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From: Pariah Dog <pariah_dog@excite.com>
Subject: {ASSM} Home in time for Melrose {Pariah Dog} (Halloween violence MF group)
Date: Sun, 24 Sep 2000 11:10:17 -0400
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<1st attachment, "Melrose.txt" begin>
This is a work of fiction.
You may repost this story on any newsgroup, but you must retain
my name and E-mail address on each and every copy.
This story may not be posted on any website, free or otherwise,
without my express permission.
The following story may contain a subject that is adult in
nature. If you are under the legal age you do not have my
permission to read it. If you are of legal age then enjoy.
Email the author at Pariah_Dog@Excite.com
============================================================
Home in time for Melrose. (Halloween violence MF group)
You're late. Your boss just had to have those reports finished
tonight and now you're late. Dinner will be ruined, your wife
will be as accommodating as an arctic ice flow and you still
have to stop off at the shops to get a loaf of bread. Melrose
Place starts in just half an hour and you're going to miss it
because you're late.
It's all that bastard's fault. "I need those reports tonight,"
he said. Yeah right. He just wanted to get an early start on
his bloody fishing trip with his scum-sucking mates. So you had
to stay behind and finish his job.
And now you're fucking late.
You need to calm down so you turn on the radio. Some good old
Rock and Roll is required. Some Creedence Clearwater Revival
maybe, or maybe some Eagles. You're in the perfect mood for
Hotel California. Or what about Pink Floyd? Now that's the
ticket, something from "Wish You Where Here" is just what the
doctor ordered.
"You're listening to the party hour on Triple S. The only
station with 100 percent dance music, 24 hours a day."
"What the hell is this crap?" you ask as you fumble for the
tuner. There has to be something better than this. You lock
onto another station.
"You're listening to 108 FM. The only station that plays 100
percent Rap music 24 hours a day."
Goddam Rap music. Angrily you twist the off switch, which
promptly breaks off in your hand.
Unbelievable!
You throw the knob at the radio and watch as it bounces off the
dash and out the passenger side window. You now have 100
percent Rap music and no way of turning it off. Life just
doesn't get any better than this. You reach into the glove box
and pull out a ball pain hammer. Now that's a strange thing to
find in a glove box, and why is the handle sticky? You push
these thoughts out of your mind, there are more important
things to attend to right now. With a few gentle adjustments
you manage to turn off the radio.
And the heater unit.
And the ashtray.
Strangely enough you begin to feel calmer. Beating the living
daylights out of the dashboard was just the release you needed.
You put the hammer away and smile, a big I'm-okay-you're-okay
sort of smile as you spot the lights of the supermarket up
ahead. Five minutes to get the bread, a quick in and out and
you'll still have twenty minutes left until Melrose starts.
No problems.
Of course, your wife will still be pissed at you but that's
nothing unusual these days. And dinner will be ruined but it
would have tasted like shit anyway. She never could cook worth
a damn. Not even when you married her. But in those days she
made up for it in other ways. There won't be any of that
tonight though. Hasn't been any of that for a long time. When
you first married her she was insatiable, she couldn't get
enough of you. She would even turn up at work sometimes and you
would have to send your secretary out to an early lunch.
A long early lunch.
Let's face it, the girl liked to fuck. And she wasn't too fussy
about where she did it either. Remember that time on the train
when you were on your way home from the nightclub? How she had
whispered in your ear that she wanted to fuck your brains out,
right here, right now. And she did too. A train with more than
just a few people in it and here she was, bouncing up and down
in your lap, moaning and groaning like it was the best fuck she
ever had. Maybe it was a hint of what was too come when she
asked you if you minded that she fucked anyone in the carriage
who wanted her. You knew you should have said that yes, you did
mind, but you just had to play the understanding husband,
didn't you? Remember how you felt watching her get screwed by
all those guys? At first it was kind of a turn on, but soon you
felt that knot starting to tighten in the pit of your stomach.
