Unusual Weapons by Richard Godwin

UNUSUAL WEAPONS - RICHARD GODWIN

Casey Marcs met Trudi Scram at a New Year’s Eve party. After he’d got out of the can he’d sworn he’d never marry again. His first wife had taken all he had and killing her didn’t get it back. The prison psychologist, a lenient man who encouraged self-expression in the prisoners, said he had unresolved issues and suggested he continue therapy on the outside.

Casey said: ‘What kind of issues? I’m done with killing, it never did pay good.’

The psychiatrist leaned forward, knitted his fingers together and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, looked down at the half eaten doughnut in Casey’s hand and said: ‘You certainly have food issues.’

‘What the fuck does that mean? Ain’t a man allowed to eat? It’s my lunch break. I bought it, I ain’t stolen this here doughnut.’

‘I’m not suggesting you have. But take a look at the shape.’

Casey glanced down and began laughing.

‘Why, it looks like a pussy.’

‘You create as large a hole as possible then pause before you insert your tongue inside it as you continue eating, then you leave it before it is finished, so that it looks like labia.’

Therapy wasn’t part of Casey’s parole conditions and he figured it was all bullshit anyway since the world had changed since he went inside and he did it in another State. He decided he’d enjoy his freedom with hookers and the occasional one night stand. He didn’t want to get involved. He wanted pussy not a person, people were trouble, they had baggage.

But Trudi was different. For a start she had the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen, just perfect.

‘They look like a couple of emeralds,’ he said that first night as he handed her a Martini.

‘What do?’

‘Your eyes.’

‘You’re making me blush,’ she said, giggling into her glass.

There in a smoke filled noisy room as Trudi fiddled with her Versace jeans Casey experienced that smitten feeling he knew meant trouble.  She was wriggling her hips about, pulling the jeans up and he wanted her. In fact he wanted her more than doughnuts.

‘What do you do?’ he said.

‘I work in animal rescue,’ Trudi said.

‘Must be interesting.’

‘It is,’ she said, leaning into him and whispering, ‘unless it involves bears.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I’m so frightened of them, I had to leave my last address because I saw one outside on the lawn.’

That night Casey fucked her at his apartment. He loved the way she leant back and went ‘ooh ooh’ as a few beads of sweat broke out on her brow. He lay and watched her wander round his doughnut filled apartment naked, opening the fridge, fixing them drinks. A few weeks later they headed down to Vegas and he proposed to her. Elvis married them as a Mariachi band played Aimee Mann’s The Moth and they honeymooned there, hanging out at casinos and night clubs.

‘I always wanted to do this,’ Casey said, ‘have an Elvis wedding.’

They spent a few months together, in which they never argued, and Casey even gave up doughnuts. Trudi was on a strict diet and didn’t want any fattening foods around the apartment.

‘You don’t need to lose no weight,’ Casey said.

‘I want to tighten up my butt,’ Trudi said.

She was naked and leaning over to pick up some panties and as Casey looked admiringly at her butt his eyes wandered between her parted legs and he thought of doughnuts.

But he refrained from indulging himself with his favourite food.

Then one day Casey got the credit card bill.

He stormed into the bathroom where Trudi was lying in a bubble bath.

‘There’s two thousand bucks here,’ he said.

‘Honey, I bought some underwear,’ Trudi said.

‘Hah?’

‘You know I want to look sexy for you.’

She raised her hips so her snatch stood above the water.

That evening, as they ate an avocado salad, she said, ‘There’s a reason I bought the underwear, a woman has to feel a certain way. We ain’t so good in bed no more, Casey, but I found a solution.’

‘What are you talking about?’

She took him by the hand and walked him to the bedroom where she opened a drawer in the night table. Inside was a dildo.  She winked.

‘My little helper,’ she said.

Over the following months Trudi’s obsession with spending money began to grate on Casey. She was half way through his funds and the memory of his dead wife used to rise at dawn and hover in the morning air before he rose to shower and go to work.

