Enrique, I can't take much more of this. You know I don't usually have a problem with your friends, but I just walked by with that bucket of machine gun bullets you wanted me to load into the truck we are giving to these people and the crazy bitch was carving on my picnic table. I don't ask a lot, but I ask please don't carve shit in my table with a giant knife. What could she possibly be carving on there?
NO FATE. I saw it. Real cute.
There is going to be a fate and it's going to be you getting beat to death with a sack of bullets if you don't get them out of here! Tonight, Enrique!
The second they leave - and it had better be damn soon - you are getting the sander and you are getting that out of my picnic table. That is where me and the kids eat every meal because, in case you haven't noticed, you're making me raise my family in the middle of the wasteland.
Oh, for fuck's sake, of course. Of course she did. She just got up and left a rusty bowie knife sitting on the table where any of the kids could reach up and grab it.
Enrique, come on, when you said live on a bus I went for it. When you said let's bury a minigun in our bare dirt backyard, I said fine.
When you brought me all those dead rattlesnakes I even put them up on the fence just how you like it. But I cannot stand this woman and her weird family one more second. They are a danger to all the kids.
Okay, okay, I just walked past the giant idiot and the annoying little punk and I heard that giant ding dong ask the little kid why does he cry. And the kid said, "You mean people?" They are insane! Uncle Bob, right? You let that man handle my precious little square-headed son!
If any of them touches our gutted helicopter wreck I am going to go ballistic. You taught me to use a .357, Enrique. Don't make me take her out.
Holy shit. Holllly shit, Enrique, the annoying kid is now teaching the giant idiot how to high-five. Let's just go. Let's get in the cars and go. I don't even want to look at my prophesy-covered picnic table ever again.
"No problemo! If you want to shine them on..."
What does that even mean? I have literally never heard that before, Enrique. Are they from a lunatic asylum? Oh, she IS from a lunatic asylum. Of course.
Well, you can tell that story about Judgement Time or whatever you call it to the judge. No fate but what I make in divorce court. I am getting the kids, I am getting the machine guns, and I am getting the rattlesnake heads.
You can have that fucking picnic table. I don't want it anymore.
|Zack is the author of the new short story collection Wages: Future Tales of a Hired Gun, a blood-soaked satire of private military contracting. He is also the author of the genre-hopping novel Liminal States, which is NOW AVAILABLE as an audiobook. You can find out more about Zack's latest projects and special offers on his Facebook page.|
Editor's Note: Due to a freak power outage, this obituary of Barbara Bush was written without the benefit of research. In order to pay our respects to this great woman in a timely fashion, we have decided to post this piece as-is. We hope you forgive any errors on our part.
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