You probably shouldn't have dragged her away from all those
men, but you couldn't help yourself. And when those three guys
followed you off the train and tried to take her away from you
on the platform...
What did happen then? Why is it so hard to remember? You can
recall them threatening you, and even one of them grabbing your
wife by the arm, but then it was just a blur. The next thing
you knew you were walking home with your wife on your arm and
your knuckles bleeding. And what about that look in your wife's
eyes, like she was ready to do it all again. As soon as you got
home she had fucked your brains out, right there on the living
room floor.
How could a woman who needed it so much, now not want it at
all? Well the answer to that question was at the local gym.
Apparently she had been getting some special attention from the
aerobics instructor, according to the photos in your desk at
work. Good quality photos too, very good definition with some
nice close ups, eliminating any chance of mistaken identity.
Yep, overall some nice quality work and worth every penny you
paid for them.
So what do you do about it?
The usual response would be to go around to his place and punch
his lights out. But what do you do when the person your wife is
cheating with is another woman? A woman for Christ's sake. How
can you compete with that? Thank God you don't have any kids.
Imagine trying to explain to them that your divorcing their
mother because she's a Dyke?
You turn into the driveway of the supermarket and start looking
for a place to park. But what the hell is this? Some sort of
construction work taking up the first six rows of parking bays,
which means you have a bit of a walk ahead of you. You guide
your car into a vacant spot and begin the trek. It looks like
you'll have to navigate your way through all this construction.
You notice that the route is defined by those little plastic
flags, the kind that you see at all the best second hand car
yards. The light is not that good out here so you don't see
that large puddle until you've stepped in it, letting water
trickle down your socks and into your two hundred-dollar shoes.
Fortunately the squelching that accompanies your every step
serves to remind you to be more observant in the future. The
entrance to the supermarket rises before you as you emerge from
the labyrinth but in a last despairing leap a nail reaches out
and tears the surface of your briefcase.
Your briefcase? Why are you carrying that? Why didn't you leave
it in the car? Well it's too late to take it back now. You
continue on through the entrance, hoping against hope that it
will be warm inside. As you enter the heat hits you like a slap
in the face, instantly fogging up your glasses. It's like a
sauna in here. It must be a hundred and twenty degrees at
least. In and out you think. In and out then home for Melrose.
You push your way through the turnstile and head for the bakery
section with a slight detour through the freezer section to try
to cool off a bit. At last you reach the isle that has the
bread.
Or should I say the aisle with the empty shelves. Nothing, not
a damn thing. Something inside your head starts to unravel, and
you start to reach for a familiar lump inside your jacket. But
wait, what is that down near the end of the aisle? You walk
down there and see a loaf of bread. True, it's some obscure
Lebanese blend, but it's still bread.
"Oh well a change is as good as a holiday" you mutter to
yourself as you head toward the checkouts. Your mind is stable
again and the lump in your jacket is forgotten for now. It's as
hot as blazes in here but you keep your jacket on. Why is that?
The checkouts are a disaster. There must be twenty people here
and only two checkouts are open. The frustration is building
again and you're getting ready to explode. Movement in the
corner of your eye catches your attention, a young girl with
bright orange hair is opening an express lane. At last you're
catching a break. You walk over to the checkout thinking that
everything is going to be all right. By the time you get back
to your car you'll still have fifteen minutes to get home for
Melrose. You might miss the opening credits but you can live
with that, can't you? You're catapulted from your thoughts by
sudden pain in your shins. A little old lady pushing a shopping
cart has bumped into you before heading for the same checkout
you wanted. My God, look at that thing. It's full to
overflowing with tinned cat food and bags of kitty litter. What
is she, the fucking patron saint of cats or something? And how
the hell is she pushing it? It must weigh a ton. That thing in
your head is unravelling again. You reach inside your jacket.
Now lets be honest here, it's not a jacket at all is it? It's
more like an overcoat. And that lump inside it, that comforting
weight resting against you side. You know what it is don't you?
