Exquisite Corpse - Issue 4
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by Shamrock McShane

Worse Things Could Happen


       . . . .Parked my truck in my garage, ok?
     I'm not saying my garage is the safest place in the world or anything. I'm just saying it's mine. My property. OK?
     Do you usually leave things in your garage?
     What do you mean, things?
     Valuables, say.
     Look, I went back for it. I went back for it fifteen minutes later. And it was gone. Fifteen minutes. Max.
     Fifteen minutes.
     Max. In my own truck in my own garage.
     You went back for it.
     I did. Right then.
     So you knew you shouldn't of left it there.
     Maybe I shouldn't of.
     Maybe? Why'd you go back?
     OK, OK
     No, not OK What you did, you placed a departmental firearm in the hands of a criminal, OK? You as good as put it there yourself.
     Someone stole the goddamn gun.
     Yeah, some bad person. This reprimand goes in your fucken file. So where were you for those fifteen minutes?
     Where was I?
     Don't repeat the question; answer it.
     Talking to a neighbor.
     Your nextdoor neighbor?
     You're gonna have to state her name for the record. . . .I'm just telling you. Then what? You come back fifteen minutes later your piece is gone. What else?
     My belt.
     Your belt. Your whole belt?
     Cuffs. . . .
     My friend, welcome to the twilight of your career. . . .

Bottom Line

     So the kid who steals the gun sells the gun, and the buyer is going to use it in the commission of a crime, but fate intervenes in the form of his girlfriend, (the cuffs could be fun) with whom the buyer proceeds to have a falling out. They are discussing the matter when he puts the gun to his head. She tries to talk him out of it. . . .
     Billy? Billy, please don't, Billy, please!
     But it doesn't do any good. He wants Death to release him from his pain. Right away. She is damn lucky she doesn't get killed herself. She's grazed by the bullet and splattered with his brains. Everything he ever knew.
     Now it's my problem? Come on. It aint like the cop who beat the sucker to death while he was handcuffed. Now that was bad. You had to take that cop's badge. Had to. He had administered him some beating.
     It's a good beating when: crushed his throat, broke six ribs, tore his heart, and, incidentally, hemorrhaged his testicles, aint that nice? This is officially known as Excessive Force, meaning you probably could of killed him with a lot less effort.
     Bottom Line? Chief says: No one can state with any degree of certainty that this death would not have occurred anyway if the gun had not been stolen.

World's Youngest Old Woman

     Still, it's on my head.
     But what about this? You want a distraction? What had happened that day, the day my piece was stolen? You don't have to go looking for trouble. It turns up in the emergency room along with the rest of the nation's uninsured and it's hard for the doctors to ignore it, to say anything other than what they see, which is a little baby's twat torn asunder. How did this come to pass?
     I question the mama, the family, the acquaintances who had been with the infant between Wednesday and Friday when they "believe" the incident took place during a (continuous) celebration of new life, except for the vile motherfucker had to diddle the poor baby girl. Raped her. At one month of age.
     Excuse me? Somebody rips your baby's pussy apart with his manly prick and depending on how stupid you are it takes you how many days to figure it out?
     Two or three. Many people, you see, have congregated at the house over the last weeks,celebrating, some whiskey, some beer and wine, smoke a little dope,crack's cheap, have a good time. Somebody had too good a time. Ooh, it's so tight. Yeah. It's sexual battery, but the victim can't identify the perpetrator. Instead she is having re-constructive surgery to try to put her pussy back together.


     But that was just the first thing. Then there's this joker:
     "I called my woman and asked her to come over to the funeral home about 11:30 on Friday night. And the second she stepped inside I started in on her with my fists. You ask me if I believe in beating a woman and all I can tell you is: she asked for it. Maybe I got carried away. Choking her with my belt was not strictly necessary, nor was it necessary to pour the embalming fluid on her ass. But you don't know what she done to me. Can't you see? Are you blind? The woman obviously hurt me to my soul to make me lose my mind like that. The hurt she put on me was spiritual, and all I did to her was physical. I could tell I was not getting to her soul but only to her body."
     Yes, sir. Step in the car, please, sir.

Fifteen Minutes of Fame

     Give me a drink.
     Sure, have a drink.
     Look, I busted my ass to get here .. . .
     You didn't bust your ass.

Don't interrupt me. I did. I busted my ass to get here by five o'clock. You said Be Here by Five O'clock, so I busted my ass. . . .
     You see, it all turns around on you. Don't you see that? You see what I'm doing?
     You're taking your clothes off.

That's right. Drink your drink. The better to fuck you.

Is that right?

I think so. Or are you going to fuck me? What's the proper syntax here? Women can fuck men, can't they?
     They most certainly can.
     I mean just because you do the penetrating, just because you come in me, that doesn't mean I don't fuck you just as much as you fuck me. Let's be partners in this, shall we? What if, what if I got on top?
     I might like that.

Got right up on top of you. Sat there.

That might be nice.

To me, that would be me fucking you.
     So it would.
     What's the matter?
     You sure?
     It's just . . .
     My gun.

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