He’d taken a job at the local warehouse packing boxes and would return home drunk and angry at having to support Trudi.

The buzzing of her dildo aggravated him and he felt resentful every time she used it. And he began to smell doughnuts. The aroma would follow him all day.

One night he became enraged when he found the latest credit card bill and he hit Trudi. She called the police. They arrested Casey and he lay in the cell promising himself he wouldn’t do it again. They let him go and he went home with a plan. He pondered on unusual weapons.

That weekend he called his buddy Tom, who was a trapper.

‘I need a little favour,’ Casey said.

He went out a few hours before Tom let a Grizzly bear loose on the lawn at the back of their apartment. He’d shot it full of tranquilliser and at first the bear wandered about in a daze. When he saw Trudi sunbathing he headed towards her. Trudi went inside and got Casey’s shotgun and blew the bear’s head off.

When Casey got home he saw the dead bear on the lawn and found Trudi masturbating with her dildo on their bed. She lay there and looked at him and said, ‘I feel so much better I shot it, I’m not frightened anymore.’

He stood there and watched the vein throb in her neck as she came, feeling like a spectator in his own life.

In the ensuing days Casey gave up work and proceeded to fill the apartment with doughnuts. Apple Crumb, Bavarian Kreme, Blueberry Cake, Boston Kreme, Bow Tie, Caramel Chocolate, Strawberry Frosted, Strawberry Shortcake, and many other varieties of doughnut lay strewn around like half-eaten sugared vulvas.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Trudi said one evening as Casey lay on the sofa eating.

‘What?’

‘You is shaping them to look like pussies.’

‘You got a sick mind.’

Later that night, Casey was half-way through a bottle of Jim Beam when he heard the fluttering of moths’ wings and it came to him. He had to get rid of Trudi and he knew how to do it. He’d seen the Monarch butterflies in the garden and he caught two of them. He ground them up and smeared them on Trudi’s little helper. She liked masturbating in the dark.

Casey poured her some beer that evening and watched her get drunk.

‘I want you to give up the doughnuts,’ she said.

‘Why?’

‘Cause they’s fattening and what you do with them doesn’t bear description.’

‘What about you and your dildo?’

‘That’s different, I ain’t giving that up.’

She wandered off to the bedroom.

Her last self-fuck session ended with her having a massive heart attack.

UNUSUAL WEAPONS - RICHARD GODWIN

Casey Marcs met Trudi Scram at a New Year’s Eve party. After he’d got out of the can he’d sworn he’d never marry again. His first wife had taken all he had and killing her didn’t get it back. The prison psychologist, a lenient man who encouraged self-expression in the prisoners, said he had unresolved issues and suggested he continue therapy on the outside.

Casey said: ‘What kind of issues? I’m done with killing, it never did pay good.’

The psychiatrist leaned forward, knitted his fingers together and lowering his voice to a conspiratorial whisper, looked down at the half eaten doughnut in Casey’s hand and said: ‘You certainly have food issues.’

‘What the fuck does that mean? Ain’t a man allowed to eat? It’s my lunch break. I bought it, I ain’t stolen this here doughnut.’

‘I’m not suggesting you have. But take a look at the shape.’

Casey glanced down and began laughing.

‘Why, it looks like a pussy.’

‘You create as large a hole as possible then pause before you insert your tongue inside it as you continue eating, then you leave it before it is finished, so that it looks like labia.’

Therapy wasn’t part of Casey’s parole conditions and he figured it was all bullshit anyway since the world had changed since he went inside and he did it in another State. He decided he’d enjoy his freedom with hookers and the occasional one night stand. He didn’t want to get involved. He wanted pussy not a person, people were trouble, they had baggage.

But Trudi was different. For a start she had the clearest green eyes he’d ever seen, just perfect.

‘They look like a couple of emeralds,’ he said that first night as he handed her a Martini.

‘What do?’

‘Your eyes.’