Can you remember when you first started carrying that around
with you?
The little old lady, she of the blue rinse set, looks up at you
and asks, "You don't mind do you?"
You take hold of the shotgun and pull it out from under your
coat. "Mind?" you ask as you pump a round into the chamber.
"No, I don't mind at all". You pull the trigger and the little
old lady disappears in a spray of blood and Snappy Tom. That
thing in your head is gone now. With a touch of remorse you
realize it was your sanity. You pump in another round as the
manager comes running up.
"What the hell is going on here?" he demands.
"This is" you reply as you smile and blow him away. Things are
getting pretty messy around here. "Cleanup on checkout eight"
you yell and start to laugh.
People are just standing there, staring at you. No one has
panicked, nobody's running for the door. They're just not
taking this seriously. Obviously they need a bit more
incentive. You turn to the girl at the checkout. That orange
hair is just too inviting a target. One pull of the trigger and
everyone starts to get the idea. People are diving into aisles,
under counters and out the doors. You take some pot shots and
manage to tag an overweight businessman. He's still moving so
you walk over and put the barrel to his forehead. The look of
fear in his face is invigorating as you pull the trigger but
all you hear is a click.
Out of ammo.
You search your pocket but to no avail. The fat executive is
looking at you, hope starting to bleed back into his eyes. You
reverse the gun and bring the butt down into his face, driving
bone fragments into his brain.
Looking around you see your briefcase over by the checkouts.
You walk over, kneel down and open it. It's empty except for a
box of shells, a half eaten sandwich and a lump of human flesh
that looks suspiciously like your bosses' hand. Just what did
you do before you left work this evening? As you reload the
shotgun you try to remember but you draw a blank. Obviously the
boss is not going fishing tomorrow. You fill your pockets with
the remaining shells and go hunting.
***
It doesn't take long to clean up the stragglers. It's amazing
what people will do to keep from dying, isn't it? You find one
man hiding in the freezer section, trying vainly to dig his way
under the frozen peas and beans. Laughing maniacally you turn
him into meat and two veg. All this work makes you hungry
though, so you take a bite of that sandwich you found in you
briefcase. Tastes good, doesn't it?
The memories start to flood back now, about that last
altercation in the office with your boss and how it ended with
his head under the photocopying machine. You have no idea how
you managed to lift that heavy piece of office equipment up so
high, and neither did your boss judging by the look of surprise
on his face. He reminded you of a rabbit, caught in the
headlights of a car, just before you xeroxed his arse. Was it
really necessary to smash it down on him so often though? It
took you ages to get all the blood, brains and bone fragments
out of the carpet. After you had cleaned up that stain, and
wrapped what was left of his skull in bubble wrap that you
found in the stationary cupboard, you had dragged the body down
to the 14th floor where a new tenant had started renovating
before moving in. That bandsaw they set up sure came in handy,
didn't it? It only took a couple of minutes to reduce your boss
to cold cuts. You wonder briefly how much a kilo you could have
gotten for him if you hadn't taken the remains down to the
incinerator in the basement. Who would have thought that boss
burns so easily? Or maybe it was all that gasoline you poured
over him before you threw him in. You might have used a bit too
much actually, judging by how the flames from the incinerator
had quickly set fire to the basement. At least you don't have
to worry about anyone finding any incriminating evidence. As
these memories sweep over you, you begin to wonder if your boss
had a part in that sandwich that you're eating, but then a new
memory comes flooding back.
