Face the Music at the Butcher’s Bar

Posted in Fiction on March 28, 2018 by GuNNhead

“Hmm, looks like it’s time to clean the soap dish.” Adult thoughts are the fucking stupidest sounding, like, there’s no need to clean the soap dish, soap is clean. Anyway, no point. We’ll keep drinking and see if it gets done before I head out or sometime tomorrow. The spectre looms over me.

The usual place for events I go to is Butcher’s Bar, it’s an odd little tavern in the back of a supermarket. Go in through the alley, hit a little button on a buzzer, it’ll tell you to look up at the camera. Doesn’t matter who you are, really, they’ll buzz you in, I think they just do it for mystique. Adds to the weird vibe of the place, that’s for sure. Behind metal double doors, you can buy shots and halfburgers. No clue why they sold em by the half. And meats, assorted. The only light was from the grocery fridges on the sidewalls and the two big ones in the middles.

There’s one thing you need to know about me, my life is a prosaic nightmare from which there is no waking. There is a force in this world that has crossed a barrier between dimensions. Its coming here was a mistake, my fault, and now it is trapped within me, affecting my mind and my life. It does not like humanity, and my thoughts of ambition, my feelings of joy or love, act as a poison to it, to us. Should I experience amicability beyond the scope of what is required to remain alive for this conduit to the universal hatred of my existence, it shall appear, and I will be further disfigured for my indiscretion, it knows all I do and think, and revels in negative thoughts, they keep it sated. When I am miserable, I am safe.

However, it’s not all bad, self destruction and depression is a nice middle ground to live in. Occasionally, though, I do invoke the demon, just get to out of my apartment and drink until I wake up at home. The demon is an excellent auto-pilot. In the 14 years we’ve been together with my getting blackout drunk, I’ve never, not once, woken up elsewhere than my apartment. Tonight was lookng to be another one of those nights, and I was looking forward to it. But not too much, sometimes I can look forward to events too much, and the entity will reflexively trigger, rendering me unrecognizably monstrous and in pain for a time, preventing me from attending, and so I have learned to keep my expectations tempered. I cannot blame it, it is my fault for being too optimistic

Repressed expectations in tow, I enter Butcher’s Bar. Inside, I grab a few shots and a couple slices of salami. Scoping the place out, I grab a beer and a halfie to walk around with. I see some people I know, and have a general conversation with them, before zoning out and withdrawing from practiced disinterest. Finding a break in the conversation, I excuse myself to the bathroom, and wander. In the further back room, I pass where the bodies hang to the exit out to an enclosed lot where I can have a smoke. There are a few others here, I nod in acknowledgement of their existence, and keep to myself.

Back inside, I sit alone at the bar, and order another beer. I feel nothing here, and no connection to anyone. I am miserable, and it is perfect. I hate my life. After my beer, I head home around midnight. I drink more alone when I get home, listening to better music than what played at the bar. My own choice. Racing myself, I wake up not remembering anything after 2AM, and go to the bathroom. Washing my hands, I notice my soap dish is clean.

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.

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.

The Artifacinorous II

Posted in Fiction on February 15, 2013 by GuNNhead

Fighting through the cold and knee-high snow, I make it back to the museum, and see a figure inside. I fire two shots at it through the large bay window before jumping through the window itself. The alarms go off, and the figure vanishes. By morning, the RCMP arrive and attempt to question me. My badge and the security video answer all they want to know.

“Geeze, I thought I asked you to help, not trash the place.”
“I am helping. I caught your thief off guard, but if what I found out was true, we have a much bigger problem on our hands now. These stones each hold a great, other-worldly power, but there are not five, there are six, and your thief now has it almost completed. Where are those lenses?”
“I had them on me, here.” He hands them to me, I hold both up to my eyes, and look at the first stone. Then, the past is revealed to me…

“The undead!” Events of the past and future tore through his mind as he stabbed his wife in the chest, and kicked her off the final snowy precipice of the cliff face. Stopping more than one heart in the process.

I saw it all, thousands of years in an instant within that stone. A long-since forgotten group of our people who discovered the stones in the ice, fallen from out of space, appearing from holes in the sky and clouds. Unlocking their power, they were able to prosper over many generations. One day, an elder misguided by his own hubris and heartbreak sought the power for himself. He rose the dead as an army, but was thwarted by one man, who shattered the stone being used to channel these powers, breaking the elder’s control over the dead. However, with the stone now destroyed, he could not lay them back to rest, and fled with his wife and the rest of the stones. When the sun his his face upon reaching the top of the cliff, the stones spoke to him, and told him of his wife’s sudden but inevitable betrayal. He hid the remainder of the misused shards in a false-bottom of the unused cradleboard he had brought with him, and triggered an avalanche, burying all traces of the event and his peoples, never to return.

“We got a big problem here, a big problem.”
“What do you mean, like, moreso than what’s already happening?”
“Much more; how much do you know about these stones?”
“Only that they hold a great, mysterious power, whose power is only eclipsed by its mystery.”
“Wonderful. Call the RCMP, tell them to meet me at the graveyard.”
“Do you have a plan?”
“No. No I do not.”

The Artifacinorous

Posted in Fiction on February 11, 2013 by GuNNhead

“Nephew, I’ve come to you with this because you’re family and I can trust you, but more pertinently, from what I’ve heard, you’re an outstanding government agent and I need your expertise on something important.”
“Well, then, lets not beat around the bush with pleasantries.”
“Right, as you may know from holidays, I work as the manager to this museum for our people’s artifacts and treasures, what you may not know-”
“You’ve recently had a theft.”
“Right, but more than that, the thief left more here than the one object he left with, a tattered old cloth containing two rectangular lenses. This purple one, and this clear one. We’re not sure of his motives yet, but-”
“The stones. The most valuable things in here, not just by our people, but any one in the world. They’re a complete enigma.” I grab the purple lens of his desk, and go to the old false fireplace mantle with the five ancient multi-colored translucent stones. I hold the lens up to my eye, peering through at the stones.
“Dammit, nothing.”
“Be careful with that, it’s still RCMP evidence. Besides, we’ve already tried that.”
“Any luck?”
“Then let me do my job. Pass me the other lens.” I look at each stone individually; on the final one, I notice a reflection on the lens, behind me. I turn around and look out the bay windows, but see nothing. I look again, checking amongst all the stones, only the last one offers the reflection.
“I’m going outside to investigate,” I hand him back the lenses, “these are safe here for now.”
“What did you see?”
“Nothing, I just have a hunch.”

Outside, I walk the path of the reflection, and before long, I arrive at a flattened clearing of snow, nothing around it. Getting a closer look, my foot catches a hidden patch of ice, and I slide into the clearing, breaking through and falling 10 feet onto cold, hard dirt.

When I awaken, I’m tied down by my hands, kneeling, buried up to my neck in snow. Luckily whoever did this didn’t bother to search me at all. My combat knife is still in my belt-holster behind me. I cut my bindings, and dig my way out. Unluckily, it’s night now, which means the lenses are no longer safe.

I think back to the security footage I saw earlier of the robbery, this thief wasn’t nimble, but they got in and out mostly undetected, until the alarm went off at the display for the stones. What they took was seemingly worthless, but I wonder… Taking out my flashlight, I see see handmade desks, with scattered parchments, mortars, pestles, retorts, calcinators, and alembics.