own neighborhood, figuring neighbors with a lot of appliances are happy neighbors indeed.
He knocks on Mrs. Frick’s door. She lives at the end of the street. He waits impatiently for her to come to the door, shifting anxiously from foot to foot. An inordinate period of time passes and Mrs. Frick throws open the door. Half of her face is covered in make-up. The other half looks old and wrinkled.
The man goes into his spiel but the only thing coming from his mouth is the grating sound of the chainsaw. Mrs. Frick gasps in horror and backs away from the doorway. The man holds an arm of comfort out to her, begging her to stay and listen to him. She slams the door in his face and he reaches into his bag and pulls out some merchandise, leaving it on her doorstep. To his dismay, the merchandise is not some new household appliance. It is a bondage magazine and a snuff film. He wants to reclaim the merchandise but he’s so appalled and frightened he can’t. He scampers off to the next house and repeats the same process, telling himself it can’t be that bad. This time he finds himself throwing child pornography and a crack rock into the home of the retreating Miss Gallop.
The day does not get any better. His neighbors become more abrupt and violent—some of them openly hostile. His chainsaw voice becomes louder, more antagonistic. His merchandise becomes even darker and more illegal—Nazi propaganda, body parts. He retreats back to his house, throwing the door shut and locking it. He hides in the closet and crouches down, weeping with his new gasoline-powered voice.
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Bonus 12
To the person who downloaded all of my books at once (for free, of course): That’s a lot of toxic garbage to put in your head. I hope you have as much fun reading it as I did writing it.
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Bonus 11
As with most nights, I’m sitting around wondering which undiagnosed disease I probably have.
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The Animal Trainer
He must be on some form of disability. Home all the time. He lives across the street and I see him come out of his house with a puppy behind him.
The man walks the puppy to the bank of grass growing on the curb. His pale gut hangs out of his tight and stained t-shirt.
“Come on, doggy,” he says. “Make poops.”
The dog looks innocently at the man. They stand that way for a few minutes, the man as vacant as the dog.
“Come on, make poops.”
The dog stares.
“Here,” the man says.
He pulls down his gray sweatpants, turns his buttocks to the road and squats. A turd slides out, landing on the shaggy grass.
“Do that,” he says to the dog.
The dog sniffs at the man’s feces, hunches his back, crouches, and lays one down.
“Good,” the man says. “Good dog. Good dog.” And he pats the dog on the head, feeding him something from his palm.
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Delayed Reaction
It’s a good thing Virgil doesn’t react to the knock on the door and squeeze the trigger. Because, well, because his head would be on the kitchen wall. Virgil has to admire the irony. He is sitting in the kitchen with a fully loaded gun resting on his bottom teeth. It isn’t a series of events that has brought him to this. It is a series of nothing. Not even really a series. More like a wave. A giant wave of static nothingness slowly devouring his sanity.
No friends. No conversation. No laughter. No visitors.
This knock on the door is the first knock he’s heard since moving into his apartment two years ago. Roughly. Somewhat bemused, he puts the gun in the refrigerator and walks to the door. Opening it, he is stunned. There are five girls backed out into the hall.
“Hello,” he stammers.
“Hi,” a blond girl in the front says. She looks to be at least seventeen or eighteen. The rest look younger. They all look delicious. “We’re from the Springdale chapter of the Daughters in Christ Brigade. Mind if we come in?”
“No. Not at all. Please do.”
Virgil steps aside and motions them over to the beaten couch. They all sit down in a militant line, their skirts riding up as they cross their legs.
“You ladies care for a drink?”
“No thanks,” they all reply in unison.
“Well, then, I’m just gonna go get myself a drink.”
He walks into the kitchen and stands frozen for a few minutes. He can hear them talking in the other room.
“It’s so bare and… and run down.”
“Isn’t he ugly?”
“My goodness, he smells.”
“What do you think he uses in his hair?”
“Did you see his shirt?”
Virgil looks at his shirt. A few holes here and there. A grease spot or two. Damn, he’s buttoned it up all wrong.
He puts some ice in a cup and runs some water from the tap, walks into the family room and sits in the chair across from the couch. The chair looks like rats have tried to eat it.
The oldest blond who answered the door starts talking but he’s long since lost himself in the blue of her eyes. They sparkle with complete emptiness. Then he looks at her legs. From where she has recrossed them he can see a lingering red spot on one of her calves.
The time flies by and he tunes in to hear her say: “All we need you to do is sign right here and we’ll be by later in the week to drop off some of our literature.”
“Oh, sure,” he says, shaky hands reaching out for the pen and paper.
“Thank you, Mr… Bentley?” She tries to read his signature from the paper.
“Bunting.”
“Thank you, Mr. Bunting,” she says and leads them out the door. The apartment is still filled with their collective scent. It’s light and beautiful. He hasn’t smelled anything like that in a very long time.
Good, he thinks, they’ll be back.
Virgil goes out the next day and buys an entire used suit. He is careful to make sure there aren’t any stains or tears in it. He shaves, clips all of his nails, tears the hair from his nose and takes four showers a day.
For the next three days, he sits around in his suit, graying hair combed, and waits for the girls to return.
On the evening of the third day, he hears a knock on the door.
It has to be them. Virgil doesn’t even know anyone else. He eagerly crosses the room and opens the door. There are only three of them this time, but the older one is still there. All of them carry pamphlets and register a look of surprise at the new Virgil.
“Have a seat,” he invites them.
They do so, sitting in the same semi-militant formation.
“Lemonade?”
“Sure,” they say.
Already, Virgil can sense they feel more comfortable around him.
He enters the kitchen and pours the lemonade, sporting a semi-erection.
As he begins walking toward the living room, he stops, holds his head, and then bursts into flame, the lemonade in the glasses lighting to a boil before the glasses fall to the floor, nothing left to hold them. From his torso up, he has exploded, the rest of him burnt down to a charred stalk.
After their intitial surprise, the girls walk over to his remains.
“Oooooh, are those pieces of his brain on the wall?”
“My goodness, he’s all black!”
“Oh, can you smell the stink?”