‘You’re making me blush,’ she said, giggling into her glass.

There in a smoke filled noisy room as Trudi fiddled with her Versace jeans Casey experienced that smitten feeling he knew meant trouble.  She was wriggling her hips about, pulling the jeans up and he wanted her. In fact he wanted her more than doughnuts.

‘What do you do?’ he said.

‘I work in animal rescue,’ Trudi said.

‘Must be interesting.’

‘It is,’ she said, leaning into him and whispering, ‘unless it involves bears.’

‘Oh yeah?’

‘I’m so frightened of them, I had to leave my last address because I saw one outside on the lawn.’

That night Casey fucked her at his apartment. He loved the way she leant back and went ‘ooh ooh’ as a few beads of sweat broke out on her brow. He lay and watched her wander round his doughnut filled apartment naked, opening the fridge, fixing them drinks. A few weeks later they headed down to Vegas and he proposed to her. Elvis married them as a Mariachi band played Aimee Mann’s The Moth and they honeymooned there, hanging out at casinos and night clubs.

‘I always wanted to do this,’ Casey said, ‘have an Elvis wedding.’

They spent a few months together, in which they never argued, and Casey even gave up doughnuts. Trudi was on a strict diet and didn’t want any fattening foods around the apartment.

‘You don’t need to lose no weight,’ Casey said.

‘I want to tighten up my butt,’ Trudi said.

She was naked and leaning over to pick up some panties and as Casey looked admiringly at her butt his eyes wandered between her parted legs and he thought of doughnuts.

But he refrained from indulging himself with his favourite food.

Then one day Casey got the credit card bill.

He stormed into the bathroom where Trudi was lying in a bubble bath.

‘There’s two thousand bucks here,’ he said.

‘Honey, I bought some underwear,’ Trudi said.

‘Hah?’

‘You know I want to look sexy for you.’

She raised her hips so her snatch stood above the water.

That evening as they ate an avocado salad she said, ‘There’s a reason I bought the underwear, a woman has to feel a certain way. We ain’t so good in bed no more, Casey, but I found a solution.’

‘What are you talking about?’

She took him by the hand and walked him to the bedroom where she opened a drawer in the night table. Inside was a dildo.  She winked.

‘My little helper,’ she said.

Over the following months, Trudi’s obsession with spending money began to grate on Casey. She was half way through his funds and the memory of his dead wife used to rise at dawn and hover in the morning air before he rose to shower and go to work.

He’d taken a job at the local warehouse packing boxes and would return home drunk and angry at having to support Trudi.

The buzzing of her dildo aggravated him and he felt resentful every time she used it. And he began to smell doughnuts. The aroma would follow him all day.

One night, he became enraged when he found the latest credit card bill and he hit Trudi. She called the police. They arrested Casey and he lay in the cell promising himself he wouldn’t do it again. They let him go and he went home with a plan. He pondered on unusual weapons.

That weekend, he called his buddy Tom, who was a trapper.

‘I need a little favour,’ Casey said.

He went out a few hours before Tom let a Grizzly bear loose on the lawn at the back of their apartment. He’d shot it full of tranquilliser and, at first, the bear wandered about in a daze. When he saw Trudi sunbathing, he headed towards her. Trudi went inside and got Casey’s shotgun and blew the bear’s head off.

When Casey got home, he saw the dead bear on the lawn and found Trudi masturbating with her dildo on their bed. She lay there and looked at him and said, ‘I feel so much better I shot it, I’m not frightened anymore.’

He stood there and watched the vein throb in her neck as she came, feeling like a spectator in his own life.

In the ensuing days, Casey gave up work and proceeded to fill the apartment with doughnuts. Apple Crumb, Bavarian Kreme, Blueberry Cake, Boston Kreme, Bow Tie, Caramel Chocolate, Strawberry Frosted, Strawberry Shortcake, and many other varieties of doughnut lay strewn around like half-eaten sugared vulvas.

