Archive for September, 2017

That Dream Everyone Has Had

Posted in Fiction on September 18, 2017 by GuNNhead

I had the Phil Hartman nightmare again. Yeah, that one, you all know it.

The one where it’s a movie in the 80s/90s, and these thieves have broken into a government facility. Though it’s seemingly already a bit ransacked in the lower parts. Almost as if there was a problem, or they’re trying to leave in a hurry. So there are still some few scientists around. The thieves split up to find what they came for, and maybe pick up a little something extra on the side.

The main character (POV you/me in the dream, Steve Martin in the movie, iirc), gets what they came for by threatening a scientist who just wants to get out of there and doesn’t care about the experimental tech. This time it was like 5-6 of those blue PS4 game cases with white paper cover inserts, black sharpie titles. Experimental videogames and the console to play them on all in a cardboard box, wires included. (It changes every time I have the dream.) As the main character starts to leave with the bounty, the scene cuts to one of the other thieves.

The next thief, Jon Lovitz, snooping around, sees a sealed door heavily marked with all sorts of “Do Not Open” and “Danger” warnings. He shuts off a bunch of the fail-safes, and greedily licks his lips and rubs his hands together in anticipation as he opens the door to find Phil Hartman wearing a green and purple polo shirt tucked into blue jeans sitting on the floor, handcuffed to a table in the special room. Phil lights up to see Lovitz, and is real friendly, happy to be freed. Lovitz gets in close asking this handcuffed man about what kinda stuff there might be to steal in this place. Phil is eager to help for his freedom, says he knows lots about this place, but then lunges at Lovitz, breaking the cuffs, biting deep into his throat.

Then we follow Danny DeVito thief, and he runs into Phil, who is super friendly again, but Danny isn’t having it, being all ‘get outta the way, chump, or I’ll put a bullet in ya’ but Phil won’t leave. He keeps on talking friendly small talk, so DeVito takes a swing at him with his gun, but Phil is too fast, so DeVito starts shooting, Phil dodges it all, and begins chasing DeVito, crawling on the walls and vanishing and stuff, all the while smiling with a creepy grimace of a smile. DeVito soon thinks he lost him, looking around, but turns to find Phil looming over him from the darkness.

Cut back to the main person with the box of stuff, where we hear DeVito’s blood curdling scream of death, so I try to make it out with the box, but am constantly chased by Hartman, appearing in front of me, saying stuff like ‘how about that weather’ or ‘what’s in the box, neighbor’ I make it to the final exiting area, but the army is there, and I ask for their help, but there’s nothing they can do, they’ve come to shut the whole place down, destroy it now, since the experimental weapon has escaped. One soldier gets spooked by Hartman, though, and shoots the glass and metal separating us, and then I can only see glimpses of Hartman biting them, tearing through the ranks as gun flashes silhouette them. He then comes for me. He keeps smiling, looking me dead in the eyes, walking closer and closer. I drop the box out of fear. He leans in and says “I think we’re gonna be great pals.” Then the dream ends.

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The Debris

Posted in Fiction, Horror on September 11, 2017 by GuNNhead

I woke up again. Ugh. Hungover, hollow, with a scowl I can no longer remove. I rupture out of bed, disgusted by being alive. I see a half-finished beer by my bedside, and end it. The warm, sallow liquid reminds me to grab another from my fridge. Its dispelled carbonation can no longer hide its true flavors, and so I make my way to the others. Breaking the cheap metal by its tab, a familiar fizz greets me, and I wash down the flavor of its fallen comrade. I trudge to the bathroom out of necessity, and try to avoid the mirror’s dark gaze as I wash my clammy hands. Leaving the room, I face my living room, but it’s difficult to think of much living that went on there. Do I bother sitting on the couch, the sun mocking me with its radiant douchebaggery, or do I sit at my computer in my blackened room, and avoid more of the world? I wish I could do neither, as I take another sip.

I walk over to my couch, and look at my coffee table littered with beer cans and plates I’ve re-used so many times I don’t remember what I first ate on them since I last cleaned them. My ashtray is overflowing, but I see one last cigarette sticking out of a pack, so I take it and light it. In my first puff, I think about how shit the day is, and in my exhale, how I wish it would just end. I turn around to enter my room, but pause for a moment. Fuck it, I’ll tidy up a bit. I look outside the window for a bit, and reflect on my decision. What’s the point? I take another look at my filth and squalor, and pick up a few cans, moving them to an empty case in the kitchen. After a few more trips of this I’m done my smoke, and put it out in the sink, throwing the butt in the trash. I take the final sip of my beer, and open another. Refreshed by its chilled stinging carbonation, I decide to head back to continue my attack on the detritus of the living room.

Ignoring the dishes, I set my focus on the trash behind my table, between it and the TV, the forgotten zone. I remove a few paper and plastic bags of sorts before making it to the end, and as I go to pick up the last paper bag I notice something sticking slightly out of it. A piece of fried chicken. A breast. When was the last time I had fried chicken? Last week? Two weeks ago? I see a small spider on top of it, and knew it had attracted other bugs, damnable ants. As I go to pick it up, however, I kick the bag, and the spider moves, and I begin to see others. Larger spiders, hiding in all sorts of places around my shelves near my TV. Their webs, small and unseeable if not for the sun. I back away, creeped out, but as my vision widens, I only see more spiders crawling out of their hiding places, larger and larger. I eye my bug-zapping flyswatter, only to see another arachnid has made it its nest, its large body resting comfortably on the handle. I make my way to the door to get my shoe, return and start swatting, but it’s of no use, there’s simply too many, and back up into my room, only to be met with a doorway clogged with more webs than I’ve ever experienced. I struggle to get it off of me, but to no avail. I keep trying to crush them with my shoe as the millions of tiny fangs dig into me, but have no leverage as it falls from my hand. I fall to the ground, and it all goes black.

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