Cooking a roast the night before, seasoning it so it would
taste just like pork, and listening to the silence in the
house. No nagging wife complaining about how your career was
going nowhere, about how you don't help out around the house,
and how bad you are in bed. The temptation had been there to
ask her about her new lover, the aerobics instructor who was a
part time carpet muncher, but somehow it didn't seem to be
enough. The knife had felt good in your hands that night,
perfectly balanced, like it was an extension of your arm. It
had buried itself into her like she was made of hot butter. The
slashing, the slicing, it had all felt right. And it kept
plunging in, long after she had stop screaming. When the knife
had finished its job you moved toward the sink, but almost lost
your balance on the slippery kitchen floor. You were like an
innocent child jumping in puddles, except these puddles where a
dark, visceral, red. As you looked down at your now ex-wife you
remembered how your life was never going to be good enough for
her. But that was all behind you now. Nope, no more listening
to complaints for you. You set about cleaning up the mess,
getting the house spotlessly clean. If your wife had seen what
a good job you had done she would have been impressed. But she
couldn't really see it, could she? Not with the jar on the
mantle piece turned the other way like that. So after that you
had set about cooking the roast.
It's kind of ironic really. Your wife was always complaining
about you not eating her. Looks like she's getting her wish
now.
You finish off the sandwich and head towards the back of the
store. Spotting a nondescript door you decide to see what's
inside. Opening the door reveals a small office with a fold-up
chair and a card table. It's what's on the table that gets your
attention, a small colour TV. Checking your watch you see that
it's 8:30, just in time for Melrose. You take your coat off and
notice that your clothes are soaked in blood and gore from the
office. Not that it really matters too you, not when you have
some serious television watching to do. You sit down and relax
as the first of the Police arrive outside.
***
One hour later and you're chuckling to yourself. You love a
good episode of Melrose Place, and tonight was an absolute
blast. Of course, it would have been a lot better if that damn
phone hadn't kept ringing. Cops can be very stubborn when they
want to be. The first time they rang you told them you would be
available in an hour. The second time they called you told them
to fuck off and hung up on them. The third time they rang you
dragged a screaming stock clerk out by the hair and shot him in
front of the main doors.
During the commercial break of course.
They appeared to get the hint after that. The rest of the show
went without interruption. But then it was over and you had to
figure out what to do next. The Police must have been watching
too, because as soon as the show finished the calls on the loud
hailer started. I guess they would have called you if you
hadn't shot the phone off the wall.
They mention that your wife is on her way. Now that would be a
neat trick. You assume they haven't checked the mantelpiece
yet.
They ask you if you're responsible for the fire at your office
building. You shout back that yes, you are, but it was just to
cover up the fact that you had turned your boss into a deli
special. Well honesty is the best policy after all.
They offer to negotiate, you offer to send out your hostages
piece by piece.
They ask you to settle down, you blow away an old man that was
looking at you funny.
You want to make sure that they understand just who is in
charge around here. It takes some convincing but eventually
they get the idea. It was just after you played supermarket
bowling with the head of some punk with a ring through his lip.
After that they ask you what your demands are.
You tell them you want to see Saddam Hussein suck George Bush's
cock on international television. They tell you they'll work on
it.
You tell them that you want the CIA to tell the world who
really shot JFK. They tell you no problem.
You tell them you want eight track stereos to replace CD's.
They tell you they'll get right on it.
You begin to think they're not taking you seriously. You decide
to demonstrate to them that they should show you some respect,
but you discover that you have a small problem.
You've run out of hostages.
Probably wasn't such a good idea to play "Who can outrun a
shotgun blast". Oh well, life is full of little problems. It
would only be a matter of time before they discover your
mistake, so you decide to act first. Checking your supplies you
see that you have one shell left. You could just end it here,
jam the barrel under your chin and perform radical plastic
surgery, but you decide on something a little more spectacular.
You stride out the front door and feel yourself instantly
enveloped in spotlights. You can feel your flesh start to
tingle with sensation and adrenaline crashes through your body.
You raise your shotgun and aim for the nearest convenient head.
You must have taken them by surprise because you have enough
time to fire, blowing it apart like a rotten pumpkin. The
shocked silence that follows is broken by the sound of hundreds
of guns being cocked. You spread your arms in a Jesus Christ
pose and wait for oblivion.
The End.
<1st attachment end>
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