‘That’s disgusting,’ Trudi said one evening as Casey lay on the sofa eating.

‘What?’

‘You is shaping them to look like pussies.’

‘You got a sick mind.’

Trudi picked one up and seemed to study it intently before going to bed.

When Casey staggered drunk into the darkened bedroom Trudi said: ‘You can lick it.’

She parted her legs and led Casey’s head down between her legs. As she came, she wrapped her legs so tightly around his neck Casey wondered if she was trying to strangle him. He knew then he wanted to die with his face full of doughnut rather than muff.

As Casey slept that night, Trudi heard the fluttering of moths’ wings and it came to her. She had to get rid of Casey and she knew how to do it. She’d seen the Monarch butterflies in the garden. She caught two of them and ground them up.

The next day she bought a prosthetic vagina from an adult toy store. At the apartment she smeared the ground butterflies onto the outside of the plastic vagina.

When Casey came in from work she put it on and lay on the bed waiting for him.

He appeared at the doorways and she said: ‘Fancy going down on me?’

‘Sure, beats watching you with that dildo.’

Casey barely tasted it before he passed out, his lips pressed to his favourite shape.

Andy And Bobby by Christopher Grant

ANDY AND BOBBY - CHRISTOPHER GRANT

They were crime fiction writers that thought it would be cool to be career criminals. They were good friends, both on the internet and off.

One night, Andy and Bobby’s fictional worlds exploded out into reality.

It was Andy that had the plan.

Gas stations, from Los Angeles all the way to the border.

The first dozen or so went smoothly, no resistance, no heroes.

The media tracked their every move, starting out as a local interest story, gaining steam as they knocked over one gas station after another.

By the time they got to San Diego, they were national news.

And the FBI and California Highway Patrol were all over their trail.

Both Andy and Bobby agreed that their timetable had to be sped up.

“Last one,” Bobby said.

“I don’t like it,” Andy said.

“Last one, promise,” Bobby said. “We gotta get gas besides. Never make it to the border if we don’t.”

Andy relented and, twenty miles later, they pulled into what would be their last gas station. While Andy pumped the gas, Bobby went inside. He browsed through the store until the patrons cleared out.

And then he pulled his piece.

Bobby had done this dozens of times in a dozen other gas stations, and hundreds of times in the mirror ala Travis Bickle in Taxi Driver (Bobby didn’t do a half-bad impression of DeNiro).

He kept his eyes focused on the clerk behind the counter. As a result, he didn’t see the bag of Ruffles Potato Chips and ended up slipping on them on his way to getting paid. The gun went off, sending a round into the ceiling tile.

Outside the store, Andy heard the gunshot and panicked. Gunshots were never in the plan. For a moment, he wondered if Bobby had gotten unlucky, getting a hero clerk bent on protecting the till, and had lost his temper. Quickly, he removed the nozzle from the tank of the car and put it back on the rack on the pump. He screwed the cap back on the tank and slammed the little door shut.

When Bobby came bursting through the gas station door, Andy hopped in behind the wheel of the car and didn’t bother waiting for Bobby to shut his door before pealing out of the lot.

They were five minutes down the road when Andy looked down and noticed that they had only gotten a half tank of gas.

“Shit,” he said and Bobby looked where he was.

“Shit,” Bobby echoed Andy’s sentiments.

Looking back up, he saw the roadblock and the heavily-armed FBI agents.

“It was fun while it lasted,” Andy said.

“Yeah,” Bobby said before tossing the gun out the window.

ANDY AND BOBBY - CHRISTOPHER GRANT

They were fictional characters who always wanted to be real-life fiction writers. They just had no idea how to go about doing that.

One night, reality exploded into Andy and Bobby’s fictional world.

It was Bobby that had the plan.

Guns.

Lots of them.

Lots of death.

Lots of just plain old cold-blooded murder.

Until they wormed their way out of fiction and into the real world.

