(Dance Floor Blues!)
"I should have sold my 'Olds and
bought me a jeep!" Jimmy Haystack chuckled, batting an eye
at Ron, Mike, and Laura through the rearview mirror. Steering with
his knees, he loaded rounds into the ammunition belt of his M249 SAW machine
gun.
"Has anyone checked in on Paul?"
Mike asked, still covered in blood from earlier.
Dragged out of the lodge by the janitor
and Laura, Paul was strapped to the roof of the car with bright orange lashing
straps, much akin to a Christmas tree. The occasional thumping of his head on
the ceiling, usually whenever Jimmy gunned the throttle, broke the
silence.
"Maybe we should've called the
sheriff to deal with this," Laura said, looking out at the moonlit field,
sliced in half by a wooden split rail fence meant to herd the cattle. She could
see a red barn, along with Rocky's cabin, shrouded in thick fog at the far end
of the field. "I don't care if I die at all," the prospector
replied, swinging the car off the road while he cocked his machine gun.
A deep, guttural roar emanated from the
red muscle car's Rocket V8 engine as it blazed through the fences, headed
toward greener pastures. "Great," he muttered, gunning the throttle
toward the Shaded figure. Wrapped in a black haze that twisted and contorted,
the figure, donning bloodied hunting gear, attempted to dodge the car.
He grabbed his second machine gun, wedged
between the steering wheel and the gear cluster, and flipped the safeties off.
"You fucking suck!" Jimmy yelled and laughed as he shattered the
front windshield, spraying the figure, already blinded by the bright
headlights, with 5.56mm bullets. The hunter was split in half, plaid flannel
shirt tattered and torn, after being thrown into the car's modified iron grill.
"Jeez, Jimmy," Mike laughed.
"You're even crazier than hell!"
Bits and pieces of the mutilated body
pelted everyone in the car, shaving away the last remnants of the windshield.
Jimmy attempted to bat some of the smaller parts, such as the arms and brain,
by turning on the windshield wipers, but that didn't do too much without the
actual windshield. Luckily, the blood matched the color of the car.
Bringing the car to a stop, the prospector
kicked his door open, and dusted the spent bullet rounds off his blue checkered
shirt and tan suede jacket. Ron followed him toward Rocky's cabin, located at
the outskirts of the field, while Mike and Laura tried to detach Paul from the
Cutlass' roof.
"Let's save my wife," the writer
said, face splattered with blood, as he pumped his fist both energetically and
awkwardly.
"Our wife," Jimmy replied.
"Let's save our wife."
"What?"
"Sorry, it sounded better in my
head."
The two of them split up: Ron was left
outside to be a lookout, while Jimmy searched inside. A loud snap from the
forest drew the writer's attention away from the cabin. "I don't remember
there being a rock in my hair," Ron swatted at the blood-stained
pump-action shotgun placed at the back of his neck.
Holding his hands up in surrender, he
turned around, hitting his head on the barrel of the shotgun. He inadvertently
caused Barb to loose her grip on the gun, which was now aimed for the 1970
Oldsmobile Cutlass. With a loud pop, she fired the shotgun, recoil knocking her
off balance. The bullet pinged and ricocheted off the prospector's shiny red
car, sending it flying into Ron's leg.
"Fuck fuckity fuck," Ron howled
in pain, clutching his leg.
"Honey!" Barb exclaimed as she
hugged her husband. "I missed you so much."
With a tear in his eye, Ron smiled, and
they kissed. "You finish off my drinks, and even when you put on a Bonnet
of Pins, I love you." This was the story he wrote, the one with a happy
ending.
-
Written by Jerry Zervas on
2/13/26...Friday the 13th!
DO NOT USE UNLESS GIVEN PERMISSION BY ME
(i.e. email me)
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