by Ben Small
I’ve been busy plotting murder all day.
Why? Well, why not? I’m a murder writer, aren’t I? Besides, I’m tired and frustrated. Did three hours at the skeet range two days ago and six hours at the rifle range yesterday. Can’t seem to hit a damn thing.
So somebody’s gotta go. I’m due for some joy.
So who? Hmmm…
The cat’s out; my wife would plop me on the rack, fire up a butane torch, and roast and pop my joints like popcorn. Might ruin my whole day.
What about the skeet-tender kid, who laughed until he cried when I pumped my shottie, aimed and fired, not realizing I hadn’t loaded up? Yeah, that was a real hoot. My friends loved it. I’ll be hearing about that one for years. But no doubt the kid shoots better than me. Heck, I think people in Power Chairs probably shoot better than me. No, I’m better off tracking the kid and seeing if I can inject some nicotine into his Gummy Bears. That’ll take some time.
I need more immediate satisfaction.
How about I go back to the gym and pay that lady back for her rude comments while I was gawking in the Nautilus Room? I mean, c’mon, she was on the chest augmentation machine. And so what if I slobbered a bit? My “Yeah Baby!” wasn’t directed at her. I told the manager Stairway To Heaven was just on my iPod. Not my fault he couldn’t find it listed. He didn’t have to throw me out. Maybe I’ll sneak back in and drop a steel plate on that lady’s head while she’s doing sit-ups. Oops. Slipped. Better her than the manager, huh? He’s ripped. Oh wait, so is she.
Back to the drawing board. I’ll get my Charles Atlas supplements, beef up and then go back to the gym. Maybe I’ll get a bag of sand. Sorta goes with the Charles Atlas thing, don’cha think?
No. I’ve got it! There’s a two foot Gila monster living under my front bridge. We call him Helio. Every day or so, Helio the Gila monster goes for a little stroll through our wash. I’ll just grab him and take him to the gym, drop Helio in the Nautilus Room, and then watch the fun begin. Cool. Maybe this time I’ll actually load Stairway To Heaven onto my iPod, so if my exultations are suspect, I’ll just point to Steve Jobs’ little thingee.
Uh… How does one pick up a Gila monster?
Uh oh, here comes the pool guy. Gotta go alert my wife. The pool guy was supposed to care for the pool while we were on book tour, and we came back to find it green. Not good. Very, very bad. So last week, we laid in wait, watched the pool guy sign in and then leave after not doing anything. So my wife spent four hours shocking and cleaning the pool, while I watched American Gladiators, ate chips and salsa, and generally supervised. So now, my wife’s got a mad on for the pool guy. And when she’s angry, my wife makes Medusa seem like Betty White.
“Honey! HONEY! Here comes the pool guy.”
Sorry. I gotta go now. Wifey’s got the machete, and as she walks she’s rubbing a stone across its blade. A blinding flash as shiny steel catches the sun.
“Here, dear,” I say. “Let me get the hose.”