It may have been Bobby’s plan but it was Andy that initiated the whole thing.

His first target was his father.

What’s that they say about wanting to kill your father and fuck your mother?

Andy wasn’t all that interested in fucking his mother and he couldn’t if he had wanted to anyway. His mom had been dead for the past twelve years, the victim of a writer’s pen. No one had ever explained it to him beyond that. He thought that his father would help him understand and grieve. He thought wrong.

So his old man had to go.

Surprisingly, though he’d never fired a shot before, he scored immediately with a headshot, almost perfectly between his old man’s eyes while he slept on the sofa.

Unfortunately, someone had a flight of fancy because Andy’s father didn’t die with what, in the real world, would have been a killshot.

“Gonna have to do better than that, son,” his father said, his eyes slamming open. He got off the couch and grabbed Andy’s wrist, twisting it roughly to the side. A fist to the gut winded Andy but he didn’t go down and the sweep of his father’s legs finally felled him. Andy was quickly on top of the old man and had the gun in his father’s mouth. Two shots, just to make sure that he’d killed the bastard. A check of his pulse confirmed it.

Andy picked up the phone and dialed Bobby’s number. On the third ring, Bobby answered.

“I did it, man,” Andy said.

“Did what?” Bobby asked.

“Killed my old man.”

Heavy silence on the other end and then, “Cool.”

Andy hung up, sat down on the sofa and had a beer.

Three hours later, the phone on the coffee table rang. Andy was so wasted that he couldn’t find the receiver until the sixteenth ring.

“Hellso?” Andy said, slurring his speech.

“The entire neighborhood is gone,” Bobby said, sober as fuck. “I just kept firing. Even when the guns should have run out of ammo, they were still blazing, man. It was fucking...cool. What about you?”

“Ainch got offch the couch,” Andy said.

“Well, fucking do it already,” Bobby said. “How the fuck are we going to get to the real world if you don’t do your part?”

Because he lived in a fictional world, all it took for Andy to sober up was his willpower. The pep talk that Bobby just gave him did half the job. Standing up went the rest of the way.

Andy grabbed his gun and said, “Let’s rock.”

*

Two million, three hundred and seventy-four thousand, eight-hundred and eighty-six corpses later, Andy and Bobby stood on the edge of reality.

Reality wasn’t quite what they had imagined it to be. The veil separating the fictional world and the real world was a Jell-O-shimmering membrane.

“So all we do is just step through, huh?” Andy said.

“Guess so,” Bobby said.

“Think we should leave the guns?”

“Probably can get guns on the other side.”

“Ready?” Andy said.

“Think so,” Bobby said.

Andy stepped forward, put his hand against the Jell-O membrane and pushed through. It was like swimming in lard but eventually his hand broke out on the other side.

Andy smiled back at Bobby and kept going through the membrane, his entire body pushing through as he held his breath.

Bobby quickly followed.

On the other side, Andy turned to cinder in front of Bobby's eyes. Bobby tried to scream but couldn’t for fear of getting Jell-O in his lungs. He couldn’t turn around and go back to his fictional world, either. The tide already had hold of him.

Before he reached the other side, he figured that if he was going to die, he might as well go out screaming and he opened his mouth. The Jell-O was lime.

He heard a voice in his head.

“Relax,” it said. It was a soothing voice and Bobby felt calm.

The tide took him to the reality side of the Jell-O membrane and through to the real world.

Standing next to Andy’s ashes, Bobby braced himself for the same fate. When it didn’t come, he opened his eyes and looked at the real world.

It was very similar to his fictional world.

“Now what?” Bobby called out to the voice that he’d heard in his head.

No answer came.

Interview With Richard Godwin

Yours truly was interviewed by Richard Godwin (who, for my money, asks the most thought-provoking questions that one could hope to be asked) in a Quick Fire At The Slaughterhouse.

Topics include Alternate Endings, parallel universes, doppelgangers, Twin Peaks and David Lynch, and much more.